Split tomorrow from today

With just shy of four years as a parent on the books, I feel eminently qualified to make a declaration:

Parenthood, like money, doesn't change you so much as reveal who you really are, for better or for worse.

I'll give you an example! 

If over the past year you asked me how the baby was sleeping, you almost certainly received the following response: "Oh, hahahaha! We're hanging in there! You know how babies are!" I probably nervously changed the subject. You probably inferred that my nights were scream-filled hellscapes.

The thing is, though, that our second potato has been a good sleeper from jump and was sleeping reliably through the night by six months old. He has a knack for routine. Every evening, for months, GR or I would lay him down to sleep gingerly, expecting him to pop up hourly with eldritch wails. But every night, we'd all enjoy peaceful, unbroken hours of sleep.

So why was I so squirrely when people asked? It's because (as perhaps I explained to you, eyes darting, in hushed tones) babies thrive on jinxes. I know this to be true. Every parent of an infant lives in a Muppet Babies version of the Final Destination universe. If you say aloud accurate but naive things like, "He's never blown out his diaper" or "I think he's finally grown out of his biting phase" or "He takes great naps, actually," within the next 2–24 hours, you'll find yourself covered in poop and bite marks while your baby screams through his nap.

Parenthood, in other words, has brought to light an embarrassing personal truth: I deeply believe in jinxes. 

It doesn't line up with what I intellectually believe about myself, the universe, or causation. I think astrology is nonsense. I'm not fazed if I break a mirror. Blowing on dice obviously does nothing. While every thought and action may in some sense be infused with God's divinity, I still think it's folly to pray for anything and expect direct results. If you ask me if I'm superstitious, my impulse would be to say no. 

And yet—there's something about articulating your hopes out loud. I've knocked on wood for years, and at this point I feel like I have to admit, shruggingly, that it's not ironic. 

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On a related note, I'm leaning towards intentionally discontinuing my annual Predictions of Varying Certainty New Years' list-making tradition (granting that I've already informally discontinued it via truancy). I'm old enough—and now, admittedly, too superstitious—to go on tempting fate in such a way.