Non-Breeder: Crying Uncle
Parenthood ruined my best friends.
by Brett Berk
May 22, 2008
Ignoring the arctic weather, my boyfriend Tal and I shuffled outside to greet Kate and Dylan. Despite myriad invitations, our best friends had been . . . preoccupied, and hadn't been to our cottage upstate in ages. We were thrilled to have them there for New Year's. We had high hopes for reconnecting.
We approached their old Saab gingerly. The windows were foggy, the interior atypically anarchic, and our friends looked strangely disheveled as well. And there, strapped in back, was the source of all this change and chaos. Smiling, face breaded in drool and Pirate's Booty, sat Kate and Dylan's eighteen-month-old son, Max.
We hadn't spent much time with the boy — we saw him as an interloper in our relationship with his parents — but we hoped, that weekend, to demonstrate for him (and our friends, and ourselves) just how prepared we were to love him. Yet as they opened the car door, instead of immediately sharing a group hug, our guests began bickering about how best to unbuckle the car seat, reigniting a battle in some foreign and ongoing war. Hugs did not ensue once this flare-up ended either. Rather, Tal and I were enlisted as Sherpas, and burdened with their copious luggage. One of these bags — a quilted satchel that looked like something my grandma would store yarn in — banged against the trunk as I grabbed it, releasing a low hoot, like a laryngitic owl.
Max's eyes locked on the bag. "Shoo-Shoo!" he cried.
"You should have carried the choo-chie bag. Where's the train porn?"
His calls became increasingly desperate as Dylan carried him inside, and he began flailing wildly, reaching for the bag. I knew better than to offer a child anything without his parents' permission, but I also didn't want the boy to forever associate me with depriving him of his Shoo-Shoo, whatever that was. I started to hand him the bag, but Kate flashed me a glare, as if I was passing him a loaded gun. "You set off his train."
I tightened the cords in my neck. "Sorry . . .?"
"Whatever. It's not your fault. It just . . . starts this whole cycle." She turned to Dylan. "You should have carried the choo-chie bag. Where's the train porn?"
"Shoo-Shoo." Max said, grinding at his father's chest.
Dylan sighed. "I thought we agreed that was just for emergencies."
"And what would you call this?"
He studied his son quizzically. "He seems distractible. R-A-T-T-Y?" he spelled. "Or C-O-O-K-I-E?"
Kate snarled. "Just get the train porn."
I felt confused — and appalled — by my friends' insane vocabulary. But before I could request interpretation, Dylan set Max down and the boy tore across the room and knocked over our antique folding screen. The noise of it landing seemed to stun him into silence, but prompted a troubling cascade of expressions: bewilderment, satisfaction and a desire for more.
©2008 Brett Berk and Babble.com
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