We had our housewarming on Australia Day, and the inevitable mingling of my friends and my brother's friends. (I'd already met most of Li's friends, as we get together for crafternoons, AKA gossip and cake.) Rory's three years older than me, and some of his friends have children. So of them came to the party. Children! At one of my parties. I nearly spontaneously combusted. They were all very well behaved children, despite my vision of a horde of screaming, sticky-fingered monsters. I say "all" and "horde" like we were being overrun. But actually, before a baby arrived later in the afternoon, there were two.
One was a ten year old girl, and once her mother prodded her to "tell Rhiannon what you're reading", I found I didn't mind they were there so much. This girl liked to read fantasy. She was reading Eragon, and liked books about witches and magic. I got up then and there and went to my bookshelves. I would have liked to throw several hundred books at her, but I started with one. My hands hovered over the Immortals quartet by Tamora Pierce, but something held me back. Those books are very to dear to me, and what if she didn't really like fantasy? I settled on the Wolf Tower books by Tanith Lee: funny, exciting, easy to love.
If I was guaranteed to have fantasy-book-loving, dance-class-attending offspring I'd happily procreate (eventually). But what if they're sticky-fingered whiny brats? What if they didn't like books? Perish the thought.
Also, something cool. I stumbled across this yesterday while I was Googling myself. I was actually trying to find a post I did on belly dance for Pirate Penguin. Honest I was.