When I was younger, I never babysat. I am the youngest of three children, and both of my parents are the eldest in their families, so I did not have the advantages of growing up by taking care of the “little ones,” neither siblings nor cousins. To my teenage mind, babies and toddlers were disgusting, gooey creatures that were constantly wet at both ends, and I steered clear of them.
Although far from being a neat freak (all right, I was a downright slob) I did like to have my things in order. No sticky, grubby hands were ever allowed to touch my things. My toys, my books, my art supplies – heck, even the TV remote control. As I grew older, the list grew likewise. CDs, DVDs, game controllers, and, most importantly, my laptop.
My laptop. One of the truly sacred articles of writerly life. The keyboard must be kept clean. The air vents must be kept free of dust. The screen must not get too cold, or the innards too hot. Use a surge protector. And eating anywhere near it – out of the question. Nothing like a full can of Coke to wreck your wpm rate.
Now I am a parent.
The youth director at my mother’s church is the best example I can think of to illustrate the transformation that turns the kid-haters into, well, pretty darn good parents. Doug really is a neat freak. He doesn’t like mess of any kind, and especially doesn’t like to dirty his hands. But when his daughter started vomiting over the living room rug, he acted on instinct: He stuck out his hand, cupped it under her chin, and neatly caught the puddle of sick before it could ruin her dress, shoes, or the carpet. He got her calmed down and, like all good daddies, feeling better. Then, white-faced, he related this tale to us the next day and cried, “What’s up with that?” as he pantomimed vomit pooled in his hand. Gross, right?
Things aren’t much different in my house. When Jade discovered that he could climb onto the couch, the next thing to learn was getting down again. When he decided to go over the arm, I dropped my laptop directly onto the hardwood floor in order to make a diving catch of my son before he broke something important. Like his skull, or one of his tiny, chubby arms.
He wanted to show me how, by turning his bottle upside-down over my keyboard and shaking it, milk came out the top. I explained that he was supposed to drink the milk, and grabbed a paper towel. He wanted to push the buttons on my mouse. I unplugged it and let him go to town. He wanted to point out pictures on my screen. I added Windex to the paper towel and kept typing.
In the face of discovery, or safety, my laptop comes in a screaming second to my baby. The really weird part is that’s okay with me. As long as I remember to save my writing often, on two or three different removable media, I can enjoy these early years with Boyzilla and his mostly-accidental destructiveness. After all, a notebook and a pen are an option.
Look, Jade! It’s a puppy! Banana! Rubber duckie! Racecar!
Rachel is never seen without a cup of tea in hand and her Myth dragon bag on her shoulder. She invites you to visit her through YIM!.
