We decide to reproduce and have a child because we are biologically compelled to do so. We decide to have a second child because we remember reading in school about how farming families had, like, a dozen kids who would raise each other and take care of the duties of the farm and we are thus led to believe that the first kid will care for and be entertained by the second kid and we’ll go back to being left alone.
This is incorrect.
It just means that once you have more than one kid in the house, never is SOMEONE not ominously turning the knob on the other side of the bathroom door going, MOMMY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? I’ve started answering, “Eating pizza and playing with the good Play-Doh, what are you doing out there?”
Because fucket. A little longing builds character and I have to go to work to take a decent shit anymore.
We’re over 3 years into this whole two kids running our lives thing and it’s just now getting to the point where they may play pleasantly together without trauma or request for supervision for a full 5 minute stretch.
They are beautiful and delightful and draining and difficult. It’s just the way it is, I think. I have friends who have way more than two kids and I look at the adults who did that on purpose like saintly aliens. Why….? How…? Peace be with you. I also have friends who somehow ended up with twins, which is NO STAGGERING OF THE BABIES, take it all at once, and they are trying to figure out how in the world to put the correct shoes on their own feet, much less on the four new feet they’re suddenly responsible for. It’s so daunting and disorienting. They deserve a door-to-door chocolate cake service for the rest of their lives. 24 hours/day. Cake on demand.
Maybe that’s my message. I don’t know. I’ve had a bunch of wine. Maybe it’s just that we’re all overwhelmed and freaked out and drinking from the fire hose (and wine bottle and peanut butter jar). No one knows what we’re doing. If you feel off-balanced, we’re right there with you, hopping on one foot, leaning against each other and the wall.
The other day my Yoda-like sister said, “I’ve decided there’s no such thing as an actual adult. We were led to believe one day we would ‘get there’ and ‘be one’ but I think it’s all a hoax.”
I think she’s right. We’re all just babies being babies raising babies. We have occasional epiphanies and stretches of evolution, strokes of wisdom, but mostly we’re terrified and insecure and weird and worried. We want to rescue the world from itself but all we can muster is eating a stack of pancakes.
The existential crises we’re all in right now after this election, coupled with the responsibility of providing for our families….woo. I love that I am in a family of four, but I’m feeling very doubtful that I can reliably take care of myself, let alone them. Where does that leave the rest of them?
I don’t know what to do about any of this except make the pancakes and order the cake. Pastry is all I’ve come up with. Anyone else?
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