First Baby
My friend just had a baby. Her First Baby.
When I met her, we were 18. I was going to be an actress. I was fueled by a passion for the stage that I never thought could be equaled by anything else, least of all some mortal man. She was going to be a poet. She was going to live alone with words and a cat. We were going to be clichés, and we were so looking forward to it.
A long, exhausting illness paused my theatrical career, and when I was strong enough to return to it, I no longer wanted it. Instead I wanted comfort, peace, and the presence of someone I actually loved more than Shakespeare and Brecht. She never gave up poetry, and her work is some of the best I have ever read. Her solitude never did happen, though. She met a playboy who was all too willing to reform (and keep cats) for her.
In our little circle of college friends who still get together to remember backstage antics, hours of Greek Theater and Biblical Literature, the occasional embarrassing sexual anecdote, she has given birth to the First Baby.
When I met her, we never could have imagined him, either of us. Parenthood seemed a lifetime away. Now we are 25. Hardly a lifetime.
I’m looking at pictures of her son. He has her nose and mouth. He’s little and pink. He’s beautiful.
I don't know if his existence makes me feel old, or if it makes me excited for my future. I do know that, while I am so very happy for her, I am aching with jealousy for something...a baby of my own, or maybe just that wonderful feeling of fulfillment that she has. Probably both.
This little kid is totally blowing my mind, and he's only been here for a couple of days.
When I met her, we were 18. I was going to be an actress. I was fueled by a passion for the stage that I never thought could be equaled by anything else, least of all some mortal man. She was going to be a poet. She was going to live alone with words and a cat. We were going to be clichés, and we were so looking forward to it.
A long, exhausting illness paused my theatrical career, and when I was strong enough to return to it, I no longer wanted it. Instead I wanted comfort, peace, and the presence of someone I actually loved more than Shakespeare and Brecht. She never gave up poetry, and her work is some of the best I have ever read. Her solitude never did happen, though. She met a playboy who was all too willing to reform (and keep cats) for her.
In our little circle of college friends who still get together to remember backstage antics, hours of Greek Theater and Biblical Literature, the occasional embarrassing sexual anecdote, she has given birth to the First Baby.
When I met her, we never could have imagined him, either of us. Parenthood seemed a lifetime away. Now we are 25. Hardly a lifetime.
I’m looking at pictures of her son. He has her nose and mouth. He’s little and pink. He’s beautiful.
I don't know if his existence makes me feel old, or if it makes me excited for my future. I do know that, while I am so very happy for her, I am aching with jealousy for something...a baby of my own, or maybe just that wonderful feeling of fulfillment that she has. Probably both.
This little kid is totally blowing my mind, and he's only been here for a couple of days.
posted by Novice at 6:08 PM
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