The other day, I watched my daughter pick up a leaf, study it closely, and consider whether to put it in her mouth. She didn’t. Instead, she just ran her fingers along it, turned it around in her hand, and continued staring at it contentedly.
It was new to her; therefore, it was magic. I looked at that same leaf and tried to find that same awe. It had been so long since I’d looked at a leaf that way. Hell, it had been a long time since I’d looked at anything that way. As an adult, we just take everything around us for granted (except in my undergrad when I read Whitman and did, in fact, take a few minutes to admire the movement of my wrist and a blade of grass).
Was this envy I was feeling? Yes, as my daughter sat in awe of this leaf, I realized I was jealous of her ability to see the world with such wonder. I’ve watched her discover her own hands with the same amazement. And my hands, shadows on the wall, a squirrel in the yard, a cloud: all magic.
I wish I could find that much entertainment in the mundane. These days, I need a perfect cup of coffee, my favourite album, and a good magazine just to even close to being entertained in that capacity. I want to go back to that simple time.
I’ve felt many emotions this past year, but envy is a new one. I was envious of my child for being able to do things I longed to do, but no longer could. I’ll chalk it up to a casualty of adulthood and the expectations, obligations, and societal pressures that come with it. How lame.
So, on top of being able to sit and stare at a leaf for a long period of time, here are a few other things I’m jealous of my infant for:
- Being able to roll around on the floor all day – while watching my baby learn to move, I’ve forgotten how much fun it would be to roll around everywhere. She looks so carefree and giddy. How I long to spend an afternoon rolling from wall to wall, under tables and behind chairs. I’d be giddy as a schoolboy, and would be a great precursor the real joy of childhood: rolling down a grassy hill.
- Being congratulated after every bowel movement – my infant’s poop is something we applaud and discuss with enthusiasm. “She had a good poop this morning!” I inform my wife when she gets home, and I then describe it in detail (which I’ll spare you here). It would be pretty cool if I got a high five every time I walked out of the bathroom after filing papers.
- Being able to spit out food at the dinner table – we have been trying lots of new foods with her and some she likes, some she doesn’t. The stuff she doesn’t like (I’m looking at you salmon), she just spits back out onto her high chair. I fantasize about doing that myself whenever I encounter something I don’t like or when someone sneaks a raisin into a muffin and I have to just choke it down like the lame adult I am.
- Being able to cry in uncomfortable social situations – she still cries at most strangers who try to engage with her. She doesn’t know how to do anything else. When she’s uncomfortable, she cries. Simple right? I wish I could also just cry to get out of boring small talk with people or uncomfortable situations. Next time I get stuck in a long boring conversation with someone who’s complaining about their job, I ‘d love to just cry, and checkmate….what are they going to do? Likely just back away and apologize. Babies have it made.
- Being able to pass gas openly – I spend a lot of my time trying to hide my farts. My daughter looks lovingly into my eyes and coos and then lets out the loudest ripper I’ve ever heard (I always thought they’d be cute little baby toots…I was wrong). And then I say ‘good girl – get those toots out’ because I am actually very happy when she toots. I’ve dealt with her at 3am when she’s upset with a gassy tummy and I much prefer her tooting at whatever volume she pleases. I’ve put a lot of effort into hiding my flatulence over the years, and want nothing more than to let ’em rip whenever and however I please. Yes, babies do, in fact, have it made.
All jokes aside, I’ve realized that instead of be jealous of my little darling, I should instead just try to live vicariously through her and enjoy all the tooting, crying, rolling, spitting, and pooping while it lasts. At least she wants me around for all of it. She likely won’t welcome me saying ‘good toot honey’ when she’s a teenager.
Written by Jesse Wilkinson
