Sometimes I wonder whether my husband and I love our cats too much. One (awesome) parent friend called our enthusiastic sharing of photos "baby picture time!" and while we laughed it off, it was totally right.
That said, our three cats are totally our babies. Our phones are full of photos of them. They're prominent in our social media and we talk about them ad nauseum. As we watch our youngest grow we get excited about the littlest things. We squeal with happiness and watch when he plays with his brother and sister. We're overjoyed he's learning the wonder and warmth of laps. We cuddle all of them and love them so very much. All three of them are sociable, extremely affectionate and super snugglers. They are, without question, our family, as we declare happily whenever we have occasion to have all three of them with us at once.
I'd never equate having cats to raising children, but it fulfills so much of the same emotions for both of us. The love I feel for them is incredibly strong, and in the moments when I know they love us — when they take turns sitting on our laps, or when our little girl curls up to sleep on me every single night at bedtime, or when our big boy paws at us for loving — it's powerful stuff.
Especially while I'm fighting with my brain chemistry against Seasonal depression that's making everything seem a pretty gloomy, they bring me joy without fail. Cat cuddles make the worst thing better, and they're bringing me much solace. I look at them and think that this is the life. I don't need more than them. Between them and my friends' kids who we spoil rotten and enjoy plenty of Kodak moments with, life is really damn good.