Eight weeks from shore
Baby care - it's a full time job. Actually, it's considerably more than that, given that it's 24/7 and that in civilised countries the working week is generally considered to be 37½ hours. That would make it 4½ full time jobs. And given that the US working week is 1½ civilised working-weeks, that makes six full time jobs between the two of us. Naturally, certain things have had to slide: meals have transitioned into snacks; sleep has transitioned into napping, sanity into borderline psychosis and social life into but a faint and vaguely unconvincing recollection. It is said that one gets used to having less sleep and this is true in the sense that one might get used to having one arm; repetition has a way of making every experience, however good or ill at first glance, mundanely normal after several attempts. It is, however, in the first and final analyses, effing hard work. Insomnia is particularly awful because it has a way of reproportioning the most trivial of issues into a matter of mortal significance; he makes irregular gurgling noises that keep you awake; then he falls silent and you worry that he's stopped breathing. So you get up to check, just in case, because although you are rationally aware that it is highly improbable that he's stopped breathing, you know you'd never forgive yourself if he had, and you had had a chance to revive him, but you didn't.
Luckily the human race has contrived to abide despite this by virtue of making one's own children unbelievably cute. Sometimes I feel my heart will burst I love him so much. He has, just this last week, begun to smile in direct response to external stimuli (rather than simply by chance) and the effect is absurdly charming. I had to this point held fast to the belief that the act of child-rearing amounts to little more than an extended voyage across the restless Ocean of Facticity, rashly embarked upon from the port of Angst after one too many rum and cokes with Captain Bad Faith in the salon. Actually I still believe this, although in my case I was actually press-ganged by Empress Fortune. As indeed are many others. Well, the sea is a cruel mistress, no need to remind you of that; but, very occasionally, even as one's hammock swings precariously at the crest of another breaker, one drifts away to an alternate vista of shuffleboard besides a glassy sea, perchance followed by a sundowner in a striped deck-chair and thence to fish-fingers and Ferrero Rocher at the Captain's table, whilst below decks a curious metaphysical engine converts all labour into the love by whose propulsion the vessel is magically transported, quite despite itself. Rather over-extended the metaphor there, but you get the drift.
After seven weeks - evidence of a smile! Actully he can do even better, but apparently not with a camera in his face. Understandable.
It would be fair to say that Rachel is having a very hard time of it right now. Psychically beam her all your loving thoughts! Also I feel the need to publicly acknowledge my undying gratitude to my mother-in-law, Linda, without whom I'm sure we'd both have been driven rudely against the rocky shoreline of Bonkersville, NJ long before now. (Turns out there was a bit more mileage in the shipping analogy, after all).
To give you an indication of the rather startling effect all this has on one’s psychology, I need do no more than cite an incident from earlier today. Rachel called me at work to let me know that Linda had volunteered to mind BF tonight and for logistical reasons she would also be staying over in Lake O. Much to my own surprise, my initial reaction was not to plan a night on the tiles, but rather to become somewhat teary with the notion that I would be denied the pleasure of the little fella's company çe soir. My second reaction was a rather whimsical plan to paint the town red. My third reaction was to reflect that I was perhaps rather tired and maybe an early night was not such a bad idea. My fourth reaction was apparently to pen this blog over a couple of hastily constructed quesadillas and a glass of bourbon.
My own mother remarked the other day that it is only when you have your own children that you realise what you mean to your parents. It's rather a humbling thought.
There you go, Simon - baby and proud father. I am particularly proud of the expression of effortless dignity he has assumed here despite being forced to wear his cousin's hand-me-down floral yellow onesy.
Luckily the human race has contrived to abide despite this by virtue of making one's own children unbelievably cute. Sometimes I feel my heart will burst I love him so much. He has, just this last week, begun to smile in direct response to external stimuli (rather than simply by chance) and the effect is absurdly charming. I had to this point held fast to the belief that the act of child-rearing amounts to little more than an extended voyage across the restless Ocean of Facticity, rashly embarked upon from the port of Angst after one too many rum and cokes with Captain Bad Faith in the salon. Actually I still believe this, although in my case I was actually press-ganged by Empress Fortune. As indeed are many others. Well, the sea is a cruel mistress, no need to remind you of that; but, very occasionally, even as one's hammock swings precariously at the crest of another breaker, one drifts away to an alternate vista of shuffleboard besides a glassy sea, perchance followed by a sundowner in a striped deck-chair and thence to fish-fingers and Ferrero Rocher at the Captain's table, whilst below decks a curious metaphysical engine converts all labour into the love by whose propulsion the vessel is magically transported, quite despite itself. Rather over-extended the metaphor there, but you get the drift.
After seven weeks - evidence of a smile! Actully he can do even better, but apparently not with a camera in his face. Understandable.
It would be fair to say that Rachel is having a very hard time of it right now. Psychically beam her all your loving thoughts! Also I feel the need to publicly acknowledge my undying gratitude to my mother-in-law, Linda, without whom I'm sure we'd both have been driven rudely against the rocky shoreline of Bonkersville, NJ long before now. (Turns out there was a bit more mileage in the shipping analogy, after all).
To give you an indication of the rather startling effect all this has on one’s psychology, I need do no more than cite an incident from earlier today. Rachel called me at work to let me know that Linda had volunteered to mind BF tonight and for logistical reasons she would also be staying over in Lake O. Much to my own surprise, my initial reaction was not to plan a night on the tiles, but rather to become somewhat teary with the notion that I would be denied the pleasure of the little fella's company çe soir. My second reaction was a rather whimsical plan to paint the town red. My third reaction was to reflect that I was perhaps rather tired and maybe an early night was not such a bad idea. My fourth reaction was apparently to pen this blog over a couple of hastily constructed quesadillas and a glass of bourbon.
My own mother remarked the other day that it is only when you have your own children that you realise what you mean to your parents. It's rather a humbling thought.
There you go, Simon - baby and proud father. I am particularly proud of the expression of effortless dignity he has assumed here despite being forced to wear his cousin's hand-me-down floral yellow onesy.
posted by Richard Tammar at 8:37 PM
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