If you had told me that I was pregnant before I was 30, I would have cried. Then I would have screamed, panicked and, let's be honest here, I probably would have made a trip down to the local Planned Parenthood. I didn't want kids, and I'm not just saying kids of my own, I didn't want children around me at all. Period. I could list all of the things children need but really, what's the point? It wasn't the many unendless things on that list, it was the fact that they NEED things. That there was a list. And every single thing on that list was my responsibility to provide. No thanks.
And then I turned 30.
I don't know what the hell happened to me on January 4th, 2009, but whatever it was, it stirred up some biological bullshit that got my fallopian tubes aching and my uterus looking for a tenant. I found myself bookmarking blogs by women with impeccable fashion sense who happened to share their homes with a tiny human or two. Of course I could do this, the creating and the raising and the molding and the training. No biggie. I got it.
And now that I can see my 34th (I think) birthday on the horizon, I'm pleased to say that I share my home with two tiny versions of me, one of which turns 21 months old today. Twenty. One. Months. Old. People always talk about how tough those first three months are, then there is this magical stage when they can sit up on their own but can't yet cruise around your house and break your shit. And then they can walk and life as you know it is pretty much over. You finally get used to it, the child proofing and trying to plead with the dogs, "It's ok, I PROMISE, the tail grabbing and the face pulling is all because this little monster LOVES you!" and the cutting up of all food into tiny little pieces.
But then it begins. You know, IT. Tantrums and throwing food down the laundry chute and the grabbing of the iPhone when you finally find a moment to get in a game of Words With Friends, sprinting away from you, being completely panicked that this little beast is going to throw the phone into the dogs' water bowl but you grab him at the last second and save your precious (the phone, not the kid.) Yeah, that. But then, out of nowhere, he starts pointing out letters correctly and doing this forced, stupid laugh that makes you laugh and then you realize, that's MY laugh. He closes his eyes and spins in circles at your request. You ask him where his belly button or teeth or his weiner are and he points to each one proudly. Even when he takes off his pants and then his diaper and then is squatting on the kitchen floor, aimed and loaded, that's your kid. That's MY kid. And he's the fucking best thing to have ever happened ever. Ever.