I've had a series of fun, interesting days. I would like to think that all these days have given me something to write about besides my monosyllabic Grace entries. Maybe if I were a more eloquent writer, that would be the truth.
But I am a lazy, self-serving writer and this is the closest I'm getting to writing much at all.
I admit, I miss it: real entries, regardless of pith, are the ones that get people commenting and talking and drive the traffic up a little if they are good or even fair. The short entries, not so much. But there is a certain zen in writing even little bits.
But now I shush because you're probably not interested in my creative process. Instead I will tell you this: there is something interesting about watching other people's children, no matter what their age. There is psychology involved, of course, but there is also and element of perception. There is the perception that you are, in fact, becoming an elder of the tribe (regardless of your own existing number of children, though if you've let children into your own life the perception is magnified); and the feeling that somehow you are the village raising that child.
Corny? Probably. But truly there are few events as seemingly unrelated yet as intrinsically connected as watching a bunch of six-year olds playing hockey, going to a housewarming party, hanging out with a friend and her suddenly very big-boy-looking baby, and going to see a friend's son's hilarious, crazy drag queen act.
It's weird to think that we are, in fact, part of a tribe that grows and evolves and supports itself through the rites of passage of a newer generation. It's weird to think that we're not so different from our nomadic ancestors, who banded together for survival and for strength and because it was fun and necessary for the continuation of the species.
It's a relief to think that we no longer have to actively groom each other for vermin, however.