Nico is the youngest party boy in Dalian. For Fourth of July weekend, not only did he have a barbecue to attend, but there was a restaurant opening and a magazine release party at one of the city’s newest (and possibly hippest) bars. The kid has the social calendar to make many adults green with envy, and generally he handles it all fairly well with an amazing amount of grace and maturity for someone who can’t yet chew his own food.
Christian and I, on the other hand, wrestle with a great deal of guilt. After all, if this were anywhere in America and likely in Christian’s little Austrian village, bringing a baby to a bar to party late into the night would nominate us for the the Worst Parents of the Year award.
Nico doesn’t seem to mind too much, though. He flirts with the ladies, charms the gentlemen, and generally passes out by nine or ten for the night. The general consensus is that he’s one of the most well-mannered babies on the planet, and we’ve never received anything but encouragement when we show up, infant in-hand.
Part of me attributes Nico’s general amiability to our unusual outings where his exposed to (and passed around amongst) large groups of strangers, and I can’t help but think that colored lights and new kinds of music are good for our son’s development. Yet there’s this little nagging voice in my head that says “there are places for adults and places for babies, and they really aren’t meant to be mixed.” Perhaps bar-hopping with baby is just a sign that we’re in denial about where our priorities ought to be in life now that we’re responsible for raising this little proto-human into a morally responsible member of society.
Or perhaps I should stop worrying about what other people think, and start worrying about how on earth I’m going to clean our kitchen (which presently looks like it was hit by The Surge in Iraq).