Some friends of ours, newlyweds, came to New York from Rome this week and one evening we had them over for dinner. Like most – scratch that – Like all couples that do not have kids (children I should say) they have no idea what it means for your daily schedule to revolve around such small (seemingly) helpless creatures. So we warned them to make sure and avoid showing up at bedtime – between 19:30 and 20:00. So when they arrived at 19:45 they were greeted by two adults lunging after a naked child who, having just evaded his post-bath towel down by parent #1 and faking out parent #2 who had stepped out of the kitchen to see what was going on, was jumping up and down on the couch. As my wife cornered him in bedroom where he had retreated to plot his next escape route, I let the guests in and told them to wait in the living room, well clear of the battlefield. As we got him hog-tied and into bed, I offered our guests some wine to make sure that they did not remain too traumatized by what they had just witnessed.
Dinner proceeded as was predictable, for us at least. Conversation meandered from the frequency of our son’s bowel movements to his recent mini-tantrums. We latter commented on how they kept exchange worried glances as their mentions of wanting children of their own become less frequent as the night progressed. We in no way meant to scare them, ours was what we consider a rather normal conversation for a couple with small kids. At 20:45 these two youngsters who had been bragging about their exploits around town the night before started yawning. I offered coffee, but they insisted it was getting late and they should really be going.
As we closed the door behind them we looked at each other and shrugged. If they thought talking about life with kids was hard to handle wait until they actually have them. And now if you will excuse me, I am on Diaper Duty.