If being an anti-reminiscer is possible, that might be me. No no, I have no time to think about the “remember whens” because I’m too busy wondering what high school RR will go to in 13 years. This, my friends, drives my wife crazy. The inability to stay in the now. The inability to sit still. Once I get a job, I can’t help but to browse job listings at least once a week. Right after we buy a house, I gleefully still spend my internet leisure time clicking through the newest house listings. No, I don’t plan to leave my job anytime soon, and… well, we plan to be in our house for a good, long while.
It’s not the lure of what could be, but more like keeping up with what’s going on around me? To feel well educated and informed, maybe. Prepared, even. Armed with knowledge that yes, that office is hiring and restructuring, and no, that house didn’t sell last year because it’s back on the market now, and the pictures in the tour show green trees and blooming azaleas. Ah HA! I’m onto you, house.
This… problem? Well, it leads me into dangerous paths, now that we have RR. Paths that include stalking the private school admissions application pages to find out what kind of kid she’ll need to be when she’s five. That’s right. Five. Four, if you count when the application needs to be submitted. I don’t KNOW if she’ll be gifted and talented? And recommendation forms? Is it already on her record that she waited until she was seven months old to roll over? And then there’s the bit about “listing any unusual family situations” – is this unusual to us or to them? Is this the place to list that RR has two mommies, or that one of her mommies wears boxer shorts? Do they have a big red “DENIED” stamp that they’ll use right then and there?
OK, so I can talk myself down a little bit from her being five. It takes a moment, but the sensation of making sure RR has developmental and enriching opportunities still looms in the back of my head. When can she start playing soccer? Maybe the swim team? Art classes? Piano lessons! Can we start teaching her Portuguese, since my wife is fluent? How long do her arms need to be before she can play a student guitar? Will she ever say anything other than DOI DOI DOI? What if she never gets teeth? Is that considered an unusual family situation? That she’s five and we have to puree her food still?
So now that I’m in a frenzy, I can step back. Close the tabs. Step away from the tabs. Open the real estate listings and take a deep breath. Maybe focus my worries on the fact that next year, we won’t be able to bring her food to school, so she might be exposed to a chicken nugget against our will. THAT seems to be a reasonable worry. No? Damn. Vicious spiraling cycle.
I’ve learned to keep these things to myself (or, rather, from my wife), but friends, I felt like it was time to fess up.