Though we'll likely be the last people we know to take the plunge, spitting out a Mini-Budd or two (that one's for you, Bucholz) is still in the not-too-distant future for us. It's no secret that I have my reservations, however, from the alien being kicking around inside me (not to mention the frighteningly large belly that develops), to the sleepless nights (I LOVE my sleep), to a few years down the road when the cute little baby turns into the toddler monster and I want to send him/her/it back to where it came from. Each time I express one of these concerns, Jer responds with a calm, “Don't worry, honey, I'll get up in the middle of the night with it. I'll change all the poopy diapers. I'll....... “ His calm helps dispel some of my fears, and there's never been any doubt that he will make an amazing daddio. However, my confidence in his fatherly abilities has taken a serious nosedive recently. Who knew he would be such a neglectful, murderous father instead??
After solidly denying my half serious, half joking comments about how we need a little kittie or doggo to accompany us in Floyd, we instead settled on a small plant from Ikea. Our newest addition was clearly and undeniably an effeminate French man, and was aptly named Pierre. I have the blackest of black thumbs and am determined to turn my thumbs green. Pierre was the perfect test run for this. If I can keep a plant alive and thriving in a tiny little van, I surely can do it in a house with actual oxygen circling through it. Right?
Yes, I just referred to Pierre in past tense. That is because HIS FATHER chose to leave him out on the curb at the Paris airport. FOR GOOD. We set him out there to soak up a little sun, and while Mommy was napping (okay I guess that doesn't bode exceptionally well for my motherly skills either), Daddy decided to drive away and leave poor little Pierre to fend for himself. For the rest of his undoubtedly short, sun-crisped life.
I was seriously upset and guilt-ridden about how we'd left our one and only son in the sun on a curb at an international airport. In order to recover from our grief, we headed back to Ikea (they are everywhere in Europe) and added Gonzales to our family instead. As you can imagine, he was clearly a sassy little Spanish guy, ready to shake things up. He also thrived under unusual van conditions (clearly due to my greening thumb), until we did a hike in the such and such mountains outside Mogadouro, Portugal. Once again, little Gonzales was transferred outside, this time to the top of Floyd, to catch a tan. My warnings of “Don't neglect your son this time” did no good for poor Gonzales' fate. Sure enough, we landed back at our campsite later that night, as a family of two rather than three. Actually, I mean a family of three, rather than four. Please don't tell Floyd I said that – it would really hurt his feelings.
So, once again we are childless. And sadly enough, I don't have a single picture of either Pierre or Gonzales to commemorate their brief time with us. I guess I didn't realize how short-lived and fleeting it would be. In all seriousness, it was rather surprising and amusing to realize the level of guilt I felt over the fate of these poor, innocent spawn that we so mercilessly left to bake in the sun (without a bit of sunscreen, I might add.) Are we fit to be parents after all? Can I really trust Jeremy to get up in the middle of the night to change poopy diapers while I, pills popped and earplugs inserted, snooze soundly away? Or should we just resign ourselves now to cats and nieces? Oh great, now Nate and Eleissa won't even let us babysit, I'm sure of it.