Should I have a kid? Idk, let’s find out!
She stands on the base of the slide, hands gripping the side, eyes fixed on the top, then begins her ascent. A quarter of the way up, her feet slip, her legs splay out, and back down on her belly she goes.
Again and again and again she tries, reaching a little higher each time. When the inevitable backslide happens, she doesn’t say weee, woo-hoo, or even a cool, demure ayyyy, she just keeps her eyes fixed on the top, readying for the next try.
After about ten minutes and twenty attempts, she just about makes it–
She’s a half-step away–
And with the tiniest boost, she’s up, she’s made it. She smiles, so triumphant, then lies on her belly and slides back down, feet first, with an eeeeeee!
On our next visit, she makes a game-changing discovery: on the other side of Slide, there are Stairs. Stairs, she knows. We have Stairs at Our House. So she helps herself to some Stairs, reaches the top of the slide, carefully turns around, lies on her belly, and slides down.
Again, and again, and again.
While she’s on this loop of pure joy, I’m on a mini-vacation. I don’t need to manage or entertain her. I just get to stand back and watch.
When we come back another day, I set her down, expecting her to make a beeline to the slide. She doesn’t even glance at it. She’s over it. She just stands there, leaving us both to wonder what’s next?
Whenever I think, I’ve got the hang of this, that’s the surest sign everything’s about to change.
Yesterday, she liked the chili-dusted pineapple bites. Today, she does not.
For the past two hundred days, she’s loved riding on my shoulders. Today, she wriggles to get down.
On Tuesday, while I was doing push-ups for self-betterment, she sat on my back and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, because oh baby, it was. On Thursday, I invite her for another ride-along— and she bursts into tears instead.
She’s maintained this anti press-up stance ever since.
I know that I don’t always need to curate, and so I’ll sink into my swivel dad-chair while she plays solo and I tap tap tap on my phone. But she’ll see me tapping, demand I hand the phone over, then put it to her ear and say yah-yah-yah-yah, absolutely roasting me, turning me to dust.
Then she levies the real threat: she props my phone up on the windowsill, sits down on the bench in front of it, and begins tap tap tapping as if she’s just clocked into work. I bust her out so fast, hurl my phone into the sun, and then we dangle together—her wedged beneath my armpit, me wondering, what’s next?
I break out my guitar, the same one that I plateaued with exactly 18 years ago, and play Blowin’ in the Wind which catches her attention, and now she wants to strum along. I hold my favorite chord, the G, in its fuller “second voice” while she runs her hand across the strings. Her eyes alight as if she’s just found God.
Now I’m on the tennis court, collecting a hundred practice balls into my basket. Though this is my 'me' time, and it’s precious, the truth is: the sun’s high in the sky, I’ve already had a full day’s worth of day, and I’m tired, ready to pack it in. Then Eleanor arrives with Ava—
Baby’s been keeping her busy; Mom’s all out of games, stuff, and ideas, so we unleash her onto the court.
She toddles over to the basket and begins pulling the balls out, one by one, faster and faster, tossing them hither and to. The “throw” action is new, and it’s adorable, but instead of fully enjoying the moment, I chase after them, afraid that if I stand still for too long, I’ll find myself snowed in.
Somewhere between ball five and ball forty, I feel myself calcifying.
A part of me — larger than I care to admit — would be content to do less. To become a fossil set in stone and simply bear witness to Her, the Big Bang. I know that in the perfect stillness, when it’s just her and me, I’m enough as I am. But the stillness will always, always, always give way to something else. One day, her chaos will collide with our calamitous world and I’ll need more—
More foresight, more means, more smarts, strength, and mobility in my hips. I’ll need it all to protect her, and to know when to let go.
On a Wednesday afternoon, in a new window that’s opened in our day, post-childcare and pre-Mom-Comes-Home, Ava and I go to a new park overlooking the Pacific Ocean from a hill. It has plenty of novel things for her to play on and under, along with a pristine basketball court for Dad to shoot hoops. Me time, She Time, We time, all in one place.
Today, it’s pretty as a postcard, and there’s not another person in sight.
I practice my jump shot, she scurries after buckets and bricks alike, then she takes refuge in a cool cavern in the middle of the playground. I join her; we catch our breath in the shade until she’s ready to venture out.
She steps into the sunlight. I shadow her as she passes by the small slide, locates the staircase, and climbs up, up, up, to one landing, and then another. At the tippy top, she rushes to the precipice, I wrap my arms around her, put her on my lap and then we go weeeee all the way down the big kid slide.
We do this over, and over, and over. As her excitement wanes ever so slightly, I try to amp up the thrill, lifting her as we descend, tossing her into the air at the bottom, weee’ing and woo’ing with more gusto each time. But with each go, she squirms a bit more, eager to shake my clutches and give it a solo try.
Finally, on go number fifteen-or-so, I stop halfway down the slide, set her down, hold her between my legs, and release.
She’s good for a beat…
Then gravity takes hold, she flops backwards, bangs her head and lets out a cry.
I rush to the bottom, scoop her up and she’s shaken. There’s a drop of blood on her tongue, she must have bit it on impact. She clings to me and I tell her I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll keep walking this tightrope with her until the end of all time.
Should I have a kid? Idk, let’s find out!
