My friend Naomi adopted a baby girl from Kazakhstan. She’s Russian, so Nay kept her name, which is Irina. She gave her the middle name Ruby. Irina Ruby. A precious, exotic gem at 10 months old.

This child is perfect. She’s gorgeous. She’s super healthy. She’s always happy, having a great time, real party baby. If you make too many weird noises at her she looks at you like “what are you, nuts?”

Now, I’m just going to be blatantly honest here. I don’t like kids much. I generally avoid them. Especially if they can move around independently and speak. I don’t mind tiny babies, because basically they’re quiet and they sit still. And when they’re really small, they are still miracles. You look at this tiny, helpless life form and think “Man. I used to be that. That thing came out of that lady’s holy place! That thing might be the CEO of something. It might be performing open heart surgery in 40 years. That wrinkly, delicate thing will be cracking rib cages and sewing aortic material in place. Or, it could just as easily be recommending a nice Chablis with my fish dinner (an equally important job).” They really are miraculous things. That are for the most part quiet, cute, and sleepy.

It’s when they get older, louder, and mobile that I don’t want to be anywhere near them. I make no apology for this. I was raised by a very strict Mom. I was a very quiet child myself who usually preferred to sit under a tree and read than play run-around-the-playground games. I was very cute – blonde curls and so on – but I was one of those quiet smart kids who got straight A’s, virtually never talked. In short, I was a nerd – but for a number of years, until peer pressure took over, I was a happy nerd. All through elementary school, I read, I wrote poems and short stories, and I drew. When I was given the chance I sang, and shocked everybody. I think the teachers resented the fact that I obviously wasn’t shy (I sang after all) but I had no interest in actively participating in class. The teachers eventually stopped defending me from the kids who were overly mobile and verbal. Those kids tended to make the teachers mad, make classes irritating, and make fun of me. In public. Brats. I didn’t like them then, and I don’t like them now.

So, when I see kids misbehave, even when they’re (as a lot of parents say) “just being kids,” I get REALLY irritated. There are restaurants I won’t go to because I know the local families frequent them and I only have to have brats weaving under my table while I’m trying to eat ONCE, thank you. The Moms (Aunts? Older siblings?) who really don’t care what the kids are doing, as long as they’re not getting themselves run over cars. (I man, a person could go to jail for child endangerment.) The Men (Dads? Who knows?) who encourage the little boys to hit each other “So they’ll grow up tough” and teach them curse words because its hysterical hearing a six-year-old say “Dat’s da shit!” I have no sense of humour for this. Sure people will say “But it’s not the kids’ fault, it’s the parents!” Yeah, ok, so what? Adults are of course the assholes, but I’ve yet to have an adult chase another adult under the table while I’m eating. I don’t blame the kids. It’s not their fault they’re not being raised and that I don’t want them around. It’s the parents, it’s the welfare system, it’s the lack of funding for inner-city after school programs. I agree. I still am not eating dinner there ever again, no matter how good the fried plantains are.

Which of course prompts the revised statement: I don’t like misbehaving kids. I know most people don’t. Well, I have FAR less patience for them than most. I tend to assume that even the most well-trained child will have it’s moments, and avoid them altogether. I prefer to attend parties and social events where there will NOT be children. I will NEVER volunteer for my church’s RE program, I’m sorry guys, you’re doing fantastic work, but I would be the “mean teacher” making everyone cry after the first 20 minutes.

Here’s another weird thing: I love teenagers. Go figure. Usually they are the nightmare creatures that everyone dreads having in the house. I love them. You see, I’ve always appreciated that teenagers make informed choices – even if they’re bad choices, or based on bad information - at a much more advanced level than 7-year olds do. They can eat and go to the loo by themselves. They don’t feel the need to be the center of attention all the time. They actually want to have intelligent conversations, be respected, etc. No really, all the ones I’ve worked with (I’ve had some experience with this) really do want to be liked and respected by adults. Music is often the pinnacle of existence for them – I’m 32 and it still is for me. Some of them test you. So pass the test. Some of them are lying, cheating, sneaky felons-in-making. But I find these to be the vast minority… and I also have seen these types get bored with lying and cheating and straighten up once they get out of high school and start escaping the age-ism of teendom. I love teenagers. They have accountability.

I would say the stupid teenagers are the only ones I don’t like, but even that’s not true. I have patience and understanding for a 15 year old who seems to have nothing between his years. If you’re 15, you haven’t been alive long enough for the damage to be irreversible yet. I have far less patience and understanding for stupid adults. There’s no excuse for allowing your brain to atrophy for over 10 years. Get out my sight.

So. Back to my perfect niece.

I told Irina’s Mommy that I was very scared of how I was going to be around this kid when she gets older. I stood there and looked Nay in the eye and said “I don’t want her to think I don’t like her anymore. I don’t want to hurt her.” Nay just looked at me, with this perfect “patient Mommy” look. I half-expected her to pat me on the head. “Dee, have you ever grown up with a child before?” “No,” I said. “It’s not going to be like that, Dee.” “I hope not. I really do.” “It won’t.”

This child reaches for me when I walk in the door to the apartment. I hold her and play with her and she laughs and smiles, and I swear to God I am a fool for that. Last week, I went over there after I had gone through some incredibly difficult emotional stuff, and the world went away when Irina laughed at me. She grabs my face with her tiny little fingers. The top of her head is covered with blonde fuzz and feels softer than my most expensive velvet dress. Her blue eyes are enormous and they don’t miss a thing. This child is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.

There was a time in my life when I wanted this. Another lifetime ago, I was once in love with someone, and I wanted all of this. Our kids would have looked a lot like Irina. I thought remembering this would make me sad. It doesn’t. It’s impossible to feel sad thinking of Irina. Instead I’m starting to think maybe I could have a great kid someday even without that guy.

Whoa. Wow. Did I just say that? Damn. I’m shaking here. Ok. Sip the tea. Deep breath.

Babies make us think things. That’s good. Anything that makes you really think is good.

This kid is really good.