Ben’s been bugging me to write more charming anecdotes about him, and I have to admit, there have been several gems lately, most involving practical jokes at my expense or goofy jokes about the baby. But unfortunately, as I have proven to be prone to every stereotypical pregnancy symptom from insomnia to inexplicable weepiness to an obsession with sewing useless-but-cute baby crafts, my “pregnancy brain” has forgotten most of them.
It’s embarrassing, but I now see everything through the lens of impending parenthood. Where I used to smile goofily at babies in the checkout line, now I ogle the stroller or Ergo carrier housing them, wonder if they’re wearing cloth or disposable diapers, and covertly notice when the mother is buying a bunch of wine. I’m also paying attention to parenting practices, and have made some vows that will probably prove to be foolish in the months ahead, like A) We will spend a night away from the baby by the time she’s one year old, and B) we will have dinner at a grown-up restaurant at least once a month. By the way, who wants to babysit?
One thing I’m on the fence about is whether I’m cut out for taking family trips to events like Zoo Tunes, a series of outdoor concerts at our lovely neighborhood zoo, or any of the music/cultural festivals that Seattleites seem to love so much. We went to a Zoo Tunes concert recently to see The Be Good Tanyas and Carolina Chocolate Drops, and while the music was great, and I loved the fact that we could walk a few blocks, pick up pastrami sandwiches at Dot’s Deli (Hey, how about “Dot”?), and stroll into the concert without using the car, I think Ben and I might be too meek to navigate such events on our own, let alone with a baby and its gear in tow.
The scene: Ben and I on our folding, low-profile camp chairs (cheap knock-offs of the Crazy Creeks everyone had in college), taking up about six square feet of grass, trying to balance our Mexican sodas between our knees while everyone else had spread out king-sized bedspreads to mark their space after nearly crushing our sandwiches with their BOB jogging strollers and wheeled coolers full of quinoa salad. With every passing Be Good Tanyas song--which we couldn’t hear because apparently people go to these concerts to run into their neighbors and swap tips on vaccine avoidance (okay, now I’m just projecting), not to listen to the music--our space shrank inch by inch, as more and more people arrived to join the groups on the bedspreads. Soon, we were completely hemmed in by people passing around tubs of hummus, bunches of uncut broccoli, jugs of echinacea-infused lemonade--and that was just the group of twenty-somethings next to us! At one point, a six-foot tall man’s barefoot leg was so close to my own that I could feel the breeze ruffling his blond leg hair as it glinted in the sun.
As I moved my chair over in one-inch increments, only to be followed by the hairy leg as it stretched itself out in the grass, Ben became more and more amused by my rising ire, which I expressed in eyerolls and tiny sighs (carefully hidden from the encroaching hippies--or were they yuppies? It’s so hard to label people these days), until he finally leaned over and whispered:
“Neville Chamberlain made the same mistake, you know.”
“Huh?” (I couldn’t hear him over the sound of everyone crowing to each other, “I love the Be Good Tanyas!” as they proceeded to drown out their entire set.)
“When Hitler invaded. Chamberlain just kept on retreating until it was too late.”
So true, Ben, so true. In the game of life, we are the Neville Chamberlains, even the Neville Longbottoms. While sometimes I think I need assertiveness training--or, failing that, to avoid situations where my passive-aggressive nature will not be tested--I’d rather be a Neville than an obnoxious, space-hogging, junk food-unappreciating stroller conquistador. We are the meek, we shall carry our baby like a kangaroo in large crowds, and we shall revel in our Neville-ness. We shall also spend our nights at home listening to the Be Good Tanyas on the stereo, if anyone wants to join us. I promise not to serve quinoa salad.
It’s embarrassing, but I now see everything through the lens of impending parenthood. Where I used to smile goofily at babies in the checkout line, now I ogle the stroller or Ergo carrier housing them, wonder if they’re wearing cloth or disposable diapers, and covertly notice when the mother is buying a bunch of wine. I’m also paying attention to parenting practices, and have made some vows that will probably prove to be foolish in the months ahead, like A) We will spend a night away from the baby by the time she’s one year old, and B) we will have dinner at a grown-up restaurant at least once a month. By the way, who wants to babysit?
One thing I’m on the fence about is whether I’m cut out for taking family trips to events like Zoo Tunes, a series of outdoor concerts at our lovely neighborhood zoo, or any of the music/cultural festivals that Seattleites seem to love so much. We went to a Zoo Tunes concert recently to see The Be Good Tanyas and Carolina Chocolate Drops, and while the music was great, and I loved the fact that we could walk a few blocks, pick up pastrami sandwiches at Dot’s Deli (Hey, how about “Dot”?), and stroll into the concert without using the car, I think Ben and I might be too meek to navigate such events on our own, let alone with a baby and its gear in tow.
The scene: Ben and I on our folding, low-profile camp chairs (cheap knock-offs of the Crazy Creeks everyone had in college), taking up about six square feet of grass, trying to balance our Mexican sodas between our knees while everyone else had spread out king-sized bedspreads to mark their space after nearly crushing our sandwiches with their BOB jogging strollers and wheeled coolers full of quinoa salad. With every passing Be Good Tanyas song--which we couldn’t hear because apparently people go to these concerts to run into their neighbors and swap tips on vaccine avoidance (okay, now I’m just projecting), not to listen to the music--our space shrank inch by inch, as more and more people arrived to join the groups on the bedspreads. Soon, we were completely hemmed in by people passing around tubs of hummus, bunches of uncut broccoli, jugs of echinacea-infused lemonade--and that was just the group of twenty-somethings next to us! At one point, a six-foot tall man’s barefoot leg was so close to my own that I could feel the breeze ruffling his blond leg hair as it glinted in the sun.
As I moved my chair over in one-inch increments, only to be followed by the hairy leg as it stretched itself out in the grass, Ben became more and more amused by my rising ire, which I expressed in eyerolls and tiny sighs (carefully hidden from the encroaching hippies--or were they yuppies? It’s so hard to label people these days), until he finally leaned over and whispered:
“Neville Chamberlain made the same mistake, you know.”
“Huh?” (I couldn’t hear him over the sound of everyone crowing to each other, “I love the Be Good Tanyas!” as they proceeded to drown out their entire set.)
“When Hitler invaded. Chamberlain just kept on retreating until it was too late.”
So true, Ben, so true. In the game of life, we are the Neville Chamberlains, even the Neville Longbottoms. While sometimes I think I need assertiveness training--or, failing that, to avoid situations where my passive-aggressive nature will not be tested--I’d rather be a Neville than an obnoxious, space-hogging, junk food-unappreciating stroller conquistador. We are the meek, we shall carry our baby like a kangaroo in large crowds, and we shall revel in our Neville-ness. We shall also spend our nights at home listening to the Be Good Tanyas on the stereo, if anyone wants to join us. I promise not to serve quinoa salad.
