"IT IS TIME ...to make the babies."
When did this change occur?
Why didn't I hear the voice?
We all drank the same Jameson shots till the bars closed, danced to George Micheal like the drunk idiots we were calling each other inappropriate names, demanding Wham be put in rotation. Smoked, cursed, yelled. Someone inevitably would trip and fall. It was great. We were like pirates who danced to pop hits of the 80's.
And now something has changed.
There are babies. Everywhere...
And if the actual eating, sleeping, crying, shitting babies haven't arrived yet, people are pregnant with them, planning for them, or just talking about them.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love the little buggers, and someday I feel confident we'll have one to call our own. I have lofty and magical dreams of the future family I'll have. (Although mentally I totally skip the pregnancy, and of course, the birth.) The moment the hubs and I will bring "Baby" home for the first time and tenderly place "it" in some sort of bed inside a cozy nursery. It's a huge deal. I think it was Seinfeld who joked that any event where two people go into a room, and three come out, is a BIG deal. And it is.
I imagine our dog, Piper, sometime in the future, finally matured and calm, snuggled up, overlooking and protecting, perhaps babysitting, our sweet-smelling infant. Whereas today I would fear she'd jump on it and be the dingo that ate my baby.
Hell, I even have some baby names, which I refuse to tell anyone because that sounds like some serious cliched action, and I have to keep my street cred. In a world of pro-breeding I have to be anti-baby. It stems from those angsty high school years of being against the man. It's not that hard either since I'm scared shitless of being a parent.
Everyone willingly shares the professionally polished pictures of their offspring with cherubic smiles and spotless outfits in the field of bluebonnets, but no one shares the images of what really happens:
And I'm not trying to be the Debbie Downer without kids. I know a few things about the babies. As a teenager without a license, and clearly sans car, my job options were pretty limited. But what wasn't limited were the amount of neighborhood parents who desperately wanted a day, a night, an hour of sanctuary away from their beloved buggers, and who did they call? Moi. I was a great babysitter. Call me Mary Fucking Poppins. There was singing, poetry writing, fashion shows, synchronized swimming if a pool became available. (Those were the good jobs.) I was also terrified someone was always watching my performance, and this was even before the "Nanny cam" scare. The point is that despite the fun and games though, sometimes a spoon full of sugar just didn't do the job.
One time taking care of my own cousin--a family member for God's sake--I had fought with her about taking her nap. She was a toddler at this point so I'd place her in her crib, talk to her a little in my best soothing and dream-like voice, then back out slowly, and quietly close the door. Minutes later, she had clambered out of her crib and come downstairs. Giggling with euphoria from her recent prison break, I swooped her up, fussed at her and climbed back up stairs. So, we repeated the process a few more times, and low and behold, this final time she stayed! I thought I'd worn her out. I thought my tenacity was noteworthy. I thought this parenting is all about discipline and consistency. What's the all the brouhaha about?
After forty minutes or so, when I still hadn't heard a peep and was still congratulating myself, I silently peeked inside her once immaculate and beautifully decorated room to find it absolutely covered in this white, greasy diaper cream that was apparently within arms reach from her crib. She'd decided to do some redecorating in lieu of her nap. This white shit was everywhere! Walls, books, stuffed animals, the fancy rug. Her face, her ears, her legs, and then, where her diaper should have been there was more diaper cream to be found in all sorts of hard to reach areas. I had no idea such a small container of ostensibly helpful cream could go so far and do so much damage. And where was the artist? Standing in the middle of her masterpiece with the most shit-eating grin you've ever seen.
|This isn't her, as I was blinded by rage when the actual event occurred, but you get the idea.|
Now my cousin is a gorgeous and talented 14-year-old whom I love very much, but on that particular day, I wanted to murder her.
So, my question is when do you know you're ready? When will Raifiki tell me "it is time"?
Other people clearly trust us with their children. Just the other day over beers at a baseball game we were asked to be the Godparents of our best friends' children. I was quickly shoving a hot dog down my throat so I could get a free hand for another giant beer before we sat back down. Really? I thought. You think we're Godparent material?
Don't get me wrong. It's a huge honor. We adore this couple--they actually were the reason my hubs and I met, and their children are ridiculously cute. But I looked this up on the Google machine. I might not fit the bill. A couple of areas where I should be disqualified by the fancy standards:
1. I'm not Catholic and consequently haven't done Catholic-ish events, like communion.
2. I don't hold one religion over another and would allow my children to make their own choice.
3. I wouldn't call myself a "public sinner" which equates to prostitution apparently, but I ain't no saint!
However, I know my sweet friends don't hold these things against me. It's a wonderful privilege to be a special part of their lives and I get it. They are ready and willing, right now, to say that if something happened to them, they would want us to be the ones to raise their children. To make all those important decisions. So, if they think we're ready, why don't we?
Until we figure this out, I'm putting my Momma friend on a diet and exercise plan to lower her unreasonably high cholesterol level to keep her ass alive as long as possible, and popping birth control like tic-tacs.