Whenever I try to be free and easy — foot racing, tickle fighting — a lamp gets broken, an eye is poked. Now with a baby on the way, it’s likely I’ll never really have a chance at being fun. Gone are the opportunities to stick my head out the hatchback sunroof while crying, “carpe diem.” Mostly, it’s a relief. 9:03 a.m.: The instructor, a man named Chris wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops, explains how he’s not a doctor or a nurse. “I know,” Chris says putting his hand on my shoulder and, as he does, I feel myself get choked up.

Source: National Post October 19, 2016 18:11 UTC