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Getting older, especially in New York, you are constantly bombarded with the cynical warnings of frustrated parents. People with kids recount horror stories and bemoan their lost youth. They try to scare you away from it like a hack '80s comic doing a tight five. And sure, it's a tremendous responsibility (duh), and necessitates a complete change in your way of life (duh), and at times I am sure that you regret or resent some of the sacrifices that you are forced to make. But not enough parents talk about the singular pleasure of being home alone at night with your tiny baby, making it do things for your own amusement because they don't know any better than to keep smiling and dancing because their brains basically don't even exist yet. Idiots. GRIND, MONKEY. That has to be way at least as much fun as drinking too many over-priced beers at some Lower East Side bar that consistently smells like a mop bucket. The magic of life. Hakuna Matata. (Thanks for the tip, Caroline.)
