I have a new mission in life: to drop dead of a heart attack before the summer of 2023, when all these newborns will be shaking me down for high school graduation money all at once.
I just got off the phone with new mom Amy, who, bless her heart, only used the words "epidural" and "miracle" once each. Like many before her, she expressed unease about discussing her child with me. I can't say I don't deserve that. (The exception is Allie. "I long ago stopped giving a shit about making you unhappy. So anyway, it's so weird to have someone inside you hiccup. It's, like, so weird. You know? John? Hello?") To my self-censoring friends, allow me to take this opportunity to say "Thanks!" clarify: I'd be a pretty crappy friend if you couldn't talk about the most important thing going on in your life. And really, I want to hear about it. I want to hear about the pain, the joy, the fear, the newfound genre of love. That stuff is fascinating. And if you have something original to say—like lunatic Amy going without an epidural—bring it on. What I've railed about in this page isn't kid talk; it's unfiltered kid talk to the exclusion of all other talk.
Maybe a primer is in order. Junior shows an aptitude for drawing? Anecdote. Junior shows an aptitude for happily sitting in his own feces? Not an anecdote. Junior calls the dog and not the father "daddy?" Hilarious. Junior calls the dog "Blap!" What's the opposite of "hilarious?" Junior spits up? Not an anecdote. Junior spits up invaluable 18th century postage stamp? Anecdote. Junior doesn't like strained beets? Not an anecdote. Who does? Junior shoves strained beets down his diaper to avoid eating them, making you think he's bleeding internally and sending you hurtling down the freeway to the hospital? Excellent anecdote.