Like when it’s raining, and you have to do things like load enormous, Costco-sized boxes into your car while simultaneously trying to keep a 10-month-old person for whom you are solely responsible dry by blocking him from a tropical storm with your body and wrangling a seriously impossible car seat contraption up and around and over and through some very worked-up little limbs.
You know, one of my first memories is actually of a moment very similar to the one that transpired yesterday: I must have been something like 2 or 3, and I was in my stroller on 10th Avenue and 44th Street – I remember the exact address because there used to be a huge wall-graffiti-thing with wildly inaccurate depth perspective there – and it was pouring rain, but I was all warm and cozy in my stroller with the plastic shield down over me. And I very distinctly remember feeling terrible for my babysitter, who was stuck out in the downpour with no umbrella, and yet also feeling extremely glad that I wasn’t her.
Anyway, yesterday I was her. And I’ve had better moments.
But another nice thing about being an adult is that sometimes – like, say, when you turn 31 and flee the city for the suburbs – you have access to a washer-dryer in the very next room…and you can just throw a pair of PJs in that dryer and get them all nice and warm, and then put them on right away even though it’s 6PM.
Because you are an adult.
And sometimes – not often, but sometimes – that means you get to do whatever you want.