The love I have for my child is vertiginous and wild. It is the eeriest and strangest sensation I have felt in a life of loving. I am undone. My wife told me last night that she loved our child more than me, and with great relief and joy, I told her the same. We’re going to be okay if we remember that shared value and let it guide us.
We live on the first floor so the garbage truck outside is really loud. To stop it bothering the baby, we’ve taken to cranking the white noise machine. On ocean setting, you can pretend the back up beeping is seagulls!
Spent a good half hour impersonating 70s sports broadcaster Howard Cosell interviewing my three day old child about their meteoric rise in Mexican football. Sometimes I threw an impression of Mohammed Ali into the mix, have him and Cosell make fun of each other back and forth. Good times.
You know, Atenea would never let me get away with it, but I still feel remiss that I didn’t name the kid Godzilla. Impressive! Vaguely religious! Strong! Gender Neutral!
They eat well, they sleep deeply, they shit and piss publicly and with goodwill, they make merry all day long. A baby is a rabelaisian figure. A tiny Falstaff.
Hey we kept the pregnancy off social media because social media sucks but my beautiful child was born on Friday! They and Atenea are doing great, though of course exhausted. Breastfeeding and being born is tough work! We got home yesterday.
I don’t know if that’s a common bourgeois experience or if Proust and I just both had hyper competent fathers who rescued us from our own screw ups for much of our lives
Like the part where he’s like “Maybe my father’s connections and competence can save me from my own inability to write and I’ll wake up one day a great writer cuz daddy saved me?” wowzers