natural selection

Its funny (in retrospect, of course) how easily we glaze through the daily routines, mini-milestones, and emotions involved with our child’s early months, to one day arrive at Potbelly’s in Deerfield with a near ten-month-old eating green beans and bread amidst trying to impress the family in the table behind us with his fifteen-something dimples and ability to clap his hands. Life is now settling down to a place where a spur-of-the-moment dinner at some random sandwich shop after an afternoon of shopping is again possible, and really, the experience isn’t all that different from the time when Anna and I used to eat out alone (except maybe for the pile of cheerios and bread we now leave under the highchair - sorry floor-sweeper guy! - or rather, “Excusa, pavimento-barrendero hombre!”). And now we have another person with whom we can share the burden of entertaining ourselves. Who needs intelligent conversation anyway? Shit, the conversation at our restaurant dinner table has probably taken an intellectual leap for the better since Ben joined the fray. Who better to have around to lighten the mood when talk turns toward troubled finances or unwelcome obligation then a dude who knows nothing of nervous conversation except that he can make it stop by giggling at the strained looks on your faces. I like having a family of three.

It’s just so weird to think that we have come this far. I know I keep obsessing about it, but I think it’s worth at least this momentary fixation. So much of our own formative years have long been forgotten, and in our children we have the chance to live vicariously. For all these small moments that Ben will never remember, we can remember them instead. They’ll likely be more important to us anyway. But also, in each of these tiny events we have the joy (and worry) of wondering whether that particular moment will carry the potential to actually BE remembered by our son and possibly even be woven into his evolving character. To think that the foods we feed him, or the color we painted his room could someday affect his adult predisposition towards “green”. . . that’s just so cool.

I suppose that type of thinking can lead you down some pretty scary paths, but how can I worry when Ben is staring at me with his nose wrinkled, his mouth a grin, his eyes half-closed and he’s snorting like a pig? Worry? What? I’m just trying to keep a straight face while my wife across the table is fretting about our tax--- wait, no - now she’s laughing too. . .