A parent's perfect friend

A parent's perfect friend is infinitely patient - like the perfect parent, they will put up with hours of crying, babbling nonesense, capriciousness, inconsistency and obstinance - all the while cheering for more... and they'll help with the child too.

A parent's perfect friend has a maginificiently exciting life with which to regale the bored parent, yet be available whenever the parent needs them, and never tired of hearing stories about the child's sleeping / eating / pooping schedule or lack thereof.

A parent's perfect friend will be independently wealthy, and thus available during weekdays and at 3am and able to treat the parent to lunch... somewhere with beautiful views and delicious food and safe play areas.

A parent's perfect friend will be seriously interested in spending stacks of time with a strung-out parent and their pre-verbal child, yet - of course - have no children of their own.

A parent's perfect friend is - clearly - imaginary. :)

Love

I am still without a post to write.  (Or, for that matter, a satisfactory pseudonym.  A current work-in-progress.)  In the moments between the physical, present and all-consuming work of child-care I have been indulging in profound and vague creative moods, thoughts and sometimes even entire sentences.  But for the moment they are not coalescing into the sort of paragraphs that would fit here.

Luckily another writer, the writer - Shakespeare himself - wrote some perfect words... on the subject - love.  These beautiful words are the ones that regularly haunt me throughout my experiences, witnessing and philosophies of love:

Sonnet CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.