The Verbal Fountain of Youth
On Saturday Jon and I went to a party (hosted by of one of his work friends who I hadn’t yet met) that really took me back to our early dating years. There was the circling around looking for non-permit parking, the apartment buildings squeezed tight within arm’s reach of one another, the tight and narrow staircases (that challenge those hauling strollers and car seats), the happy comingling of strangers enjoying one another’s company over beer and guacamole, and the random (or maybe not so random) decision to move a piano since, well, you’ve got the muscle power of a group at your disposal.
And while I didn’t feel ancient compared to everyone else and enjoyed chatting briefly with fellow party goers, it certainly was a different experience than the parties of our B.C. (Before Children) days. On the one hand, I loved how Violet and Laurel broke down the stereotype of babies and kids being annoying and screechy in social situations -- Violet was cute and happy the whole time and Laurel was friendly and sweet. On the other hand, my mingling was limited because I was parenting. And breastfeeding. And making sure Laurel didn’t get squished by said moving pianos. And we needed to leave by 8:30pm given bedtime. I felt both wistful about not being able to hang out and drink beer and be young and silly and irresponsible, and also tired and sweaty and ready to put my sweet girls to bed and climb into some yoga pants. In short, I felt a little old.
The next day Jon forwarded an email from his friend. She thanked us for coming to the party and wrote:
“[My husband] thinks you're cool and the guys thought your wife was hot. Those are rave reviews in my world.”
And just like that, any residual wistfulness I had about being a tired, sweaty, responsible, early-party-leaving parent was erased. Apparently that complimentary consensus was like a verbal fountain of youth.