When Jules and I went to see Evie, we had to stop in at a first birthday party. It was swarming with babies, which I guess is what happens when a one-year-old makes the guest list.
You couldn’t step or sit down without checking to make sure there wasn’t a little person in the way, and all the grownups who hadn’t brought their own baby seemed to be working on it for next time.
The cupcakes were pretty good. Jules had spent the weekend talking herself out of getting a puppy because it would be too hard and was concentrating on the hors d’oeuvres. Evie was holding a two-week old infant while balancing an 18-month-old on her knee and still having a grown-up conversation. And I was trying to have a grown-up conversation with a two-year-old while being torn between needing one of these for my very own and never ever wanting this to happen to my life.
On the way home from Christmas at my grandma’s my brother and I were talking about how awful our baby cousins are.
“I think I could be ready for a little niece or nephew, though,” he said, looking at me.
“Well,” I glared back, “I think I could be ready for a niece or nephew, too.”
Neither of us would budge, so we decided the best course of action would to have our parents to adopt someone with a (well-behaved) kid.