First and foremost, let me begin this entry with a:
YAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
Great, now that we got that business out of the way, let’s get serious.
To my boyfriend’s dismay (and/or ball-crushing terror), I’ve been saying for quite some time now that I’m ready to have kids.
Any friend of mine (especially the Beastie) that’s known me for at least half a decade can attest to the fact that I’ve been saying this before we graduated high school (I was trying to win a spot on mTV’s “Teen Mom” before it was even a show), but now that I’ve finished my undergraduate work and jump-started a career, I suddenly feel more empowered to demand my loins to start producing some fruit.
I know, I know. “I’m too young to start settling down,” and “my body will never be this bangin’ again,” and “breast-feeding looks and feels weird.” I’ve heard all the counterarguments, people! But here are my counter-counterarguments:
- cancel your gym membership. Once that little booger starts running around, you’re gonna be in the best cardio shape of your life chasing after him/her/it. You will also fall victim to countless accounts of oogling thanks to your super toned arms from constantly picking up and holding your spawn.
- free compliments. People can’t help but compliment babies on their adorableness– even the ugly ones! I have been privy enough to both witness and participate in this phenomenon. Mathematically speaking, that baby is half YOU, so when a stranger compliments the baby, you actually deserve at least 50% of that compliment. (I say “at least 50%” because you can demand more in your pre-nup.)
- the perfect scapegoat. Having a baby means that you’re automatically able to cancel on anything and everything. Don’t feel like going to your mother-in-law’s church’s rendition of Passion of the Christ starring Gel Mibson? Boom– your water just broke.
- ordering off the kids’ menu. I have two very essential criteria (criterion?) for new restaurants: are their bathrooms cool, and do they let me order off the kids’ menu? There’s not much you can do about the bathrooms past the initial architectural planning, so whatever, but it really bums me out when the waitress says “sorry madam (yes, I’ve transgressed from a 24 year old to a madam in this not-so hypothetical situation), you must be under the age of 8 in order for the chef to consider reiterating his gourmet, buttermilk garlic-confit, caviar-infused-foi-gras chicken and simply renaming it ‘chicken tenders’ for a fraction of the price.” Okay, I know I don’t have the body of an underaged Chinese Olympic gymnast, but I’m still relatively pretty small compared to the average American adult (which is 5’7″ & 177.65 lbs, in chase you where wondering) and more often than not, I can’t finish a typical serving size at a restaurant. Wouldn’t it be much more cost efficient for me to just order off the kids’ menu, rather than have to ask for a box to take home my leftovers and then forget the doggy bag on my way out anyway? C’mon, economics is not that hard folks! This explains why I like McDonald’s so much. They never judge when I order a happy meal. I often fantasize about going into a restaurant, ordering the “children’s chicken tenders platter,” and upon being told that I’m “too old” to order that item, whipping out my baby from my purse and snapping back “oh yeah?! Well it’s for the baby, so what do you have to say about that?!” Check, and mate.
- baby clothes. They’re freakin’ adorable, and can be shared with your equally-sized dog. In fact, I’m sure your baby won’t mind receiving some hand-me-downs from his/her older, furrier sibling! Who said babies are expensive?
- postpartum cravings. Ever heard of postpartum depression? Well I bet you didn’t know it had an awkward squib of a sister called postpartum cravings. Yes, it is the Ariana Dumbledore of post-birth woes, and it will allow you to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, as long as you keep claiming it as the cause, and no one can do a damn thing about it.
- unconditional audience. If you’re anything like me, you spend 90% of your time trying to concoct situations in which your friends would be obligated to sit around and listen to you sing / rant about how one container of sweet & sour sauce is not enough for a box of chicken nuggets plus fries / practice being an auctioneer. Most of my ideas include tricking them into going on a road trip in a windowless, doorless, escapeless van, or podcasting myself over speakers I’ve personally installed and hidden around their homes/cars/showers/regular Starbucks. These plans, however, require an exorbitant amount of time and commitment. Pregnancy and childbirth is probably much easier in comparison, and you’ll have that one obligatory audience member for 18 years, as mandated by law!
- pajama jeans. I read somewhere that it is socially and fashionably acceptable to wear pajamas jeans as long as you’re with child (or recently with child). Um, did I just get the green light for “the world’s most comfortable jeans?!” This is happening.
Even if you never even wanted kids, these reasons alone should get your ovaries / scrotums tingling. You’re welcome.
This all hit me due to the combination of experiences I had this weekend:
1) I turned 24.
2) My aunts and uncle came to visit with my baby cousin in tow.
I’ll address #1 first, because it comes first on the list, and is also easier. Multiple pre-med and human development classes have taught me that the female body’s ability to produce children start declining at 27. 27!! This was no big deal when I was learning about it, aka when I was 19 and 27 seemed like a galaxy far, far away. But if my 2nd grade teacher hasn’t failed me, I do believe I am now officially 3 years away from hitting my peak, and if I want to squeeze in 4 kids (oh yes, did I mention that I plan on
creating having 4 horcruxes kids?), I should probably get a move on.
Second, I know I’ve already dedicated probably too many posts about how amazing my family is, but seriously, if you’ve met them, you understand. I come from the most boisterously loving pack of human-shaped love-o-potamus-es imaginable. My visiting relatives are no exception. There’s something about being with them that makes you love life that much more. Like my jokes are suddenly that much funnier, and my cooking is that much better, and my face is that much prettier. It’s magic, I tell you!
Jokes aside, I’ve grown up around a lot of amazing “mother” type role models, and just instills an excitement to one day become a mom yourself. To this list (headlined by Mama Luong, of course!), I’ve added my uncle’s wife (the one that came and visited this past weekend). In my opinion, my aunt epitomizes the phrase “joie de vivre,” and I’d like to tell myself that I’ll be like her when I grow up.
That and my baby cousin is the most adorable thing. Ever. She has such an air of eager curiosity that makes my soul smile. If you don’t believe me, check out my pictures from this past weekend (shameless plug for my own photography):
Remember how I said that when someone compliments your child, they’re really complimenting you? This is a prime example. Tillie is such a reflection of her parents that it’s ridiculous.
It’s pretty well understood that your life changes after you have kids because your life no longer revolves around what you want and what you need. Sure, you’ll probably start going to bed way earlier, and you have to drop whatever you’re doing every once in awhile to change a dirty diaper, but that doesn’t mean your social life is over! We had a great time winetasting with a 2 year old this weekend, with barely any glitches. It wasn’t that different from any other winetasting trip I’ve been on (and to be honest, taking care of a baby is a lot easier than taking care of your 200 lbs drunk friend), and with proper planning, we were still able to complete everything we set out to do: drink wine, explore Napa’s terroir, eat like big ballers. I’m convinced that had Michael Chiarello been at Bottega on Sunday, he would’ve personally come out to feed Tillie her split pea soup and gourmet fries!
Anything is possible if you plan accordingly and your baby is cute enough.
So why don’t I already have a bun in the oven if I was so easily able to convince you to conceive so quickly?
- My mom said I need to have more than 200$ in the bank before I can give her a grandchild.
- I still can’t figure out a way to give up sushi.
- Too young for gray hairs.
- No wine for 2 years? No thanks.
And on that note, I’m going to go get ready for my Macallan Scotch tasting.
Hasta la vista, baby.
PS, in case you thought otherwise, or were confused by my overuse of the word “bf” and underuse of the word “husband” (which is only used when referring to Tom Brady), I’m also not married, which is probably reason #5 as to why there’s yet to be a mini-chimidongha. Is it weird that I feel old enough to be a mom but way too young to be married? Also, is it weird to love coconut water pretty much the same amount that you love any of your limbs?
OH! Are you searching for an explanation for my title?
At brunch on Sunday, my aunt Natalie and I ordered the exact same beverages (another sign that our souls have been wandering this planet as best friends these past few lifetimes): iced coffee and a bloody mary. When it arrived, our cups lined up shortest to tallest, aka water, iced coffee, bloody mary. Natalie then explained that it’s her motto to life: hydrate, caffeinate, libate. I’ll take this over YOLO. Suck it, Drizzy.
Also, I think this is a very appropriate analogy for parenthood: 1 part seriousness and necessity, 1 part asking for help, 1 part “sometimes, you need to just put the baby in the high chair and (responsibly) enjoy a delicious cocktail.”