Babies are
so simple, such easy individuals. When they get tired, they sleep, when they
get hungry they eat, when they need to go, they go, when they want to play they
play.
I’m laying
next to my own little sleeping bundle of joy and I can’t help starring at him
for minutes upon minutes – his sleep is so calm and calming at the same time.
They fall asleep so easily. The only noise disturbing their slumber is
external. And then I think of my own noise. We have so much internal noise in
our minds when we become grown-ups.
Why is that?
Right now
his only worry is not getting his mouth on that toy sooner or not getting his
way around my hair the way he’d want to.
And then
time happens. And it happens again. And again. And they seem to be growing up
faster and faster by the day. Soon enough he’ll worry about other things:
Does he want to play with the blue car or the
red one?
Which
superhero is the greatest?
How much is
5 times 5?
How should
he explain to his mum that he broke the neighbor's gnome statue with his ball?
Which shirt
should he wear to school? What if that girl doesn’t like him?
Is college
actually the right option for him?
Is his penis
big enough?
Why did he
take that awful job?
Does he
provide enough for his wife and child?
Does his son
despise him?
Should he
start making his own funeral arrangements next year?
Did he live
a happy life?
I wish I
could tap into that part of my life at any given moment, whenever I’m in desperate
need of ridding myself of stress, weariness and depression, to set myself on
baby-mode each night before I go to bed, to be able to silence that inner noise
and enjoy the sounds coming from outside my window; to sleep shameless; to
dream daringly; to live those seconds one by one like they’re centuries old and
rejoice for my innocence for it is a rare flower to behold.
