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Recently, James and I took a trip down to Roanoke, VA to cheer on our Alma mater as the men’s basketball team competed in the Final Four. Yeah, we’re Div. III, and you haven’t heard of us, and you don’t care, but for us fellow-Ephs this was an occasion of epic purple and gold proportions.

While in Virginia we attended a reception for all alums, family, friends, and fans that had made the trip down south to be a part of this momentous event. As we mixed and mingled with the diverse crowd that had all but one thing in common, a deep deep love of a purple cow, (I know, right? The purple cows. Terrifying. Intimidating. The dream mascot.), I couldn’t help but ogle a wee-babe who seemed around Addison’s age and had a similar crazy mop of hair. She was surrounded by a pack of doting, loving family who passed her around and tickled and played and cuddled while the festivities unfolded. Given that Sunny had stayed up north with my parents because a 10-hour car ride commencing at 4:30 in the morning is anything but a good idea for a 10-month old, I was having intense separation anxiety from my child, and thus transferring emotions onto this adorable babe nearby.

As I watched the circle of adults playing with the munchkin, two individuals stood out as the adoring, proud, head-over-heels-in-baby-love parents. They just had that look in their eyes, that unconditional, completely helpless, completely awed look of parental love. Not to mention that the baby demonstrated a similar preference and affection. It was an awesome sight to behold.

Confident that I had pegged the appropriate people as the parents on which to bestow my blubbering compliments of ewie-gooey-shared-baby obsession, I made my way across the room and looked at the two gentlemen and said, You’re baby is absolutely magnificent. I can’t stop watching her with the two of you. You all are just so in love.

I wish I could put to words the look of delight and appreciation that not only had I complimented their growing family, but that I had recognized, with very little effort, that they, two men, were the obvious and clear parents of that happy, healthy, wonderful little princess.

Some of you are asking, WHY, ASH?! Aren’t you a PC liberal? Why are you being so un-PC and  drawing attention to the fact that it was a homosexual couple?

I draw attention to this fact because it is still such a sad, pathetic, prejudiced taboo to be homosexual parents, especially two men. And yet, this interaction, this moment with two complete strangers and their beautiful baby is just one of so many instances that demonstrates that all that a baby needs or deserves is love. And that love can come in any shape, form, gender, race, or number. That what a child needs to thrive is love. Period. End of discussion. If you have people who take on the responsibility of parenting, the work of parenting (as it is an actively engaged role, not an assumed identity), THAT is what matters. THAT is what is at the core of a healthy family. And those two southern gentlemen cradling that babbling baby girl were it. They were a family.

Okay. I’m done with pushing my social agenda. Moving on with the story…

As I crouched around the happy family and we chatted about parenthood and the shared joys and struggles, one of the fathers mentioned that while he was enjoying this new stage of independence (i.e. I CAN CRAWL! AND STAND! AND GET INTO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT!)  how terribly much he missed the itty-bitty infant stage when she would just ball up on his chest and sleep. I expressed my similar nostalgia and how I yearned for those moments of snugly baby slumber.

Well, Universe, apparently you were listening.

And no, I am not pregnant.

Rather, be careful what you wish for or the Universe will bestow upon you a sick, snotty, flem-filled ball of baby misery that will moan, and wake in fitful congested distress every single hour of your supposed days of rest. The upside of this coughing, sneezing mucus-rag is that the only place that she will find solace is curled up on your chest.

As much as today I feel as though I’ve been run over by a tank with napalm and a bad-attitude towards brick (Me being the wall of brick, or something), I lay in bed, 3:30 in the morning, with my baby heater slumbering across my chest, nestled into the crock of my neck, and was overwhelmed with gratitude that I still get those moments (even when they come with the accompanying boogie-fest). When life gives you lemons, right? Or in Addison’s case, you just eat them. Whole.

There is nothing more centering than being able to provide that kind of peace to your child.

Thank you, Universe.