This past Sunday I went to the park. I was feeling awfully grown-up. I stopped at the bank to get cash (I drove all the way to the bank rather than going to a sketchy ATM! Give me responsibility or give me death!) Then I hit the farmers' market to get a Chicken Tikka Masala wrap. While there, I impulse-bought some delicious home-made apple cider. I packed my feast into the car, along with a blanket, my knitting, a book, and various doggy items. Settling my little dog on my lap, I drove us to the local park (where I got the closest parking spot, neener neener). Now, don't get me wrong, I had a lovely afternoon. But I realized that I was invading the territory of The Happy Parents.
Everywhere I looked there were couples with babies. All of the parents were right around my age. I suddenly didn't feel quite so grown-up. It dawned on me that I was laying on a pink fleece blanket I made in highschool, unshowered, with hippy to-go food, still a little hungover from Friday. In place of a smiling husband, I had an ugly dog. The couples had volleyballs and perfect "beach blankets." None of them were still blearily gulping water, courtesy of a hazy night at the bars 36 hours previously. Their picnics consisted of boxes labeled "Whole Foods" and endless vitamin drinks. I suspected their wallets contained perfectly folded $20 notes, rather than faded, torn receipts (I swear, one day I'll make a budget and I'll need to keep my receipts!), crumpled single dollars, and every drivers license and YMCA card I've ever had. I guiltily hid my book, feeling as though the detailed sex scenes concealed within the pages somehow screamed raunchy words at The Happy Parents' shiny memoirs and copies of "Things to Expect When You're Expecting."
This got me to thinking.... Why wasn't I one of the responsible, pastel-wearing 20-somethings whose lives were totally organized and perfect? I came to the conclusion that if I had only followed in my own kindergarten footsteps, I too would be A Happy Parent.
As a five year old, I had quite the romantic life. There was a boy named James who was dead set on matrimony. He liked to talk at length about how we were going to get married and live on a farm. What girl could resist the promise of a farm? Well, being that the Homestead Act was sometime in the past, and even my five-year-old brain understood the convenience of modern commodities and civilization versus milking cows, I'm afraid I dashed James' heart to pieces. When he invited me to his birthday party (I was the only girl!) I spent the afternoon playing with his annoying little sister and his cats, fervently ignoring him. I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't want to be the future mistress of the dingy farm where said party was held. While we exchanged no words, he knew it was over.
The fifth year of my life was also when I received my first kiss. I was in the morning session of kindergarten, so the passengers on my bus ride home were exclusively other kindergarteners. Our bus driver was a dear old man named Jim who turned a blind eye to our games and raucous running up and down the aisle. Now, when I said I "received my first kiss," that may have been a little misleading. While every girl likes to see herself as a damsel in distress, the truth of the matter is that I think I may have actually forced myself upon this poor boy.
His name was Devin. He was a bad boy. Everyone knew he was trouble. I assumed it was because his name was only a few letters away from "Devil." Interestingly, having been raised devoid of religion, I didn't really know what a devil was. But I did know what deviled eggs were, and I knew that it took a lot of work to get them to be "deviled," so therefore Devin the Devil was clearly a misbehaver.
I think the kiss was due to a dare. At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself. I don't want to think of my five-year-old self entering stages of promiscuity. After I smooched the poor boy, he wanted me to sit next to him on the bus. WELL! I just wasn't ready for such a marked promise of commitment. Apparently some facets of my personality haven't changed in 20 years.
In any case, perhaps if I had followed the inclinations of my kindergarten years, I too would be A Happy Parent. It's beside the point that Devin is now in federal prison, and James, while he does now have a farm, didn't grow perceptively after kindergarten. However, having thrown away these promising prospects, I will continue to be pretty happy bar-hopping with my friends and knitting (alone!) in the park! Also, I will NOT feel bad that I stole the closest parking spot from you. Just because you bought a million oversized baby car seats and strollers and boob pumpers, that doesn't mean you are entitled to the good parking spots!
As a Happy Parent it didn't occur to me that I should want a son. From that same eschewal a grandson doesn't seem like an imperative but the thought that a granddog is all that's likely is sort of awkward.
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