On Punching Toddlers And Falling in Love
I don't know how parents do it. I look at my friends who have kids and I think god must have given them an extra heart when the baby came along, full of patience, long-suffering and the ability to survive on tiny, vampirish doses of un-sleep. And then there are the other kind of parents: the kind I was worried I might be. Some shitty toddler was pulling faces at me behind his mom's back today and I felt the old urge to give him a solid punch in the ear. I am not supposed to have those urges, and I'm certainly not supposed to talk about them; but, this is my blog and if you like PC shit, read something else. Would I punch a toddler? Probably not, but I never wanted to find out, and so I never had one. More people should get on that train, I think. We don't need more children in the world, but we could use fewer shitty parents and more people who are free to do stuff that makes them happy and helps the planet. Maybe, if women (and men) could dig down and withstand both the societal pressure and the hormonal overdrive to reproduce, they might find other things to do. Like save up a little money, travel the world, write books, rescue a few species from extinction.
And just like that, I step over the threshold of the Now, into this present moment. I open the eyes of my heart and look around me, at the way Time, that old alchemist, will transform pain into love. At this man who walked into my life not so long ago, precisely when I became ready, whether or not I knew it. His past and his present, all here in the same room; my past gradually fading, and my present glowing bright as the kitchen windows against the windy dark outside. I can practically see that old jungle cat padding away down the road, quiet at last, content out there in the wild, where it belongs. Leaving me with a bigger heart, and a bigger scope on family. That whole mom, dad, two-and-a-half kids thing? Whose arse did they pull that one out of? This scene feels a lot better to me. Call it broken if you want, nobody likes divorce, but this is what I know: love comes in through the cracks that only happen when we are broken. When we are willing to admit we don't have our shit together, that we aren't totally competent, that we don't know what's going to happen next. We don't ever know. It's okay. Love lives there, in the uncertainty, and it conquers us in the sweetest and heaviest and most ordinary of ways. Love doesn't care that you don't like kids or that you do, that you might be an asshole toddler-puncher (please don't do that), that you long for a white picket fence, that you started a family and then it broke up, that you have two dads or three moms, that you live in a trailer, on a boat, in a mansion, in a tin shack with a muddy yard and seven dogs under the porch. Love can find you there. You just have to be broken; that's all it takes.