What is it about turning one that seems to be the magical age? I’m referring to not just us as parents, because turning one is a whole different ballgame for moms filled with sippy cups, finger foods, walking and wondering how the hell I’m going to save for his college AND my sure-to-be-needed facelift.

I’m referring to other people. There’s something about once your kid hits a year that reactivates people’s crazy switch. At my son’s first birthday party, I got this question more than once: “When’s the next one?” The first time I heard it, I paused while pouring myself another glass of wine and responded, “Next what? Party? Bottle of wine going to be opened?” I was truly, honestly confused.

Until the evil partygoer gave me a Look and said, “You know, next kid.”

I knew I had two options: answer politely or clutch the hair against my head and run screaming at the thought of another six months of offering my soul to the devil himself if he could just get my kid to sleep through the night. 

I chose the first option: “Are you kidding? Please, tell me you’re kidding.”

Now, I’m getting the question all over the place. If I wear a loose fitting shirt, people assume I’m trying to hide something. If I complain of being tired, my coworkers wonder if I’m knocked up again.

For the record, to everyone: NO, OK? The answer is NO. For the love of sweet Jesus, NO.

But what’s funny to me is that these are the same people nodded in agreement during conversations of how hard it would be, how unplanned it would be, if I got pregnant again anytime soon.

But, now that my kid is a year old? Fair game, my friends.

I’m thinking of carrying around a glossy brochure for the nearest residential psychiatric facility and whipping it out whenever I get any of those questions going forward. As in, “Here. Here is where I would be if I had another kid right now. Visiting hours are from 4-6pm. I’ll be there for the next, oh, eighteen years or so.”

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My son is almost a year old, which means that things have finally gotten a bit easier. He sleeps twelve hours at night, is entertainable in public, diaper blow-outs are few-and-far-between and reaches for me while smiling and babbling, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma.”

So.

I was a little irritated to realize all of the things he’s not “supposed” to do once he turns a year old–use a bottle, play in the jumperoo, drink formula.

Apparently, once a kid turns one, they enter early-Toddlerville and it’s time for Big Boy stuff like walking, finger food and sippy cups. Before we know it, we’ll be blowing the fuck past those milestones and it’ll be time to mark the liquor bottles and set the parental controls on the porn channel.

While I don’t object to any of these things and realize they’re just part of growing up, it’s hard to realize that we’re going to be jerked out of our complacency and back into “I have no idea what the hell to do” mode. Just when I was SO enjoying the feeling of having this Mothering shit down. (Although my son challenged that feeling yesterday when he managed to gnaw paint off our walls while I was in the bathroom. I’d like to thank my family and Jesus for the Mother-of-the-Year Award.)

I guess my parenting lesson learned for the day is: When it comes to parenting, it’s best not to get too comfortable. Treat child-rearing in same manner as snake-charming–always be alert, ready to react and never underestimate your opponent.

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