My running joke is declaring “no silver spoons for baby!” whenever I sense my husband and I getting deep into the privileged-of-privileged conversations about his care and future.
It’s those little moments where we get carried away — like weighing whether to put in recessed lighting in his room (meanwhile a year ago I didn’t know what recessed lighting even was). Or that time a couple weeks ago the store was out of grass-fed milk so I picked up pasture-raised instead. I realize how silly these thoughts and tiffs are and walk away with my now-signaturely silly mic-drop. No silver spoons.
It’s a joke, it’s tongue in cheek, but really, I’m nervous. It’s a Darwinian dream for a parent to raise the next generation to be better off and more resourced than they were. To be smarter, have more opportunity, more choice, greater confidence…the dreams for our children are endless.
I’m hyper aware that our baby will grow up with plenty of food on the table, peace at nighttime, and, universe-willing, few cares to cloud his early years. But I’ll be damned if he’s spoiled. Not in this world, not in this climate.
I can master sleep schedules and pumping and cloth diapering. But raising a good human is the real work.