Status Post Procreation

Prozac or no Prozac (and at the moment? 40mg of Prozac daily--not the maximum dose, but more than I used to take), the battle against a sometimes breathtaking sense of futility continues. This is something that makes parenthood of small children useful. Because if you can't think of a single reason that anything is worth doing, that any purpose is worth the effort you put toward it, your nihilistic thumb-sucking is routinely interrupted, over and over again, by an urgent need to accomplish tasks that are unquestionably worth doing. Put more milk in the sippy cup. Change the stinky diaper. Say, "who's there?" and then, "interrupting cow who?" Help with the fish puzzle AGAIN. Explain that just because Roy says that he has bombs disguised as regular objects in his backpack doesn't mean that he actually does, and that I do, too, know this for a fact, not least because Roy is seven years old. Read Peepo AGAIN. Explain that yes, Miss Piggy is a pig, and Kermit is a frog, but nobody knows what Gonzo is. Fix the silver dumptruck with the brown back. (AGAIN.) Wash the mysterious sticky stuff out of the end of the right braid.

It's pretty therapeutic. It goes beyond keeping things in neutral territory, and tips the whole life balance determinedly into the positive zone. I read recently that people with children are not happier than people without children, and in fact slightly to the contrary. But I have not a shadow of a doubt that Rosie Bonner with Cassie and Emerson is a much happier person than Rosie Bonner without.