I met a baby this weekend.
I met a baby and there was no screaming, crying, or shuddering. From me or from little Riley.
He was curled against his mum, just a day or so old, snuffling contentedly. His mother looked exhausted (54 hours of labour. FIFTY-FOUR HOURS) and his father was positively beaming.
He is the first child born to anyone I actually know.
To people of my generation. People I see quite regularly and could call friends.
Not to family, not to distant school friends, not to the older or younger siblings of friends.
I was terrified when I heard they were having a baby. But they’re so YOUNG, are they going to keep it? was my gut reaction. But seeing their little family? Didn’t seem so odd.
Then, they are not wild ones. They have always been happier going to an early movie then heading home. They own a home, and a cat, and more than one car. They DIY. They have not travelled. They are not at all similar to me.
But seeing them as parents didn’t scare me.
Is this growing up?
Either way. There is a lot more of the world I want to see before I take that path. A lot. One of the few on which there can be no turning back.