You start with one infant, brand-new. You are thrilled to be allowed to hold it.
Trouble arises when the new parents ask for the infant back. You conceal your outrage, and return the baby, already missing its soft weight on your arm. Your hand slides reluctantly off the blanket. Why did no one mention what a sublime experience this is? To think what you've been missing.
The addict may oppose any social or legal restrictions on her addiction; any restriction seems unduly harsh.
Only days after your last fix, you're craving a refill of the scent of baby's neck. You call, trying to sound casual. The parents say they're having an evening to themselves. Woo-hoo! You grab your coat. "I'll be right over to watch the baby!"
But you've misunderstood. They mean an evening to themselves with the baby.
You put down the phone in shock. It appears the where, when, and how of your grandchild-fix depends on the whims of other people. People who act as if the baby is theirs alone.
The user begins exhibiting signs of her addiction...
To the expert eye, the signs are obvious — stacks of Toys R Us bags; professionally edited videos of a five-month-old being tickled by unseen hands until he obligingly smiles; a once-stately dining room converted to a playroom; a face covered with poorly drawn squiggles.
The social and financial costs become steeper, interfering with the enjoyment of the trigger. The user may require more frequent and lengthier hits.
Just one weekend, is that too much to ask?!
She tells lies to cover up her habit...
You leave the office at 2pm every Wednesday. You tell coworkers it's for "outside meetings." These meetings do take place outside, but at the playground that you and the grandson in unlaced sneakers have ascertained have the "slipperiest" slides.
She begins to worry about her supply... Your dealer (the grown child who provides you with what you most desperately need) has provided you with two grandchildren but now appears to be satisfied and refocused on her career, this despite the fact that you have conspicuously held on to all outgrown children's clothes because, you insist, "We'll need them down the road."
She hits bottom...
You ignore piled-up work projects and rent a cottage in the country for two weeks just so you can casually invite the grandchildren and your dealer up for skiing. When they elect to go somewhere the younger child calls "Orange Candy" (Orange County) instead, you survey the children's ski outfits spread on the floor on the childless cabin, hats and gloves in place, and realize...you have a problem.
But, happily, there is no cure.
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