There seems to be a lot on the interwebs lately discussing extroversion vs. introversion. Or maybe because I came out of an extrovert, I run a business with an extrovert and I’m sharing my life, love and impending offspring with an extrovert, I’m just paying attention more. As a card-carrying introvert, I like reading about introversion because it basically feeds me full of information that validates who I am. It makes me feel like it’s actually OK that I prefer written communication vs. spoken or that, well, I simply have a finite amount of energy for lots of people and talk. If I had a dollar for every time I thought silently to myself, “please stop talking,” I could buy something really cool – like a paintball set or, say, a bar.
I think the chances are high that I will give birth to an extrovert and then I will be a minority in my own family unit. I realize my me-time is numbered already – but to also have a wee one with as much to say as those encircling my life already? Holy.
Alas, I think if I just change my perspective a bit on this, it may just work out in my favor. A baby, once here on earth, will be the perfect conversation piece. Part of my anxiety as an introvert is stand-around-in-a-circle small talk. I *hate* small talk. I like simple 1:1 or even 1:2 gatherings over beers or food, but much more than that and I emotionally zone out. But a baby is the magical piece de resistance that can make interpersonal communication function. A wee lil baby can effortlessly carry an entire conversation. Stick a baby in the middle of a crowd and – VIOLA – insta-topic (domestic pets are similar saviors). Never again will I have to fumble for chatter to contribute. Never again will I stare blankly at the group, heart racing, waiting for the uncomfortable silence to be broken. Now I will just stare at the baby and say, “Look at that! Let’s all talk about The Baby!”
Of course, remind me of this in two years when I have a toddling coattail-tugger and long for deep, meaningful, uninterrupted adult banter; when all my hamster balls of space have rolled under couches never to be found again. Maybe someone will shoot me with my brand new paintball gun.