Pudgy Cheeks

Yesterday, I was preparing myself for the 20 minute streetcar ride to work. Uniform-check, iPod-check, book to finish on the journey-check. But a funny thing happened, a bus showed up.

For anyone who experiences motion sickness, reading on a city bus that is constantly switching lanes, and stopping and going at least once a minute is a huge no-no.

Alas I was forced to observe the characters on the bus. There was the typical old lady, an awkward teenager, and a mother carrying her 10 month old baby on her back.

Having children has never been on my "must do" list for life. It's always been quite low on the list after visiting Hawaii, but before sky diving. If it happens, sure...if not...I guess I should price out sky diving.

However I always fail to account for a major factor: babies are too cute.

They have cute pudgy cheeks, they make gurgle noises when they're happy, and the way the look at the world is inspiring. And don't even get me started on fat plump babies (my little sister was definitely one of those).

But as I was admiring the 10 month old ogle at the world, I realized...babies grow up to be snots.

First they hit the tender age of two, which typically coincides with when they learn the word "no". Two is when most babies have mastered the skill of walking (although some of us took our time getting there...) and can quickly and quietly wander away from the safety net of their parents.

It's all downhill from here.

After that you get a (literally) snot filled kid, covered in dirt, making messes everywhere. Followed by the snotty teenage years where your kid does everything they can to rebel against you and finally...they leave you to have their own babies...or careers...or other choice of life. And if you're lucky they'll keep in contact with you, maybe take care of you when you're back in diapers.

So when I say I want a baby, I mean I want a baby...I don't want it to grow up to be student council president, prom queen or a doctor.

I just want a baby, who will stay a baby, forever.

Maybe I should have done what Mom did and became a toddler teacher.

Accountable to Myself

I used to write a journal entry nearly every day. I'm not quite sure what I wrote about, I'm sure most often than not it was mundane details about boys not worthy of my interest, and going back to read the entries would be painful now. Writing down my feelings and posting them in a nice private online journal started as a great way to relieve stress and "let everything out", since I internalize everything.

But for the past few years I've been abusing my journal.

I've stopped writing about stupid boys, and my (sometimes) unreasonable parents. I don't know if it's because the situations had stopped affecting me, or I just got tired of complaining about the same things over and over again. Maybe I'd worn myself out after writing a few too many essays (yes, Math Majors do get to write plenty of papers), or I lead a very undramatic and calm life that doesn't play out well on paper.

The point is, I stopped writing. Yes occasionally I'd write about my major life updates, like graduating, or moving out, but more importantly I stopped writing about the things in my life that I needed to write about, such as finding a job and re-affirming my faith.

So here we are.

Maybe I needed a fresh slate, a new place to organize my "mature" thoughts. The post-angsty-pre-professional Jasmine's new home is right here.