We’re getting ready for a visit from a baby. My roommate has changed into a shirt that isn’t inside out (to set a good example). I got up by 10 and immediately did the dishes and thought about cleaning the cat boxes. (Perhaps I should have done the reverse-the boxes are at child level.) The cats are prowling nervously-they can tell it’s either suppertime again, I’m premenstrual or someone’s coming.
I’ve never been around children much (only as a child, and then I didn’t like it). Instead of babysitting, I mowed lawns. My 10th high school reunion was almost unbearable because so many women were animatedly telling every gory detail of recent childbirth. By my 20th reunion, the thrill was off for even the most ardent, but I am worried it’ll start all over when they become grandmothers.
I know I’m the grouchy old childless aunt no kid enjoys visiting. I still remember the dread with which my sister and I viewed a trip to Great-aunt Dora’s. Mom would sit us down and firmly explain that Aunt Dora had never had children, was not used to us, and we were not to move an inch for fear of disturbing an antique. And we didn’t. And we were miserable.
But when I see modern parents having one-on-one meaningful chats with their children as their children are rampaging around me, I just want them to give those kids the Aunt Dora lecture: “Now, Claudia’s never had any kids and her nerves are shot, so be absolutely still when you’re anywhere near her.” It may be no fun, but, hey, I still can’t run in my parents’ house because of this beautiful antique lamp that Mom inherited and calls her “Pride and Joy.” (I’ve resented that Pride and Joy for decades, but I expect my sister and I will eventually fight over it.)
What’s really frightening is how many women my age (we are talking old) are having biological-clock babies. I have at least half a dozen old (and I mean old) friends birthing babies this year. By now I should just be giving graduation gifts, but instead Mom and I are stocking up on baby booties at the craft fairs. Even my closest friend with teenagers is trying to have another baby-at 38. So no more adult conversation until she’s 58.
I guess if I thought babies were cute and I liked holding them, it would be different, but I just find them scary (and occasionally monkeylike in features). The last baby I held was only weeks old and wobbly, so wobbly that his head kept flopping. This just amused the hell out of his usually dour family, seeing me attempting to hold this jellolike creature, so I (their laughter ringing in my ears) haven’t held one since, and that baby is now in high school. All right, I did kiss one a couple of weeks ago but only after she stopped gurgling.
Now I’m waiting for my old friend to come, hoping we can get in a little conversation and that the baby doesn’t get into the cleaning products in our non-childproofed household. I’ll try to smile, try to look charmed and take several more aspirin for the headache I’ve already got. It’s really hard being a good hostess. Maybe I should clean those cat boxes.
Epilogue: The “baby”-who somehow had become 3 and talks-was actually quite cute. The cats only hissed at her twice. But her mother’s pregnant again.
