I hardly ever drive.

Sure, I’ll head into town every now and again, and on Saturdays I’ll go into town with Robinia. But most of the time it’s abby driving. That’s how I get to write this blog about a week in advance. That also means it is my responsibility to take care of Roby in the back by playing the music, looking at books, and otherwise entertaining her. Which makes it tough to write this blog in advance. Since I should, you know, be entertaining a two year old instead of typing away a buncha junk about not entertaining a two year old.

Meta

Parenting does appear to exist on a spectrum of distractions, I suppose I could call them drugs.

I saw some psychopathic tech bro talking about how iPads have become an economic indicator. Poor people are comfortable letting theirs kids play coco-melon games or whatever while rich people will do anything in their power to keep their kids away from screens. What I found really interesting about that take is what he said next. I’m with that statement so far, at least it makes me feel uncomfortable and envious of money. Then he said that rich people generally pay real people and well meaning-educators to entertain their children.

Entertainment.

Paying someone, or for something to entertain our children so we can…what?

Conquer Carthage?

What exactly do we require the added bandwidth provided by not paying attention to our children for?

What do we gain from those hours of not paying attention?

I am not paying attention to Roby right now. She’s 18” from me and I’m writing this blog instead of singing her a song. Is this post worth even a single minute of not paying attention to roby? Would I trade this post for another minute of Roby-time tomorrow?

Would I make that trade 50 years from now?

Obviously yes I would. But I won’t be able to, the only time I can make that trade is right now.

It is one of my favorite thought experiments. If you ever feel tired of your child, exasperated, frustrated, imagine that you are not thirty four, but rather eighty four. You are sick, nearly dead, your children haven’t called in a while and you don’t see your grandchildren as much as you’d like. You sit, alone in bed, and wish with your whole heart for a single night back with your baby, with your healthy body. Even if it’s a bad night, a colicky night, even Roby at her worst.

And BOOM

Your wish is granted.

Would I trade this post for a screaming car-ride with Roby?

Would I trade this whole blog for it?

Would I trade all the money I ever make, all the prestige?

Obviously yes, that is precisely the trade I am hoping to make, right now, by working on this daycare project.