Last night I had the opportunity to dine with two kids, age 2 and 4. Maggie, the two year old, isn’t talking yet, but was extremely expressive and interactive regardless. At one point, she kept me entertaining her with a game involving her passing her mom’s cell phone to me and insisting that I have a conversation on it, and then taking it back and pretending to take my picture with it. Max, the four year old, wouldn’t talk to me at first (I tend to have that effect on men), but after sizing me up, he determined that I was okay to talk to and proceeded to regale me with stories, jokes, and, in an attempt to mimic his Uncle Jimmy, magic tricks involving pretending to put a crayon in his ear and pull it out of his nose (said uncle also convinced him to put crayons in each of his nostrils, much to his mother’s dismay). He also asked me dozens of questions, performed a demonstration of pseudo-martial arts involving two butter knives, insisted that his root beer tasted better when the paper wrapper from the straw was soaking in it, and took a bite of a crayon (hopefully not one of the ones that was formerly in his nostril) and declared that it tasted like wax. During the course of dinner, I’m not really certain that either child ended up eating all that much, but the table looked like a hurricane hit it.
After dinner, I was supposed to help my friend Elisabeth finish up a bottle of wine, but I had to beg off. I was exhausted, in large part from my pint-sized dinner companions. I came to a few conclusions: First, I definitely want kids someday, if at all possible. Second, I definitely am not ready for them anytime soon. I am sure I’ll be a great mom someday, but boy, do I need to rest up first. Not to mention that it might be helpful to have a husband around to help out.
