A train-ride old adulthood
“Your son is so cute!” said the stranger on the train. J was thrilled that despite his long hair and the mask he has to wear, a stranger knew he was a boy.
“Yes, he is,” I said, “but, I am just babysitting.”
I am at an age that it is normal to have a 5-year-old. It is a mother’s age. I am at an age when my mom was pregnant with me. When most of the women in my family had their second, or maybe third kids.
“But I still can’t find the other pair of my socks.” I thought to myself. Shaking my body imitating the sound of the train, so the could-have-been-mine kid won’t get too bored and start to complain.
I love children.
I try to imitate to be a kid in my spiritual practice, which feels less spiritual and more like a practice sometimes.
They remind me it is possible to see everything as a miracle.
“Look! It is a truck!” or “I can’t believe that ice melted today!”
Their curiosity teaches me that every little thing is worth giving attention to. Like the poet, William Meredith says, “The worst that can be said of a person is that they did not pay attention.”
Do I want a kid? I am twenty-five. Writing it makes it more adult than living it.
But there still is a child within me. I hug her; I understand her and tell her to be patient like I tell J every day lately.
