Maybe if Babies came with a Jar of Kalamatas and a 6-pack, then I’d Want One?
So I told myself I was going to start writing fewer, but more thought-out blog posts per week. You know, instead of just vomiting whatever comes up with my morning coffee, I’d come up with a concise subject, write a draft, take and edit some relevant photos, edit the draft, and post a nicely polished final product.
What ended up happening is the idea of putting thought into my blog posts absolutely paralyzed me with fear and I ended up writing nothing. Nothing at all.
What is wrong with me?
Speaking of all that is not right with my head, I realize my life is entering a fairly big transition stage. See, it seems like a huge part of life in my 20’s has been about weddings — planning bridal showers and bachelorettes, buying dresses I’ll only wear once, clapping as Justin does the worm on the ballroom floor while all of the middle-aged women stand in line to dance with him, toasting good friends and laughing at the fact that we’ve grown up so much since college and then stopping, awestruck, when we realize that all of this is really happening.
Me in my wedding dress circa 2006.
Justin doing the worm at my best friend’s wedding.
Now the wedding invitations are slimming out and new announcements are coming.
Announcements with big, round bellies and feathery storks and registries that force me to go to uncomfortable places like Toys R Us and Gymboree instead of fun places like Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Instead of conjuring thoughts of delectably intricate fondant-covered cakes and sparkling glasses of champagne, they conjure images of enduring blindfolded baby food tastings and stimulating conversations about nipple shields. (Unless, of course, the invitation is for a baby hot tub party. Unfortunately, this evolution might be a slow process.)
And I always thought that these things were okay, I guess, as long as they were happening to other people.
What I didn’t know is that they’d start happening to all other people.
First, my cousin brought a gorgeous little daughter Emma into the world. Then my sister-in-law countered with my so-adorable-it-hurts-a-little pudgesicle of a nephew, Jack. Then one of Justin’s cousins had one. Then my friend Alaina. And now one of Justin’s other cousins is about to pop. And my next door neighbor is starting to show. And other friends are getting or thinking about getting knocked up left and right.
It’s starting to seem like everywhere I turn, women are gulping down this Kool-aid like it’s their job, and it’s making the walls feel all foreboding like they’re closing in around me and there’s all this pressure of people saying, When’s it going to be your turn? Or, Don’t worry — you’re next!
Except really, there’s not any pressure at all.
And I think there must be something wrong in my head, because at almost-29-years-old, shouldn’t I be feeling pressure?
When I look at this picture I took yesterday of my husband holding my friend’s new baby, shouldn’t my ovaries start tapping impatiently on my uterine wall, asking “knock, knock, is this apartment still vacant?”
But they don’t.
It’s like my ovaries packed up and vacated the premises years ago, thinking there’s no point in doing all this yearning work if I don’t even care.
The thing is, I like babies.
But I mostly like holding them for a bit, smelling them a little, carrying them around like overstuffed baby burritos and dressing them in silly hats, and then I like giving them back to their parents.
So I can go get a real burrito.
I like looking at them through a lens and watching them change and documenting facial expressions and using these images to find ways to make their parents happy.
To help them capture the gamut.
Umm… NOT peaceful baby.
And it’s at about this time when I think, man it would be nice to be sipping from a glass of beer or wine while reading a book at a cafe in Malaga right now.
With olives. Lots of olives.
Don’t judge me. It’s how I feel.
And that, I’m pretty sure, is the surefire sign that sometime in the wee hours of a restless night, the elves (I told you about those here and here) put me together all discombobulated-like and forgot to reattach a screw that was supposed to stimulate the part of me that would take one look at those last 2 photos and choose, without a second’s doubt or hesitation, the baby over the beer.
I mean, look at her.
I know that I love that baby. I love that she’s now a part of our group, and I can honestly say that given the choice, I wouldn’t go back to the time B.B. Before Baby.
I love her for what she means to my friends. I love her for the way her tiny fingers clench around my pointer when I hold her. I love her for the things I might get to teach her and the things she’s most definitely going to teach me. I love that I am going to get to spoil the ever-loving crap out of her.
And, I especially love that when that crap does come out of her, I’m not the one who has to clean it up.
Does that make me weird?
Probably. Or maybe it’s just a sign that I’m not intended to procreate. That maybe it’s a good thing there’s only one of me. Besides, I can’t mess up what I don’t even have, right?
I can’t say I will feel like this forever.
Maybe there will be a day when I’ll be holding Myra and I won’t want to give her back. Not ever.
If that happens, I might have to quit the blog because it would be kind of hard to keep this up while on the run for baby-napping.
But we’ll worry about that when and if the time comes, yes?