I spent the first two years of our marriage refusing to consider the possibility of having children. I’d want to discuss this topic to death with Matt (“But you want kids–don’t you want a wife who wants a family too?”) . Not one to engage in much debate, he’d always just smile and say, “I know you’ll want them someday.” I swore up and down (loudly, frequently, often drunkenly) that he was wrong.
After my sister Kate had her son (my nephew Joey), I started to gain some perspective about these neat little creatures we call children. Joey barfs and poops and cries a whole lot, and especially at first.
He also smells better than suntan lotion, warm rain, and the Yankee Candle store combined. His hair curls into little brown-blond ringlets at the end and his skin is always cool, sometimes sticky. He likes to share things with Aunt Meg. He changes the meaning, feeling, and joy of Christmas.
Needless to say, I was pregnant before Joey turned ten months old. Matt was right (dammit!).
Last night, we had an early dinner then went for a family walk down to the park to practice walking with our baby Frankenstein. I was thinking about what our life was like before Cameron came around. What did I do before I went to bed each night? (Now I brush my teeth, stop in to Cameron’s room for a soft belly squeeze and to touch his hair, have my tuck-in from Matt, and say a little thankful prayer for the health and happiness of our family.) What was incentive enough for me to get out of bed in the mornings, and sometimes in the dead of night too? (As far as I can remember, nothing–other than my bladder–ever had this power.)
What I’m trying to say is, one half-hour on the swings with this little boy, with his smells and tumbles and farts and nibbly ears…I’d never trade it for anything.