On Babies

I just went home to check out my nephew, Qball. He's the one who used to look like an angry potato. He looks like a happy potato now, I am pleased to report. Actually, he looks kind of like one of the incarnations of Buddha, what with his little belly and his eyes full of munificence and all. My niece, Kbird, is old enough to do stuff now, which is pretty great. She especially enjoys such games as "Scream" and "Flounce". Scream is pretty self-explanatory, and deafening, where as "Flounce" is being thrown onto the couch by someone else with enough force that you bounce. It looks like fun. I wish someone was big enough to throw me onto the couch. Sometimes "Flounce" morphs into "Scream". It's fun to play when Qball is napping, because nothing will bring the wrath of the tired parent faster than playing "Scream" when the baby is sleeping. But on the bright side, snacks are served after nap time, which runs from 1-3pm. Some people claim parenthood must be stifling, but when was the last time anyone scheduled a nap time for you? Not for a long time, that's the answer.

I sometimes feel like I am missing out on these two. They learn stuff really fast, and change so quickly, and here I am sitting in a steaming kitchen thousands of miles away and not getting to participate. Heading back home, though, I think that maybe there is more to this than just wanting to see my nephew.

Much more.

A dark place full of more.

That place, some corner of my nucleotide map, is starting to whisper disturbing things. It whispers, late at night, that it is approaching that time for the Thing.

That Thing that we are supposed to do. All of us. Even if we don't like kids or think we want to participate. For the species. We are supposed to do it. Our reptilian core requires it. It is working against us. It's a cultural joke for forward-thinking educated people, this urge to have kids. For those of us who haven't had any, we find ourselves both defined by the freedom of childlessness and also hobbled by the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are missing out.

Or is it the sad inevitability that as much as we would like life to be fabulous and interesting and filled with champagne at all times, sometimes it ends up being peanut butter smeared on a car seat in the parking lot at K-mart?

And maybe that peanut butter smear is what is real and good in life, what will sustain us when we are old?

Fall makes me crazy melancholy.

Home for the Holidays Update: Dec 29

One of these things is not like the other.

At a holiday get together with a friend of mine from highschool: my brother, his wife, their baby, my friend, his wife, their baby, my friend's older brother, his wife, their baby. Me, my boyfriend, and our bottle of scotch.

Kidding, we only wished we had a bottle of scotch.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 26

Laaaaaaaaazy days with a baby.

The Poopypants Complex

This post is going to make me deeply unpopular. Deeply. Be forewarned. Maybe if you already have children, then you should just stop reading it now.

There is a phenomenon that afflicts some people with children. Let's call it the "I-procreated-therefore-I-get-to-do-whatever-the-hell-I-want” complex, or “Poopypants Complex” for short. I know lots of kickass parents. They are really good with their kids, and they are also fun people to hang around with, both when the kids are awake and when the kids are in bed. I like kids. I like families. Hurray for propagating the species!

But some parents, oh, woah is me. How do do you ever expect to convince the gays to participate in rearing our collective young when you act like this?

Let's explore the poopypants complex, shall we? We shall.

Normal Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this bag of potatoes with me, and, well, I'm embarrassed to say this, but it's a lot heavier than I thought it was going to be, so could you switch seats with me so that I can sit close to the front of the plane?

Passenger Dos: I'm sorry, what?

Passenger Uno: Move seats so me and my bag of tubers can be in front of the plane.

Passenger Dos: I will cut you.

Other passengers: Hurray!

Poopypants Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this baby with me, and well, I'm embarrassed to say that the baby wants to sit close to the front of the plane so we can get off earlier. Could we switch seats?

Passenger Dos: Look, that's why I chose this seat- I have a tight connection to make in Detroit. I'm sorry.

Passenger Uno: But- a baby! I have a baby! I did something that every species has done forever since the beginning of time, and that entitles me!

Other Passengers: Kill him! Baby hater! Maybe they like your kind in Detroit, but not here! Boooooo!

Now, we should all be considerate of people on whom destiny has placed heavier burdens than our own. People should give up bus seats for old people, and disabled people, and yes, pregnant women. It's hard being those things, and it's hard work having kids. But other things is life are hard too. So if you chose to have children, remember to replace them with a bag of root vegetables and rehearse conversations in your head to determine if you are making a polite request, or being a fucking raging bitch with an ugly baby. Smooches to you, lady in seat 23B!

**Disclaimer: the only babies in my life are M and K and D, who are, of course, amazingly beautiful babies, and have awesome parents who I would never refer to as raging bitches. Also, I was not a party in the above conversation, just an observer. I would have hit her, not argued with her. Don't wave your baby at me like some limitless credit card.**