I wasn’t ready for kids. AT ALL. And I was old, I’d been around kids, all my friends were doing this together and I had a ton of support. But MAN… I was not ready.

In a stunning development, absolutely nothing is the same now as it was when we were babies so there’s no point in checking in with our own parents or grandparents. We don’t make baby books, we don’t bronze shoes, we don’t shoot 6 minutes of silent grainy video on a second birthday and later, we don’t make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, let them watch TV for three hours a night and then start worrying about school in seventh grade.

We have different things we’re supposed to worry about now, and in general we have a lot *more* things to worry about. I’ve taken two kids through the first four years, two VERY different kids, and I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about stuff and┬ámaybe too much? Maybe not enough? I’m not sure.

I’m gonna spend the next couple of weeks looking at these things – not because they’re interesting to you, my half dozen dear readers – but because I’m about to forget all of it. My oldest is eight and is half way through third grade, so that’s as far as I’m going to go, but I hope to get down as much insight as possible before it’s all gone from my mind.

Because I wasn’t ready before I had kids. But now that I’m in my forties and we’re all done having kids, I’m ready. Maybe if I write some of this stuff down, it’ll ease my frustration about being such a slow learner.