I was thinking today about the time in my life when I made serious amounts of cash by raising other people’s children. I was thinking about this because I was thinking about children, because I always think about children…and how I don’t have any…and how time is running out. This train of thought only makes me want to sprint to the nearest fast food establishment and order every item on the menu that comes with a bun. Naturally, this will make me extremely obese so that all the men want to come over to my apartment and impregnate me, of course.

Anyway, I was thinking about one time inparticular when I was taking one of the little cherubs on his daily walk. He was about 15 months old, and at the age when he no longer liked to “go along for the ride”. He much preferred to walk, thank you very much, and to make him lounge in the cushiony stroller with the built-in sun blocker was absolute torture. Silly me. Here, kid…I’ll sit, you push.

So on a sunny day we were walking the same route we walked everyday, the only difference being that the past 3 days I had taken him to the park on the way back home (it had been unseasonably warm; we didn’t go to the park in the winter). We passed the park on the way out, stopped to play at the park on the way back–this is how I liked my day to work. It made more sense this way, especially because on day one of Park-Play-Day we stopped to play on the way OUT and then he slept the whole way back and then didn’t nap. See? Method to my madness.

Geez, get to the point, Nikol.

On the fourth day as we were about to PASS PARK, I picked up the speed a little bit because the kid was on to me. He knew his surroundings, and he knew that there was a fun world off to the right just behind those trees where I would throw him down a slippery chute and swing him from plastic seats on ropes. Just as I thought it was safe…he let out this scream. When I say scream, what I really mean to say is this kid bellowed a wild, gutteral wail that can only be compared to some sort of tribal death cry. He flailed his legs and beat his fists down on the bar of the stroller, sunk his body down in the seat, trying to escape through one of the leg holes. Needless to say, his verbal communication skills had not yet emerged, and when I tried to explain to him that we were going to go to the park on the way back , I swear this kid wanted to give me the middle finger but he didn’t know which finger was the bad one.

I didn’t wait to go to the park on the way back that day. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t understand the concept of time.

I just wanted to say today that I don’t understand the concept of time either, and if I slide down in this office chair and wail that tribal death cry, stomp my feet and bang my fists on this desk, do you think I’ll get what I want most in this world right now?