SO. Now that this one project at work is over, I have a little head space for the summer and shall commence a self-flagellation of posts in which I update my audience* on all the things that have happened over the last month or so.
For example, this one fine day last month (okay, maybe six weeks ago) when seven different babies whose mommies are all friends got together and wreaked havoc on Jenny's apartment.
The sensation of things coming to pass is particularly strong when you first see your friends' children playing with your children, I think. It's so strange that they are all finally real.
Because when you're a little kid you do imagine your children, but with the extravagance and lavish uncertainty that you consider every aspect of your adult life ("I shall live in a wooden house in a tree on an island with my seven children and a baby tiger, and we wil have a special cozy helicopter for flying in and I'm going to save all the drowning baby whales").
The imagination of kids got realer for me when I was a teenager, but not necessarily more mature ("It's too bad you and me are both girls so we can't make a biological baby, because it would be totally hot." "If you and Rex had a baby it could have black hair and green eyes. That would be SO amazing.")
Then you spend your twenties (okay, I spent my twenties) avoiding actual reproduction while nonetheless developing a keen sense of maternal anxiety ("I really want kids one day. But I'm not ready for kids. I'll just ruin them. I don't even know who I am! I need to travel. I need to focus on my career. My "career". Oh god oh god. And I really like sleeping all morning. And I have no money. And I'm not ready for the commitment. But I really want kids.")
Then suddenly you have a baby. And half your circle of friends is getting knocked up like lab rats. And there are babies friggin' everywhere.
Thus, as after every irreversible thing, you can hear the slamming shut of doorways or even peepholes into alternate lives. You love a new person that you can never unlove. He or she will never not be your kid.
And all the theoretical children you and your friends could have had (and all the theoretical people you could have had them with) vaporize entirely and are replaced by something much, much better: the kids you DO have.
It is noisy. There's less sleeping and also fewer adult beverages than you might have previously desired at a party. And the festivities break up before 7 p.m., because bed time. But actually, eating berries and cake while a seething pile of infants and toddlers howl all around you is more beautiful -- and fun -- than you'd think.
So thanks for the baby party, Jenny! And to all the babies -- including those not pictured here -- y'all just keep on drooling 'til next time.
_______________________
*Hi, Mom and Dad.
For example, this one fine day last month (okay, maybe six weeks ago) when seven different babies whose mommies are all friends got together and wreaked havoc on Jenny's apartment.
 |
| Seven babies aged 1 month to 2.5 years, including 1 pair of twins. MAYHEM. |
The sensation of things coming to pass is particularly strong when you first see your friends' children playing with your children, I think. It's so strange that they are all finally real.
Because when you're a little kid you do imagine your children, but with the extravagance and lavish uncertainty that you consider every aspect of your adult life ("I shall live in a wooden house in a tree on an island with my seven children and a baby tiger, and we wil have a special cozy helicopter for flying in and I'm going to save all the drowning baby whales").
The imagination of kids got realer for me when I was a teenager, but not necessarily more mature ("It's too bad you and me are both girls so we can't make a biological baby, because it would be totally hot." "If you and Rex had a baby it could have black hair and green eyes. That would be SO amazing.")
 |
| The biggest kids randomly hogging the stroller, while one of its usual occupants looks on and jiggles. |
Then you spend your twenties (okay, I spent my twenties) avoiding actual reproduction while nonetheless developing a keen sense of maternal anxiety ("I really want kids one day. But I'm not ready for kids. I'll just ruin them. I don't even know who I am! I need to travel. I need to focus on my career. My "career". Oh god oh god. And I really like sleeping all morning. And I have no money. And I'm not ready for the commitment. But I really want kids.")
Then suddenly you have a baby. And half your circle of friends is getting knocked up like lab rats. And there are babies friggin' everywhere.
Thus, as after every irreversible thing, you can hear the slamming shut of doorways or even peepholes into alternate lives. You love a new person that you can never unlove. He or she will never not be your kid.
And all the theoretical children you and your friends could have had (and all the theoretical people you could have had them with) vaporize entirely and are replaced by something much, much better: the kids you DO have.
It is noisy. There's less sleeping and also fewer adult beverages than you might have previously desired at a party. And the festivities break up before 7 p.m., because bed time. But actually, eating berries and cake while a seething pile of infants and toddlers howl all around you is more beautiful -- and fun -- than you'd think.
 |
| If there is ever a situation where several thousand tons of berries have to be gobbled up in order to save Planet Earth, all we have to do is unleash the toddlers. |
So thanks for the baby party, Jenny! And to all the babies -- including those not pictured here -- y'all just keep on drooling 'til next time.
_______________________
*Hi, Mom and Dad.
