It's been months since my last blog post.
Mainly because there just isn't any time for that sort of thing when you have a baby.
There's no time to pick the avocado out of my hair. No time to pick up the hairball the cat just threw up. No time to unpack those last few boxes from our December move, or to send out thank you notes and birthday cards. No time to clean. Anything.
Truthfully, it's not so much that there's no time for ANYTHING. There just isn't time for EVERYTHING. No time to squeeze it all in. No time to see that play that was just extended for a third time, or to have drinks with friends past 9pm. No time to go to the gym...not that I complain about that most days.
But there is time for some things.
There's plenty of time to feed oatmeal and bananas to the baby, even if most of it ends up on the floor or behind his ears. Plenty of time to splash with him in the bathtub, and to read "Peek A Who?" and "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" whenever he grabs the books and crawls my way. There's plenty of time to clap our hands and dance to "Rockin' Robin" for the one thousandth time, and plenty of time to cuddle with him on the sofa while he giggles at "this little piggy."
There's ample time to baby proof the apartment as our boy gets braver and more interested in opening drawers and doors. There's tons of time for zerberts (I looked up how to spell that) and rocking and making finger-painted art projects for friends and family. There's even time to change diapers. (Let's face it, there HAS to be.)
Having a baby has made us realize what is truly important. So while one may be stressed that their champagne glasses didn't match when they toasted their baby's baptism (Who, ME?), there are much, MUCH better things that deserve my attention and limited brain space.
Like wiping off that little drop of milk from the corner of the baby's mouth after he falls asleep in my arms. Or marveling in the piece of hair on the back of his head that is just starting to curl.
But not cleaning.
The cleaning can wait.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Should We Stay or Should We Go? Raising a Baby in the Big City.
We had a baby and momentarily forgot who we were.
We uprooted our lives and moved to NYC, excited to write plays and act, to forge a life together in the most creative city in the world.
And we did.
We produced some great theatre, and worked on films; we took classes and joined writers' groups; we saw what was hot, and knew what was not. We walked the dog and nursed hangovers and took out the trash, and made friends with people cooler than us.
And later, we had a baby.
We had a baby, and throughout my pregnancy, we said to ourselves and anyone who would listen, "NYC is the BEST place to raise a child! There are so many museums and different languages, and interesting cultures, and sights to see, and lessons to be learned!" We affirmed that a child raised in the city would be more savvy than a child raised anywhere else. Our baby would know the difference between a redneck and a Brooklynite. Our child would be more tolerant of other cultures, would be more willing to eat strange foods with his hands and sit on floor cushions, and would be fearless when pronouncing names with extra consonants and not so many vowels. NYC would help us raise a super cool kid.
And then, we went home for the holidays.
Home.
Where people come at you, arms outstretched, begging to hold and care for your child, without charging you $20 an hour. Where Mom lets you sleep in the good bed and there are plenty of coffee pods whenever you want them. Where there is a car available for your use anytime. Where a glass of wine costs $6. Where it's never 19 degrees. Where you can exhale and there is room to think and breathe. And breathe some more.
Driving back to NYC after a week Back Home, we had a lot of time to talk. And before we'd reached the first state line of our trip, we'd decided to pack it in and move South- and if anyone asked, it was to be closer to family. It was the baby's fault. We wanted, so we said, to be near a support system of people who would watch our baby whenever we needed. We needed to stop paying rent and start paying ourselves. We needed a back yard and a swing set and a veggie garden, even though it was sure to wither and die from lack of attention.
We imagined quietly interviewing for Southern Jobs, avoiding telling our NY friends of our secret plan. We pictured meeting with a builder and designing our Southern Dream Home. We could even buy our very own Piece of Land (as Mom says, "They're not making any more of it.") We would find the most darling Montessori school for our child.
And then we remembered the Parade Balloons.
Every year, the giant balloons from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade are inflated outside the Museum of Natural History the day before the parade. Families pack the closed-off streets to get an up-close, down-low look at Sponge Bob and Spider Man and Kung Fu Panda, before they fly high down Central Park West in front of network cameras. It's a special thing, a cool thing. And we want our kid to see those balloons.
We also want him to ice skate in Central Park, to go to the Bronx Zoo, and see a Picasso anytime he wants. We want him to go to a Bar Mitzvah and a quinceanera, and eat dim sum in Chinatown. We want him to decide for himself whether he's a Mets or Yankees fan, and we want him to develop a healthy preference for the C train over the 1/2/3. We want him to be a good person, a caring person, a kid who gives part of his allowance to the homeless guy he passes on the street every day- not because we make him, but because he is compelled to. Because he is good, and he is grateful.
So, while we deeply miss our Southern roots, we've decided we want him to be a New Yorker. We're letting go of the panic, and embracing the unique challenges of raising a child in the Greatest City on Earth.
And we won't lose sight of who we are.
We'll be the couple sharing a one-bedroom with a first grader. After all, it's an expensive city.
We uprooted our lives and moved to NYC, excited to write plays and act, to forge a life together in the most creative city in the world.
And we did.
We produced some great theatre, and worked on films; we took classes and joined writers' groups; we saw what was hot, and knew what was not. We walked the dog and nursed hangovers and took out the trash, and made friends with people cooler than us.
And later, we had a baby.
We had a baby, and throughout my pregnancy, we said to ourselves and anyone who would listen, "NYC is the BEST place to raise a child! There are so many museums and different languages, and interesting cultures, and sights to see, and lessons to be learned!" We affirmed that a child raised in the city would be more savvy than a child raised anywhere else. Our baby would know the difference between a redneck and a Brooklynite. Our child would be more tolerant of other cultures, would be more willing to eat strange foods with his hands and sit on floor cushions, and would be fearless when pronouncing names with extra consonants and not so many vowels. NYC would help us raise a super cool kid.
And then, we went home for the holidays.
Home.
Where people come at you, arms outstretched, begging to hold and care for your child, without charging you $20 an hour. Where Mom lets you sleep in the good bed and there are plenty of coffee pods whenever you want them. Where there is a car available for your use anytime. Where a glass of wine costs $6. Where it's never 19 degrees. Where you can exhale and there is room to think and breathe. And breathe some more.
Driving back to NYC after a week Back Home, we had a lot of time to talk. And before we'd reached the first state line of our trip, we'd decided to pack it in and move South- and if anyone asked, it was to be closer to family. It was the baby's fault. We wanted, so we said, to be near a support system of people who would watch our baby whenever we needed. We needed to stop paying rent and start paying ourselves. We needed a back yard and a swing set and a veggie garden, even though it was sure to wither and die from lack of attention.
We imagined quietly interviewing for Southern Jobs, avoiding telling our NY friends of our secret plan. We pictured meeting with a builder and designing our Southern Dream Home. We could even buy our very own Piece of Land (as Mom says, "They're not making any more of it.") We would find the most darling Montessori school for our child.
And then we remembered the Parade Balloons.
Every year, the giant balloons from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade are inflated outside the Museum of Natural History the day before the parade. Families pack the closed-off streets to get an up-close, down-low look at Sponge Bob and Spider Man and Kung Fu Panda, before they fly high down Central Park West in front of network cameras. It's a special thing, a cool thing. And we want our kid to see those balloons.
We also want him to ice skate in Central Park, to go to the Bronx Zoo, and see a Picasso anytime he wants. We want him to go to a Bar Mitzvah and a quinceanera, and eat dim sum in Chinatown. We want him to decide for himself whether he's a Mets or Yankees fan, and we want him to develop a healthy preference for the C train over the 1/2/3. We want him to be a good person, a caring person, a kid who gives part of his allowance to the homeless guy he passes on the street every day- not because we make him, but because he is compelled to. Because he is good, and he is grateful.
So, while we deeply miss our Southern roots, we've decided we want him to be a New Yorker. We're letting go of the panic, and embracing the unique challenges of raising a child in the Greatest City on Earth.
And we won't lose sight of who we are.
We'll be the couple sharing a one-bedroom with a first grader. After all, it's an expensive city.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Show Me
An invitation to gun advocates:
In the wake of the daily news stories about gun-weilding Bad Guys,
In the wake of dozens of parents' Very Best Things being stolen away,
In the wake of All the Cities We'd Never Heard of Before,
Show me.
Share the countless success stories where the Good Guy uses the assault rifle beneath his bed to heroically save his family from the Gun-Weilding Mad Man we keep hearing about.
Show me.
Show me the news item describing Lindsay Graham's Atlanta mother who used her
Uzi or
AK-47 or
Streetsweeper or
Thompson 1927 Commando
Or any gun from the theatre of war
Show me where she takes down the Home Invader coming for her family,
Or her Stuff.
Where are the news stories about that?
Show me the many, many, many cases that justify Regular Citizens not just owning, but wielding (trained or not) weapons like those from the streets of Kabul or Sirte.
Prove your point. Plead your case.
Because I'm just not seeing the evidence.
In the wake of the daily news stories about gun-weilding Bad Guys,
In the wake of dozens of parents' Very Best Things being stolen away,
In the wake of All the Cities We'd Never Heard of Before,
Show me.
Share the countless success stories where the Good Guy uses the assault rifle beneath his bed to heroically save his family from the Gun-Weilding Mad Man we keep hearing about.
Show me.
Show me the news item describing Lindsay Graham's Atlanta mother who used her
Uzi or
AK-47 or
Streetsweeper or
Thompson 1927 Commando
Or any gun from the theatre of war
Show me where she takes down the Home Invader coming for her family,
Or her Stuff.
Where are the news stories about that?
Show me the many, many, many cases that justify Regular Citizens not just owning, but wielding (trained or not) weapons like those from the streets of Kabul or Sirte.
Prove your point. Plead your case.
Because I'm just not seeing the evidence.
Monday, December 31, 2012
New Year's Eve-sdropping
It's 11:30pm on New Year's Eve, and I am eavesdropping on the city. On my new block, more precisely.
While my little family is asleep (having a baby makes for early bedtimes for everyone), I've woken up to feed the baby. As I sit in the darkened living room, sneaking looks out of our giant windows, I am secretly glad that Blinds.com is taking so long to complete our order, for it means I can stealthily enjoy watching a sampling of New Yorkers on Their Most Famous Night, parading by our new apartment.
Lots of revelers, children and grandparents included, are making their way to Central Park for fireworks. Some stronger souls are geared up in running clothes, lights on their wacky hats flashing, ready for the annual midnight run in the park.
I've seen dashing older couples in opera finery, twenty-somethings with noisemakers and uncomfortably high shoes, tourists using smartphones to find their way to the fun. I'm hearing helicopters and sirens, car horns honking, and tipsy party-goers slurring premature "Happy New Years" to any of us within earshot.
I've heard one spat ("How dare you. How DARE YOU!), but lots of laughing. I've seen a little bit of sloppy walking, but no outright stumbling. I've noticed people's paces pick up as we inch towards midnight.
And as I sit here in the dark, watching them all, I am happy for them. Happy they are making memories. Happy they are having fun.
But mostly, I'm happy for me. Happy to be here in the Greatest City on Earth. Happy that my little family is sleeping soundly. Happy for the year to come.
And a little happy that no one can see what I'm wearing right now.
Happy New Year.
While my little family is asleep (having a baby makes for early bedtimes for everyone), I've woken up to feed the baby. As I sit in the darkened living room, sneaking looks out of our giant windows, I am secretly glad that Blinds.com is taking so long to complete our order, for it means I can stealthily enjoy watching a sampling of New Yorkers on Their Most Famous Night, parading by our new apartment.
Lots of revelers, children and grandparents included, are making their way to Central Park for fireworks. Some stronger souls are geared up in running clothes, lights on their wacky hats flashing, ready for the annual midnight run in the park.
I've seen dashing older couples in opera finery, twenty-somethings with noisemakers and uncomfortably high shoes, tourists using smartphones to find their way to the fun. I'm hearing helicopters and sirens, car horns honking, and tipsy party-goers slurring premature "Happy New Years" to any of us within earshot.
I've heard one spat ("How dare you. How DARE YOU!), but lots of laughing. I've seen a little bit of sloppy walking, but no outright stumbling. I've noticed people's paces pick up as we inch towards midnight.
And as I sit here in the dark, watching them all, I am happy for them. Happy they are making memories. Happy they are having fun.
But mostly, I'm happy for me. Happy to be here in the Greatest City on Earth. Happy that my little family is sleeping soundly. Happy for the year to come.
And a little happy that no one can see what I'm wearing right now.
Happy New Year.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Neighbors
I'd not fully experienced what a "neighborhood"could be until I moved to New York City.
And I never expected it to mean as much to me as it has this past week.
NYC is a city of walkers, of people out and about in their neighborhoods. We walk to the grocery store and post office, to doctor's appointments and dinner dates. And as we walk, we see the familiar faces of our neighbors.
There's Jaunty Frenchman with a spring in his step and an enormous, well-groomed poodle; Sunglasses Lady with the tiny bulldog on a rope; Bald Guy from the wine store; The Korean couple from the cleaners who adore Elrod, and rarely make us pay for the baby's laundry; There's little Lab-mix Molly, who we've seen grow from a puppy, walking with Molly's Dad (who told us to cherish every minute with our boy); Visor Lady from # 15, whose bark is worse than her bite; There's Irish building manager at the Kenilworth, who holds court on the sidewalk outside the service entrance, and for whom I will one day bake cookies because he would really appreciate them. There's the UPS Guy, who knows to always buzz our apartment if he needs to get in, since Elrod and I are home a lot.
These people are part of our daily lives here, and we regularly greet one another with broad smiles and cheery hellos, or observations about the weather. And we have no idea what each other's names are.
And that's OK.
Because this week, whether we knew each other by name or not, we all had each other's backs.
One young family on our block suffered an unimaginable tragedy last week. A family we often referred to as The Cute Family with the Greyhound. Or sometimes, The Cute Family with the Little Girl on the Scooter. We didn't know their names. We didn't need to. Their faces were familiar and regular, and we shared the sidewalks with them as we walked our dogs, ran our errands, and ventured into Central Park.
Our block came together this week in powerful and subtle ways after what happened. We exchanged tear-filled stares as we roamed the street, dazed. Stunned. We were wordless with disbelief and helplessness. We hugged. We left flowers. We petted each other's dogs for an extra long time as we went on our regular walks.
And we had our heart-broken neighbors' backs.
One family who puts up an elaborate and scary Halloween display every year, quietly took it down, because "it didn't seem right." Another neighbor walked outside, scissors in hand, and removed the yellow crime scene tape that was still tied around a tree outside. Doormen at the family's building painstakingly moved the growing memorial of flowers and stuffed animals to inside the building's lobby, protecting them from the coming storm.
Parents didn't have to say anything to each other. We all held onto our children a little tighter, and we suddenly seemed to not mind at all if our children were a little disruptive in restaurants. Children have become the unofficial heroes up here.
This week, our neighborhood came together in a way I've not felt anywhere else. We are united in our gratitude for what we have, and in our sympathy for some of our own.
It feels good to know these people, these strangers, are there for us in some way.
Whatever their names are.
And I never expected it to mean as much to me as it has this past week.
NYC is a city of walkers, of people out and about in their neighborhoods. We walk to the grocery store and post office, to doctor's appointments and dinner dates. And as we walk, we see the familiar faces of our neighbors.
There's Jaunty Frenchman with a spring in his step and an enormous, well-groomed poodle; Sunglasses Lady with the tiny bulldog on a rope; Bald Guy from the wine store; The Korean couple from the cleaners who adore Elrod, and rarely make us pay for the baby's laundry; There's little Lab-mix Molly, who we've seen grow from a puppy, walking with Molly's Dad (who told us to cherish every minute with our boy); Visor Lady from # 15, whose bark is worse than her bite; There's Irish building manager at the Kenilworth, who holds court on the sidewalk outside the service entrance, and for whom I will one day bake cookies because he would really appreciate them. There's the UPS Guy, who knows to always buzz our apartment if he needs to get in, since Elrod and I are home a lot.
These people are part of our daily lives here, and we regularly greet one another with broad smiles and cheery hellos, or observations about the weather. And we have no idea what each other's names are.
And that's OK.
Because this week, whether we knew each other by name or not, we all had each other's backs.
One young family on our block suffered an unimaginable tragedy last week. A family we often referred to as The Cute Family with the Greyhound. Or sometimes, The Cute Family with the Little Girl on the Scooter. We didn't know their names. We didn't need to. Their faces were familiar and regular, and we shared the sidewalks with them as we walked our dogs, ran our errands, and ventured into Central Park.
Our block came together this week in powerful and subtle ways after what happened. We exchanged tear-filled stares as we roamed the street, dazed. Stunned. We were wordless with disbelief and helplessness. We hugged. We left flowers. We petted each other's dogs for an extra long time as we went on our regular walks.
And we had our heart-broken neighbors' backs.
One family who puts up an elaborate and scary Halloween display every year, quietly took it down, because "it didn't seem right." Another neighbor walked outside, scissors in hand, and removed the yellow crime scene tape that was still tied around a tree outside. Doormen at the family's building painstakingly moved the growing memorial of flowers and stuffed animals to inside the building's lobby, protecting them from the coming storm.
Parents didn't have to say anything to each other. We all held onto our children a little tighter, and we suddenly seemed to not mind at all if our children were a little disruptive in restaurants. Children have become the unofficial heroes up here.
This week, our neighborhood came together in a way I've not felt anywhere else. We are united in our gratitude for what we have, and in our sympathy for some of our own.
It feels good to know these people, these strangers, are there for us in some way.
Whatever their names are.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Killer Instincts
I'm a Killer Mom.
My husband, baby, and I are spending our First Weekend Away From Home at our friend's country house. Our baby's godfather, to be more accurate. We envision our son growing up spending relaxing weekends here, enjoying more nature than even Central Park can offer. The type of Nature where one hears howls coming from the woods at night, and can be 92% certain that there's no need to call 911.
We spent many weekends here before the baby was born; weekends full of cocktails and frivolity, of saucy jokes, and late bedtimes. While our cocktail intake and bedtime have changed since the baby was born, some things about visiting here remain constant, including sharing gorgeous meals outdoors, under the canopy of huge trees and -last night, anyway- a giant Blue Moon.
As we dined under the stars last night, our friend asked what it feels like being a parent. If we've ever felt love quite like this before.
It's a tough question to answer.
Sure, as parents we are hard-wired to protect and love this baby we made. It's our job. My husband explained the joy we feel when our son recognizes us and smiles, and how protective he feels when the baby falls asleep in his arms, grabbing onto him like a little monkey.
I explained things a little differently.
I feel protective in a more violent way. A more animalistic way. A more primal way. I explained in great detail, and without hesitation, that if anyone threatened the safety of my child, I would reach out with my hand and jam my rock-hard fingers into their throat, grabbing their trachea and esophagus, and ripping them out the front of their neck.
The truly scary thing isn't the graphic nature of the punishment I would inflict, but rather that I came up with it without a moment's thought. I didn't weigh my options, I didn't wonder if kicking the perpetrator in the balls would be just as good. I knew exactly what I would do, and I know without a doubt that I would have the strength and courage to see the violent act through.
Is that scary or admirable? Is it to be discouraged or encouraged? Should Child Protective Services be alerted, or should Parenting magazine profile me for their Awesome Parents Edition?
Apparently, this intense desire to protect comes with parenthood. Our brains change. Our chemistry alters, like Dr. David Banner in The Incredible Hulk. We become Super Humans. Super Parents. Maybe even Super Scary.
I didn't know I had it in me.
My husband, baby, and I are spending our First Weekend Away From Home at our friend's country house. Our baby's godfather, to be more accurate. We envision our son growing up spending relaxing weekends here, enjoying more nature than even Central Park can offer. The type of Nature where one hears howls coming from the woods at night, and can be 92% certain that there's no need to call 911.
We spent many weekends here before the baby was born; weekends full of cocktails and frivolity, of saucy jokes, and late bedtimes. While our cocktail intake and bedtime have changed since the baby was born, some things about visiting here remain constant, including sharing gorgeous meals outdoors, under the canopy of huge trees and -last night, anyway- a giant Blue Moon.
As we dined under the stars last night, our friend asked what it feels like being a parent. If we've ever felt love quite like this before.
It's a tough question to answer.
Sure, as parents we are hard-wired to protect and love this baby we made. It's our job. My husband explained the joy we feel when our son recognizes us and smiles, and how protective he feels when the baby falls asleep in his arms, grabbing onto him like a little monkey.
I explained things a little differently.
I feel protective in a more violent way. A more animalistic way. A more primal way. I explained in great detail, and without hesitation, that if anyone threatened the safety of my child, I would reach out with my hand and jam my rock-hard fingers into their throat, grabbing their trachea and esophagus, and ripping them out the front of their neck.
The truly scary thing isn't the graphic nature of the punishment I would inflict, but rather that I came up with it without a moment's thought. I didn't weigh my options, I didn't wonder if kicking the perpetrator in the balls would be just as good. I knew exactly what I would do, and I know without a doubt that I would have the strength and courage to see the violent act through.
Is that scary or admirable? Is it to be discouraged or encouraged? Should Child Protective Services be alerted, or should Parenting magazine profile me for their Awesome Parents Edition?
Apparently, this intense desire to protect comes with parenthood. Our brains change. Our chemistry alters, like Dr. David Banner in The Incredible Hulk. We become Super Humans. Super Parents. Maybe even Super Scary.
I didn't know I had it in me.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Only Children are A-OK!
I am an only child.
At this point, some who know me may crack wise about my reluctance to share dessert at a restaurant, or the unspoken but unwavering claim I lay to the remote controls in the apartment. Some may see being an only child as a bad thing. That it makes one...self-focused.
I think it makes one self-sufficient.
When I was a kid, I received a lot of board games as gifts. Multi-player games, like Sorry! and Parcheesi. And as an only child who hated other children, it was rare to find someone to play them with. I recall my Uncle Tommy playing with me, and I'm sure my parents must have, but mostly, I remember playing these games by myself. Or rather, with myself. Or maybe even against myself. At least I always won.
My husband is the youngest of three boys, and really appreciates having brothers. For me, the main appeal of having siblings would be to relieve some of the pressure of caring for aging parents. Having someone to consult/blame/cry to/drink with when the time comes to find a really good nursing home. (Mom and Dad, consider this "writer's embellishment.")
Our son is seven weeks old, and already people ask if we're planning on having another one. My knee-jerk response has been, "No, parenting is a young person's game," but then I gave it some serious thought. Yes, it takes an enormous amount of energy to tend to a newborn's needs, and one must function on very little sleep, two attributes that were at their height when I was in college. Also, recovery from childbirth- in my case, a c-section- is much more difficult than I expected, and a younger, firmer, more elastic body would likely have more success bouncing back.
But I did think about it. And I determined I was 89% certain that one child is plenty for us. My husband is 84% sure of the same. I'm more sure, so I win...even though we're on the same team.
Being an only child has its payoffs in adulthood, though.
OK, I can't think of many of them right now, but I CAN say that being an only child has allowed my imagination to flourish. Not just to flourish, but to...whatever is even more fabulous than flourishing.
Case in point: our son wakes up in the middle of the night, and it sometimes takes a bit of walking, bouncing, and singing to get him back to sleep. We have a nightlight in our bathroom that has what I initially considered to be a charming scene of animals camping.
But really, it's more than that.
Many a night I've explained to our child that the red fox in the sleeping bag had a little too much to drink, and doesn't even realize he's not sleeping inside the tent. The deer is helping him conceal it from the grey fox by hiding the empty wine bottle behind him. The poor grey fox has to do all the work, including gathering firewood, and will no doubt have to clean up that dirty plate (bottom left corner) and the unfinished can of beans outside the tent. The poor grey fox is so busy doing everyone's work, he's unable to hold his own marshmallow stick, and has to plant it in the ground, because the deer hasn't offered to help. The grey fox probably didn't even want to go camping in the first place.
See? You probably thought it was just some animals camping.
And you probably have siblings.
I win.
At this point, some who know me may crack wise about my reluctance to share dessert at a restaurant, or the unspoken but unwavering claim I lay to the remote controls in the apartment. Some may see being an only child as a bad thing. That it makes one...self-focused.
I think it makes one self-sufficient.
When I was a kid, I received a lot of board games as gifts. Multi-player games, like Sorry! and Parcheesi. And as an only child who hated other children, it was rare to find someone to play them with. I recall my Uncle Tommy playing with me, and I'm sure my parents must have, but mostly, I remember playing these games by myself. Or rather, with myself. Or maybe even against myself. At least I always won.
My husband is the youngest of three boys, and really appreciates having brothers. For me, the main appeal of having siblings would be to relieve some of the pressure of caring for aging parents. Having someone to consult/blame/cry to/drink with when the time comes to find a really good nursing home. (Mom and Dad, consider this "writer's embellishment.")
Our son is seven weeks old, and already people ask if we're planning on having another one. My knee-jerk response has been, "No, parenting is a young person's game," but then I gave it some serious thought. Yes, it takes an enormous amount of energy to tend to a newborn's needs, and one must function on very little sleep, two attributes that were at their height when I was in college. Also, recovery from childbirth- in my case, a c-section- is much more difficult than I expected, and a younger, firmer, more elastic body would likely have more success bouncing back.
But I did think about it. And I determined I was 89% certain that one child is plenty for us. My husband is 84% sure of the same. I'm more sure, so I win...even though we're on the same team.
Being an only child has its payoffs in adulthood, though.
OK, I can't think of many of them right now, but I CAN say that being an only child has allowed my imagination to flourish. Not just to flourish, but to...whatever is even more fabulous than flourishing.
Case in point: our son wakes up in the middle of the night, and it sometimes takes a bit of walking, bouncing, and singing to get him back to sleep. We have a nightlight in our bathroom that has what I initially considered to be a charming scene of animals camping.
But really, it's more than that.
Many a night I've explained to our child that the red fox in the sleeping bag had a little too much to drink, and doesn't even realize he's not sleeping inside the tent. The deer is helping him conceal it from the grey fox by hiding the empty wine bottle behind him. The poor grey fox has to do all the work, including gathering firewood, and will no doubt have to clean up that dirty plate (bottom left corner) and the unfinished can of beans outside the tent. The poor grey fox is so busy doing everyone's work, he's unable to hold his own marshmallow stick, and has to plant it in the ground, because the deer hasn't offered to help. The grey fox probably didn't even want to go camping in the first place.
See? You probably thought it was just some animals camping.
And you probably have siblings.
I win.
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