Inflated self-esteem or grandiosity OR less is more

“Oh, so you have three boys,” she commented, “You’re going to have your hands full.”
“Well, it is what it is,” I replied. The usual, scripted retort, often laden subtle sarcasm.
“Are you guys done having kids. I mean, you want a girl, don’t you.”

Of late, this has been the ire of my existence. People ask about my wife and me wanting a girl in the future. Call me crazy, but that’s none of their business. However, as they prod their little noses in our reproductive agenda, they often appear insistent and hell-bent on changing my mind, offering myriad arguments to convince me to lay with my wife, in the biblical sense, to have a girl. I often ask myself, why does this matter to them that they suggest and are insistent on how a girl would be life changing. They say, “Oh, you’ll get to balance the boy stuff with girl stuff. I mean your poor wife, surrounded by all those boys.” To which I coyly reply, “I have enough boys. One can like girl stuff.”

I had one casual observer point out that I am still young and I can have more babies. True. Having twins speaks to our fecundity and prowess as reproductive agents, but we also take care of ourselves. No tight pants; we avoid chairs made of ice; and we stopped punching each other in the crotch. I am actually surprised that I have been blessed with children after playing games like Nut Tennis Ball, Nut Frisbee, and Nut Water Bottle while in college. Being 28 with three kids, in my opinion, speaks to having a rich and fulfilling life before 30. I see no need to push it further. I don’t have to think about what could have been.

Don’t get me wrong, or do, I don’t care, but I’m not opposed to children. I love mine and would fight mortal combat style to protect them. I don’t like anyone else’s kids as much as mine. And I don’t like the idea of having more than necessary. Especially since children are the most expensive investment anyone can make. However, the frustrating part is that people, both with and without children, approach child-rearing with the same attitude of how they care for silk plants.

When did children become commodities? I blame Hollywood and the collect-em-all mentality where children are merely accessories put on for the right occasion. You can go to Africa or South America to buy one, attach it to your hip when shopping for high-end couture, and sell baby photos to TMZ.com. Or, if you’re lucky, people will think it’s cool to watch you guide your small battalion of children on TLC as you talk about how modest your life is on national TV.

All children, at some point, serve as adjuncts to their parents. It’s natural because the parents see attributes of themselves in their children. Children will serve narcissistic needs for parents varying points during their relationship. Or at least they should. BUT there is a fine line between having healthy and unhealthy needs. Having children just to have a boy or a girl, when you already have, and love, children is dangerous. A Child is a gift, which means he or she is graciously provided without provocation or groveling by the recipient (or persons “acting” on behalf of the recipient). I enjoy what I have. I love my gifts.

I feel complete in my three piece suit; I don’t need to buy a top hat, cane, or lacy socks to accessorize what I already have. It would seem overboard, possibly ostentatious, to add anything else. Besides three beautiful boys and a trophy wife make me look snazzy enough. I can manage. We can manage as a family because we are a family.

In the recovery room

Eight years ago I had a Live Journal account. I used it maybe 3 times, mostly to jaunt into my mind to pull out the most random, immature ideas I held at the time. Seeing how that was college and my early 20s, who knows how important or appropriate those thoughts were. It served to get out what I was thinking because I was dealing with a lot of crap. I find it impossible to keep my mind still; sometimes it’s slowed, but never “racing”. I’m always thinking of something. An interest fleeting or concrete. Something I would like to pursue or pass up.

I’m attempting again to maintain a blog. It’s my connection to the world outside Christopher. Transcendent almost, but necessary. It will help scrape the plate from which I frequently eat. It will allow reality to be friend and foe. Between my obligations of family, school, and work, I have little time to decompress. There are moments when I hide, usually in the bathroom, just to have “without” time. That is time without everything else. I need it. More than anyone else, I need it to counteract those period when I want to bang my head off a wall.

Yeah, as if I need another thing to do. This is nothing 5 to 10 minutes to jaunt out-of-my-head into the Land of Wherever and Whatever, the place of mystical real obligations. I need to go there, but I don’t have time. I need to make time. It is my recovery room. This will be my recovery room.