I was at the beach, in Jersey, on my cell phone in a hotel room, talking to my daughter-in-law who wasn’t yet exactly my daughter-in-law. She’d been my son’s longtime love, his first girl, and they’d recently moved in together. I’d just had surgery, ending forever my ability to have babies, and I was mourning the loss. I was grieving big-time for those ovaries, and for the womb that’d made a good baby room. So there I was, at the beach, in Jersey, on a gorgeous September day, when the call came that would change my life.

“I had to take off work today to get a blood test,” said The Girl.

“A blood test? What’s wrong? Are you sick? You never get blood tests. You hate needles! What‘s wrong? Are you sick?”

There was a pregnant pause. (I know. I couldn’t resist.)

“Just a minute.” She put down the phone and walked away. “Honey?”

There was mumbled conversation, and then The Girl got back on the phone.

“Um, I’m, um, we’re going to have a baby,” she said.

I gulped. I sat down. I closed my eyes. “Okay,” I breathed. “I have to go now and cry.”

And cry I did. I cried for the loss of my own baby-making abilities; I cried for what I worried was the too-soon beginnings of my son’s. I worried like crazy. I worried that they were too young. Hell, I worried that I was too young. I was only 45; my son was 21. The Girl was 22. Holy shit: I was going to be a grandmother. A freaking grandmother! I knew that there’d be a need for child care, as both parents have to work these days. Should I volunteer? How much would I¾could I¾volunteer? Holy crap; how could I go back to changing diapers?! How would I manage my career and a baby? How would we all do this?

Well, guess what? We’ve done it . . . beautifully, if I do say so myself. Connor lights up our days, Whitney Houston-esque as that corny statement may be, and my son and The Girl are doing great. They’re wonderful parents, and I like to think that I’m a damn good grandmother. It’s all good. The kid adores me. I adore the kid. Lesson to be learned from this: If the pregnancy is a surprise, don’t worry. Be happy. This baby will be the best thing since David Cassidy; the love of your life. So go ahead and volunteer to babysit. It’ll be okay. Trust me on this.

After the Con-Man was born, I was on a mission: To research and read and learn all about being a grandmother. Guess what? There wasn’t much out there, and what I could find was all the diddly-squat about the old-school traditional¾-by which I mean BORING¾stereotype of a grandmother. That traditional image is not what I’m about. So I created my own little personal library of quirky learning, and a lot of it is in this book. I include Web site resources, because the Internet is where it’s at. If you don’t know how to use a computer, get with it, girlfriend. This is so not the 1970s. Call your local libraries and high schools; they probably offer classes. If not, grab a teenager and dish out some money for a once-a-week class. You’ll be wicked with the mouse before you know it.

Anyway. Ever since I became a grandmother, I’ve been welcoming friends into what I dubbed “The Hip Grandmas Club.” Now I’m welcoming you too. Let’s get this party started.