"Gosh, premature births are scary."
Hugh sits next to me, trawling Youtube on his iPhone.
"Eewww, I didn't know unborn babies kicked so hard. I mean, gross, you can see their feet."
I'm ignoring him. Well, not ignoring Hugh per se. I'm ignoring the fact that he has anywhere- anytime access to women birthing preemies, to in utero kicking babies.
God, I feel so old. So out of time. Like a medieval peasant plopped down on Lake Shore Drive in the middle of rush hour. Who are these people that post videos of their labor online for the viewing pleasure of my just-16-year-old son? And who is this 16-year-old male-o'-mine who chooses to watch online videos of strangers giving birth while negotiating driving time for the weekend? And who am I? I think I'm supposed to be the parent--but that can't be right. Parents are authorities. They know what they're doing. They're in charge. They Have Direction.
They don't stand in the middle of the street, horrified and confused by the oncoming traffic, panicked, staring into the headlights.
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