 |
|
|
|
|
July 5, 2004
Independence Day
As the fireworks exploded last night I was sitting across the street from the Decatur Library again, nestled in my usual spot along the curb, surrounded by two dozen of friends, watching as the sky erupted in color.
Of course, yesterday's July 4th celebration was a bit unusual. Before the fireworks, we had a cookout/baby shower for S. and A., who are welcoming their first child this fall.
There was a book lying on the coffee table called The Baby Owner's Manual. It was filled with technical illustrations and charts and diagrams on how to take care of an infant ("never leave the baby unattended on a changing station. This may lead to serious injury and/or malfunction").
Yesterday at the shower I couldn't help but notice that the ranks of my Atlanta friends are swelling violently. Every ten minutes, another two or three tow-headed toddlers would stumble through the door, followed by their gorgeous parents, who carried with them the requisite fifteen pounds of gear and bottles and clothing and tiny Old Navy flip-flops in a bulging diaper bag.
All afternoon the air was filled with peals of laugher and delighted shouts of children.
I found it exhausting, really. While everyone was on the deck outside grilling out, I snuck into the air-conditioned living room and sat there on the couch with Sheila, thumbing through The Baby Owner's Manual, wondering again why I still don't have a baby of my own, or at least a Baby Owner's Manual of my own.
Tom and I keep vaguely talking about how we need to get around to having kids, or at least decide when it's going to happen. And we keep not doing it. It's almost like we're the children, and we know for some vague reason that we probably should eat those vegetables, but we would rather not, please, not right now. Dessert first!
Deciding to get married was easy. Deciding if and when to have a baby is hard. In generations past, this decision would have almost been made for us, by society. Two married people of childbearing age will have children: that's assumed. But all of this freedom! All these questions! I keep looking for answers, and I keep not finding them.
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
Every day I wake up and I think about this question. Every day I hold myself up against this list in my head of What It Seems to Take to Be an Okay Parent. And every day — every day — I come up short.
It is difficult to spend such a long time not measuring up to your own standards. It is difficult to spend such a long time not knowing how to resolve a question of this magnitude.
After we finished opening presents, everybody bundled the children into their strollers and walked down the street to Decatur to watch the fireworks.
I suppose it's a scientific fact that small children are absolutely riveted by fireworks. And I suppose that this something I love about them. They find the explosion of crackling light against the sky completely magical. They don't have to justify this feeling. They don't have to know why. They are so unashamed in their enthusiasm.
Last night as I watched the glittering arcs fade into the sky, I wondered again where I would be at that time next year. I wondered if next year would maybe find me riveted during the fireworks display by the changing expressions on the face of my own child, or if I would be sitting on the curb alone again, just scanning the sky like always, waiting for the next rocket to explode.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
