About once a month I freak out. “How can we have a baby who can __________ (fill in the blank with whatever new thing Brooks can do) and live in this 500 square foot apartment!” No washer/dryer. No dishwasher. No microwave.
And then the days come and go and of course we make it work. I have seen the movie Babies, I know you can raise a child in under an array of circumstances. There aren’t even any goats eating out of Brooks’ bath tub and we have access to clean water and disposable diapers so why am I making a fuss?
And then there is the other side of this urban baby raising: The side where we walk to the market and are surrounded by moms from the neighborhood as kids play on tambourines and maracas:
The side of city living where we walk through the zoo, just to see the gorillas, because it’s free, so why not; the side of city living where I constantly meet other moms on the sidewalks and play parks, because, well, all of our apartments are just a little too small; the side of city living where I don’t have to drive a car as there is nowhere we could want to go that the our legs or the train can’t take us (well, except maybe Target, I wish I had a car for Target). The side of city living where we can join a throng of tourists to take in amazing sites, sounds, and art:
So please, remind me of this next month when I freak out, because B is about to be on the move. And I. am. scared.