A Barnes & Noble of One's Own
Yesterday I hauled my enormous laptop to Barnes & Noble because there was a book I wanted to take notes from. So I planted myself and my laptop and my book in the cafe area and soon discovered that I had somehow chosen a seat next to a very noisy baby. I looked over at the baby and he reminded me a little of Milo so I smiled and he beamed back at me and the next thing I knew we were engaged in a conversation of smiles and funny faces.
"You made a new friend," said his mother, who up until that point I hadn't really noticed. She looked tired and was wearing the Park-Slope-stay-at-home-mom uniform: sleeveless cotton camisole top, stretchy yoga-like pants cropped just below the knee, as though she was either ready to be spit up on at any moment, or heading to an exercise class.
"How old is he?" I asked. The baby looked huge, but he seemed to be doing all the things that Milo does, so I was genuinely curious.
"Ten months."
"I have an 8-month-old at home who's like half the size," I said. I always feel weird saying I 'have' an x-month-old. It's kind of like saying, I have a Siberian Husky and a rabbit.
"Yeah, he's really big," said the mother.
She looked over at my table, which was noteably baby-free. "It's nice to have time to yourself," she said, sometwhat mournfully, I thought.
I blinked. It hadn't occured to me that this was what I was having. Here I was, laptop open, copying passages from a book about the history of sex education for my book proposal, after which I would go home, feed Milo dinner and, in the space of time between Milo's bedtime and my own bedtime, try to finish up a new site architecture for a telecommunication provider. Time to myself probably wouldn't include work. But then again, the difference between work and life is blurry, particularly when the work is writing. I write because otherwise I would go insane. So perhaps I wasn't having time to myself so much as treating a medical problem.
When you're a parent you talk a lot about having time to yourself, mostly because you don't get any, or if you do it comes in brief, guilty snatches. An hour for a pedicure. Half an hour to shop for a new handbag. Forty five minutes to watch bad daytime television while the baby naps.
Back in Barnes & Noble I smiled at the baby and his mother. It wasn't really time to myself, but it was time when I got to do what I wanted to do, when I didn't have to think about whether Milo needed to eat or sleep or have his diaper changed. And even though I was tired and overworked and had a million things to do and would never do them all, I suddenly felt lucky.
"You made a new friend," said his mother, who up until that point I hadn't really noticed. She looked tired and was wearing the Park-Slope-stay-at-home-mom uniform: sleeveless cotton camisole top, stretchy yoga-like pants cropped just below the knee, as though she was either ready to be spit up on at any moment, or heading to an exercise class.
"How old is he?" I asked. The baby looked huge, but he seemed to be doing all the things that Milo does, so I was genuinely curious.
"Ten months."
"I have an 8-month-old at home who's like half the size," I said. I always feel weird saying I 'have' an x-month-old. It's kind of like saying, I have a Siberian Husky and a rabbit.
"Yeah, he's really big," said the mother.
She looked over at my table, which was noteably baby-free. "It's nice to have time to yourself," she said, sometwhat mournfully, I thought.
I blinked. It hadn't occured to me that this was what I was having. Here I was, laptop open, copying passages from a book about the history of sex education for my book proposal, after which I would go home, feed Milo dinner and, in the space of time between Milo's bedtime and my own bedtime, try to finish up a new site architecture for a telecommunication provider. Time to myself probably wouldn't include work. But then again, the difference between work and life is blurry, particularly when the work is writing. I write because otherwise I would go insane. So perhaps I wasn't having time to myself so much as treating a medical problem.
When you're a parent you talk a lot about having time to yourself, mostly because you don't get any, or if you do it comes in brief, guilty snatches. An hour for a pedicure. Half an hour to shop for a new handbag. Forty five minutes to watch bad daytime television while the baby naps.
Back in Barnes & Noble I smiled at the baby and his mother. It wasn't really time to myself, but it was time when I got to do what I wanted to do, when I didn't have to think about whether Milo needed to eat or sleep or have his diaper changed. And even though I was tired and overworked and had a million things to do and would never do them all, I suddenly felt lucky.
posted by Hana @ 1:42 PM
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