I’ve gotten the go-ahead from Celeste to start my grandchild blogging. She told me the big news, that she’s pregnant, shortly after she picked Laurel and me up at the Burbank airport last Friday.
Isn’t he or she cute? Celeste sure thinks so. She kept cooing over this ultrasound image as I struggled to make out any identifiable human (or even quasi-human) features. Well, that’s mother love. She’s excited. As is Patrick, her husband. As Laurel and I am.
Not so sure about her cats. Smokey and Cici have the run of Celeste and Patrick’s Hollywood house. They pretty much do what they want and are used to being fawned over, so it’s going to be interesting to see how the spoiled little felines handle some cuteness competition.
When we got to the Vos home after the plane trip from Portland, Celeste went all out and put together a cheese, cracker, and fruit plate, which we ate on their patio.
I was thrilled. My daughter is thirty-four. I can recall only one meal that she’s personally prepared for me: a macaroni and cheese (from a box) dinner at the apartment where she lived for a while after college. Even now, she and Patrick are mostly eat-outers. For my grandchild’s sake, I hope Hollywood has baby buffets.
Anyway, when we were done chatting on the patio Celeste took the snack plate back into the kitchen and laid it on a counter. We went into the living room to talk some more and await Patrick’s return from work.
Smokey walked in from the kitchen, dragging a large piece of cheese in his mouth. He dropped it on the living room floor. I glanced at Celeste, wondering how she’d handle the situation.
She got up. Strode purposefully over to Smokey. Looked down at him. And said, “Oh, Smokey, you’re so cute! Here, let me break the cheese into smaller pieces so you can eat it more easily.”
Well, that was my childrearing style with Celeste. Permissive. Like father, like daughter. Her mother was stricter, as I suspect Patrick will be. Currently he’s the cat disciplinarian, insofar as the discipline goes. It’ll be interesting to see how they work out baby-raising roles.
I’ll looking forward to helping out, when the time is right. Like, when the child is toilet-trained and can prepare his or her own bowl of cereal (it takes me a while to get going in the morning).
I told Celeste that I’d been fantasizing recently about how nice it would be to have a grandchild visit us on our rural ten acres, getting to play in the creek and run around our woods.
Celeste said, “Great, Dad. How does taking care of him or her for three months in the summer sound?”
“My thinking was more along the lines of three hours before my afternoon nap,” I told her. But I have a feeling I’m not going to hold to that. Since I was a permissive father, I suspect I’m going to be an even more permissive grandfather.