My boy, my husband, and I are on road trip, complete with road tunes
and for our littlest passenger, a bulging diaper bag. It's the best
kind of road trip: we have no fixed itinerary and no obligations.
I'm writing this entry in lovely Atascadero,
California where I am spending the night at the home of my seatmate
from kindergarten. T. and I grew up together, running wild through the
avocado groves of what was then rural southern California.
A few years after we shared seats in kindergarden, we attempted to sort
out the facts of life with a set of highly promiscuous Barbies. We had
established that some freakish interaction of human genitalia resulted
in babies. However, we were quite unclear on the details. Even at that
age we intuitively doubted Ken's ability to perform when it counted, so
our Barbies had plastic lesbian Barbie sex, except that we didn't know
what sex or lesbians were. Just to be on the safe side, however, Ken
took up residence with each of the lesbian Barbie couples in turn. In
hindsight, I think we created quite a Hefner-esque lifestyle for the
man with the smooth plastic crotch.
Despite these early misconceptions, we eventually figured it out. Her
first child is four months older than mine. We took pictures of the two
of them together. The babies were almost completely uninterested in
each other, but we each took about two million pictures every time
their eyes wandered in the general direction of the other. I suspect
that the babies were acting much more rationally than we were.
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