This is a post about children, but first it is a post about a book because (clearly) children and paper products are synonymous.
I am reading (or rather, read) "Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year" by Anne Lamott. I feel like she's a roommate that you love and think is wonderful, but she has these tics that make you want to hit her half the time or go into your room and shut the door (all the while insisting that nothing's wrong between you, you're just really busy and you really need to get some project done and really [really] everything's ok. But [really] you just needed to scream into your pillow for a couple minutes because your roommate is driving you crazy). Anyway. This book makes me believe I can have children... not that this was every a particular concern, physically at least. I'm the oldest of 6 children all of whom more or less popped on out without any sort of angst. I have, as it were, the child-bearing hips of my clan.
What I mean is, I think I might be able to raise children (it helps that Lamott is very funny and swears a lot and admits to evil thoughts. Such things make me feel safe, in good company, not the only utterly lost and crazy person out there).
But I have complicated emotions about children. I love this one family of kids utterly, but I babysat most of them from when they were toddlers and infants. There's a connection there and they are (in my book) the raddest group of kiddos ever. Most other children I tolerate. I don't enjoy feeling forced into liking or approving of anything simply because it's young and helpless and wouldn't survive under a city bridge for a day. If I like the parents, probably I'll approve of the offspring, but I probably won't beg to hold it and play with it and take it off their hands for hours at a time. Unless I am paid. (There are some exceptions. You know who you are.)
I can already hear your judging thoughts, don't worry. I'm okay with kids, but it's like people. I don't like ALL people indiscriminately. I like individuals. Thus, I refuse to like all children. Sorry, it's not going to happen. Children can be ugly little tyrants and I'll give them some grace, but I'm not going to give them total abject worship.
This used to worry me. How can I be the oldest of several kids, raised in a community of large families, and not be a baby person? Am I some sort of sociopath who hates life (and America)? I can't guarantee that I'd like my own children, but I think there's a good chance I would.
But enough of this... before I turn everyone against me and get labeled a baby hater. Let's be clear: I will not dangle your child out of an upper window, nor will I say cruel things to your impressionable child like, "Life is short and hard and then you die." They'll figure it out soon enough. Nor will I condemn them because they can't do anything useful except look cute and make me feel (on occasion) maternal -- but let's remember, many things make me feel maternal: loggers, my brothers, "Godzilla," dead moths in the hallway, awkward girls, people who work ridiculously long hours, and the old Honda Accord no longer in my possession.
Here's a positive: despite all my indifference to children, I am a baby-whisperer. It's like how people who hate cats are always the ones to have cats come fawning all over them. So am I able to get cranky babies to fall asleep. It's like magic and I can't take any credit for it yet it has happened on multiple occasions. Just so you know.
No comments:
Post a Comment