Prodded

I received the most remarkable thing in the mail a few days ago: a letter. Not a bill, advertisement, magazine, or postcard. A real, handwritten letter. First, I was bemused, then amused, and then, at last, delighted, rejuvenated, and quite resoundingly prodded. I left this blog hanging on a dour note, for which I apologize. The autumn, as it often is for us, was difficult. Moods shift downward as our span of the sun's nourishing rays diminish. Troubles mount. There are dinners to plan, children to tend, and writings to write. And, alas, sometimes the dinners spoil, the children get wild, and the writing, well, the writing pauses, waiting for wistful moments of wonder and inspiration. Those moments, by the way, don't come. Not even when you bribe them. Trust me, I've tried. Instead of waiting then, I have found another piece of wisdom, of which the letter (mentioned above) reminded me. Be mindful. Do not wait, but mindfully work. Step by step. Inch by inch. If my infant son waited for the perfect moment to crawl, he'd never leave my lap. Instead he wobbles, wiggles, and does everything he can think to do (and that his clumsy, but terribly cute physical form will permit) to reach his goal. We don't walk from the womb, and we don't write without work, failure, and practice. Endless, aching practice. I have practiced. In my own quiet space, reveling in my own words, and terrified of sharing them, even the little ones with outsiders. There is something personal about one's writing, something embarrassing. Like underwear. Everyone knows you have it, but you don't really go around showing it off. Well, then, here is a bit of boxer, or brief, or, well, I think this metaphor has stretched sufficiently.

We spent a delightful Christmas here in Maryland. My parents, beloved abuela, and Fox's parents, brother, and we spent the weekend here in our little apartment, snacking on the cookies my mother lovingly prepared, and the dinner I hesitatingly offered. I cooked too much food. All agree, and so next year I must plan a different menu with more care to portions. Either that or invite more people. Part of me leans toward the latter, since I like food, and food in very great quantities seems a wonderful holiday tradition. Still, there is room for improvement and adjustment. After all, I didn't really need a ham the size of my Christmas turkey, did I?

Fox and I also attended the American Philological Association (APA) meeting in Philadelphia this year. The boys stayed with my parents in New York. A wonderful time was had by all. Fox and I dined at Alice's Tea Cup in Manhattan (Chapter II), and we spent far too much money on books in the APA's book room. The APA is good for many things. It prods, but for some reason not as effectively as the letter I received. There is something remarkably powerful about a personal letter. Perhaps it was always so, or perhaps it is a product of our instant, demanding society. I cannot say, but I loved receiving a letter. I have begun to compose my response, and I will send it out with Tuesday's mail. I, unlike my good friend, will type my letter. His handwriting stood the test of travel, but mine will not. It has devolved to the point where even I am hard-pressed to determine its meaning. My handwriting is a cipher, and I lack key cryptographic skills.

Kit is learning to crawl, and he has started to babble "da-da, da-da." This cheers my heart. He has also become a ravenous little creature, eating two or three times within the space of an hour. Only then will he settle for the night. Is it a growth spurt? Possibly. Whatever it is, it is impressive to watch. Where, I wonder, like a kid before a skilled magician, does he put it all?

Thorn is, well, two-and-a-half. "No" is his favorite type of expression. He even yells at his computerized devices. "Press the button," one device says. "I don't have to," Thorn exclaims! Such are the shapes of his moods. Still, he is my happy, little man. Full of verve and life, bouncing like his much beloved Tigger. His vocabulary increases daily, and the fears I had that he would not speak, or would not speak well, are allayed.

Fox, well, I'll let Fox write her own update. This was mine. Time to close up shop.

Sparrow flies.

Toddler Theology

Today, Thorn and I prayed over a snack:

Me: Shall we pray?
Thorn: Ok!
Me: Say with me: God...
Thorn: God...
Me: Bless...
Thorn: Bless...
Me: Cookies!
Thorn: Cookies! No way! Silly God.

Thorn giggles, ascribing humor to God. "Silly God!" he repeats, wondering why I'm laughing so hard, but eager to get extra applause. Later, as I munch a few grainy, gluten-free squares with my boy, I consider Thorn's clarity of vision. Even though the first cultural constructions have already begun to box him, his mind is still amazingly unfettered. He sees nothing odd about pouring tea on his soy yogurt, calling his Latino soccer player doll "mommy," or praying for his uncle's dog's knee. It has been particularly interesting to me to see his theological development. What is God to a child?

Papa: Where is God?
Thorn: In the picture.
Papa: No...where is God?
Thorn: Oh no! Missin'.

Thorn has always seen Jesus in pictures, and the similarity in how he is portrayed allows Thorn to point out "God" whenever there's an image in his picture Bible, framed on the wall, or in Sunday school. (Amusingly enough, the similarity is less in skin color and more in the white robe and red sash.) For Thorn, God has a definite shape. God is also a person, because Thorn talks to God, and expects to be heard. How, then, can God be there when Thorn prays, but missing when he looks for a visible presence? Then again, we're talking about a kid who thinks he's invisible if he covers his eyes...

What are your own experiences with young children and God?

--

Addendum from the breakfast table (Thorn calls himself "Tah"):

Me: God loves Tah.
Thorn: God loves Tah so much.
Me: Where is God?
Thorn: God follow Tah home in car.
Me: From church?
Thorn: Uh huh. God see mommy from back chair.

Traveling With Thorn and Kit

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. My imaginings were terribly dismal. I envisioned hours trapped in a moving automobile with a screaming infant and a temperamental toddler. The four-hour drive to New York would last an eternity. I would live and die innumerable times before the New Jersey Turnpike released me.

It was not like that. Not at all. Well, there was a little screaming. But not as much as I feared. We made our first 'long' trip safely and securely, and it only took five hours.

My mother's birthday was Saturday, and as a gift, Fox and I decided to take the boys to New York for the festivities. Mom, Dad, and my grandmother had yet to meet little Kit face-to-face, owing to crazy schedules and my father's continued poor health. This was a wonderful opportunity, and so we took it. Fox and I had a bit of trepidation. We had mastered traveling with Thorn, or, rather, he had mastered traveling on his own, and we were the beneficiaries of his skills. Kit, on the other hand, is still in the stage where life revolves around naps and nipples. He is also not fond of the car seat, preferring warm arms and plenty of snuggling. Still, we wanted to do this, and determined we packed the car on Saturday morning and began the trip.

Kit did better than I could have imagined, and Thorn was perfect. He did not fuss. He did not complain or whine. He occupied himself with cars and trucks, and when automobiles lost their allure, he chatted with Fox and me. His conversational skill has improved dramatically. When he speaks of the cars he sees, or reads the letters on road signs, I am awestruck that less than a year ago his only words of note were 'dog' and 'dada'. So many words are spoken now, from simple things like 'book' to strange words like 'Narwhal'. And he gains more each day.

We had an excellent time in New York. Thorn enjoyed the cake that was made especially for him, and my mother seemed to have a marvelous birthday. Kit was adorable, and barely fussed at all. He traveled from one pair of loving hands to another, and was content in all. We left yesterday, and while the journey home was rougher than the journey to New York, I still have very little to complain about.

These boys were meant to travel. Next trip? Cincinnati.

Work Stations

Kit has...paused. He needs some serious sleep, owing to the fact that he hasn't slept since he woke up this morning at 6:50am. Oh sure, maybe he has closed his eyes for a few minutes. That's it. He demanded constant motion on the partof mommy. I hope he sleeps for three hours. And Thorn, for that matter. I need the break.

A long morning. An impossible morning, in fact, if it hadn't been for two things: Sparrow's adoring notes in the office and dining room, and work stations.

I've come to the conclusion that work stations are essential for any stay-at-home parent. Like we keep toys in every room so as to amuse the boys, I keep some small bit of work in every room so as to make good use of time and limited energy. There are books in the bathroom, by the lamp in the living room, at my desk, and behind my pillow on the bed. My Christmas sock knitting project is on the coffee table. An ancient Greek textbook is currently at my desk, but it is usually at the dining room table by the omnipresent cup of tea. There are portable Greek flashcards to carry around with me. There's a handwritten journal near my daylight lamp. My story idea book follows me, but usually ends up in the office. And of course, the newly-minted sketchbook for character and map ideas. If I had all of these things at my desk, I'd never get any of them done. As it is, I can squeeze in an artistic-intellectual life around my toddler and baby. And that is the first step toward sanity, my friends.

Now to go and meditate until I feel normal again. And then to work on a problematic third chapter. I've playful thoughts in my mind that haven't had a chance to find paper. With mommy brain, it's quite possible they'll fly away before I capture them.

...or Kit could wake up. Arrrgh.

Getting to Know You

My eldest son, Thorn, is a whirlwind of personality. His imagination is vast. One moment he is driving his train-shaped bed on a journey to some personal dream space, the next he is lining up his cars in neat little rows, all the while chatting amiably with them, or with some invisible personage. This evening he dashed about, head cocked to one side, and engaged yet another invisible personage (this time far way) on an imaginary mobile call. Each day he surprises me with some clever new game or adorable delight. What is he thinking, I wonder, when he hunches over and swings his arms low? Is he a monkey? An old man? Me, after not enough sleep? I cannot always tell what he is doing, and certainly do not always know what he is saying. He is a cipher. I know him, and yet I don't. He is continuously reshaped. What he was yesterday, he will not be tomorrow. Like the proverbial river, I am faced with a new Thorn each time I see him. I love it. Watching as he grows, and stretches his mind to wrap it around some new concept, as words, both comprehensible and not, tumble from his toddler lips, is a tremendous joy. He makes me smile. He makes me laugh. I wonder what he'll be tomorrow, what journey we'll go on, and where our day will end. Oh, fatherhood, I do love you.

Fatherhood 2.0

I never thought I'd ever be a dad. Children were a mystery to me. I kept them at arms length, even those cousins who might have been dear. I had no sense of their language. They were utterly foreign, and utterly incomprehensible because of their alienness. When Fox and I decided to have a child after four years of marriage, I was terrified. How could I be a dad? I'd never changed a diaper, never held a bottle, and had not the merest notion on how to communicate with a child. Then Thorn was born in the spring of 2009 and I was a dad. No schoolroom, no textbook, no certificate. Just me, a baby, and things that had to be done. I learned to change a diaper. And then I learned to change one quickly. I learned to hold a bottle, to burp an infant, and to settle one when he cries. I learned that I loved children, and that I could communicate with them, could speak to them, and could understand what they wanted to say to me. My son gave me that. He gave me fatherhood, and I am better because of it. Now, I am home. Thorn sleeps. I have tucked him in...twice. I have kissed his lips, his nose, his eyes, and his forehead just below the curls. Kit sleeps, too. My littlest son. My baby boy. He sleeps on my lap as I type this. I am a father for the second time, and I have come to understand at last how much fatherhood has given me. I do not think it has made me wiser, though I hope it will. It has given me more patience. It has given me more stability. Fatherhood has given me eyes to childhood, and to a whole language that I thought would always be barred to my understanding. Thorn's curiosity in the smallest details. Kit's little face when he frowns at a too-bright light. These things bring enlightenment. These things bring contentment. I don't know how my work will go, or what tomorrow will bring, but I do not that tonight I am a father, and that feels very, very good to me.

Kitling

He is here. Two weeks of waiting, worrying, and wondering all fulfilled in a little, healthy, baby boy. Kit was born this morning at 10:07 am. He was delivered by Cesarean section by Doctor D., and by all accounts it was a successful and uncomplicated operation. Kit was 6 lbs and 12 oz at birth. Now, he sleeps comfortably in the maternity wing's nursery. He is bundled tightly in a blanket beribboned with pink and blue stripes. To my eyes, he looks just like his mother. Same nose. Same lips. Same troubled frown.

Fox sleeps. She has needed to for hours, but excitement kept her awake. Now while Kit is cared for, she can rest, and begin the arduous task of recuperation. Our nurses continue to be excellent, and our physicians the very best that one could hope to have. The family has received word of Kit's birth, and the glory of Facebook has spread it around. My paternal tasks for the first day are done.

I now await the pediatrician's arrival. He is going to give Kit a physical, and then I can ask him about my other baby: Thorn. Poor Thorn - yesterday he came down with something nasty, and the folks at the clinic prescribed an antibiotic. Alas, the medicine was worse than the illness, and Thorn's grandmother called me today, letting me know that he was having quite a bit of abdominal stress. We stopped the meds, but we need the pediatrician's guidance on what to do now. We shall see what he has to say. Good things, I hope.

For now, while Fox sleeps, this Sparrow will watch his Kit through the nursery window. He sleeps sweetly, and I love him already.

Seeing Kit

When a friend's mother told us that you can begin to tell how different your children will be while they are still in the womb, I did not really believe her. How much personality could there be in a being confined to a uterus, lost in darkness, listening to otherworldly sounds from outside? Well, I find myself changing my mind after our most recent ultrasound of Kit. Perhaps it is coincidence? Maybe random chance. I cannot discount that, but the ultrasound experiences that I have had with my two sons are strikingly different. Thorn was bold, always visible on the screen, hamming it up (or so it seemed) for his parental audience. Kit is reticent, hiding his face. When we saw Thorn on the monitor, we were able to detect the slightest of clefts in his little chin. Not so with Kit. We have never seen his face. He hides it away whenever we come looking. I cannot say yet what this will mean once he arrives in our bright world, but I do begin to wonder about the origins of personality. What do we bring with us as we grow from two cells?

A Thorny Week

Thorn is in bed, though not asleep. Some nights, if he is particularly cheery, he'll sing the "dadada" song, a vaguely verbalized homage to the old man, before he goes to sleep. This may be coupled with coos and vrooms as cars get in on the action. Not that I give him cars to sleep with, but one always ends up in the bed. Maybe toys do move when you're not looking...

It has been a momentous week for little Thorn. He has grown gastronomically and verbally.

As you may know, our child is a picky eater which, when compounded with his many allergies, makes Sparrow and I nervous wrecks at mealtime. Thorn will eat any green vegetable and all sorts of veggie-derived milk products, but it has been an uphill struggle to get him to eat fruit and meat. This week, as always, we tried a few new contenders. Not only did we discover he will eat kale like candy, but that he'll eat chicken if it is made succulent through Sparrow's genius. Coupled with jerky, Thorn is actually getting a non-soy protein for once! Another problem was solved in the fruit arena: red pears are apparently wonderful. Poor kid thought an apple I was cutting up today was a red pear. I should say poor me, because I got to clean up the results!

Even more exciting for us was Thorn's sudden verbalization of two new words this week. His first two-syllable word, "nummy," applies to all non-liquid food, and he now uses it a thousand times a day. A differentiation much appreciated! Even better was his sudden identification of me as "mama" this morning. I had begun to wonder how much longer I would be "dad" or a noncommittal grunt. I'd almost given up, but Sparrow was diligent, and it was he who got the precious "mama" out of Thorn's mouth. Preen, Sparrow, preen.

We took Thorn out today to our 13 week prenatal appointment. He was very charming, offering all and sundry items from his bag of gluten-free Cheerio alternatives. He sat between my legs and watched Dr. B curiously as she rubbed down my abdomen with various instruments to find the Raspbaby's heartbeat. These were ultimately to no avail. We were sent downstairs for a sonogram. While an active, headstanding Raspbaby was a great relief for Sparrow and I, such an image did not impress Thorn in the slightest. The bright red biohazard box did, though.

Afterward, even though we were getting into his naptime, we went to Red Robin, which Thorn loved. He watched everyone come and go, rocking and pointing at the enormous carousel horse decorations. The only food he can have much of there are the fries, but he did tolerable justice to them. I feel as though I am projecting the image of a bad mother, with my son sitting there eating fries with water. I want to explain to every passing frown that he's actually thin for his height. That he eats asparagus at home! Ah well. Strangers had best forgive what they don't know.

Winter Weather

Classes started at the University this week. Or, I should say, they were scheduled to start. The blanketing of snow that has turned the lot behind our apartment building into a winter wonderland (complete with bounding deer and comic squirrels) also managed to get most of my classes cancelled this week. I taught one section of the Women and Gender in the Classical World course, but did not have the opportunity to launch either The Roman Republic or The Roman World courses. In lieu of actual start-ups, I've decided to record some podcasts explaining the syllabus and my expectations. This way I won't lose valuable class time. I must cut out so much in order to fit the courses into the semester, I'd hate to lose another day and have even less time for actual, historical content. I downloaded Audacity, a bit of freeware that I hope will help me make decent-sounding podcasts. I tried to use the built-in software that came with my laptop, but it picked up too much background noise, and there was no way to edit around it. I haven't given the software a try yet, but I'll plug in my mic tomorrow and have at it.

On the home front, Thorn is better, but Fox is still ill. They both have antibiotics. Thorn started his first, and so that is probably the reason for his improved health. Fox started hers yesterday, and, as Jase-Ra tells me, she should feel better by tomorrow evening -- that being after the requisite 40-hour period. I felt a bit ill this morning, but I think it is the lack of sleep catching up with me. I slept very well last night, but I think I still need a bit more rest after the late nights this past week. Semester's start always leaves me wired, and I can never settle my mind down at a decent hour.

My father had surgery this week. He'd been suffering from CTS (Carpal Tunnel Syndrome), and the pain in his right arm was excruciating. The operation went well (according to the surgeon) and dad's home recovering.

Finally, I made another breakthrough on the dissertation, but as it is still rather raw, I'll wait to post on it. It was, however, relatively momentous for me, and so I couldn't let me news roundup end without a mention.

This weekend we are staying home, although maybe tomorrow we'll dash over to the nearby Barnes & Noble. Thorn needs new books. If I have to read Go, Dog. Go! one more time, I think I'll lose what is left of my addled mind.

The Fatherhood Saga

Thorn was born in May of 2009. He will be 20-months old a week from tomorrow. It isn't a lot of time. My own lifetime encompasses over 330 months, after all. And yet, it is as if I've lived through several lifetimes with my child. He changes so much from week to week, and sometimes even from day to day. At first he slept, ate, and evacuated. That was all. Life was simple, though we didn't get much sleep. Then he started to move a bit more, to pay attention whenever he was awake, and to make gurgling and giggling sounds. Now, of course, he walks, he runs, he climbs, he jumps and dives, he tosses balls (and can even catch them with a little coaching and some parental finagling), and he follows directions when it suits him to do so. He doesn't speak much. Only a few words. He prefers to use gestures. Dozens of gestures, and they grow more complicated daily. I'm having a hard time interpreting them now, which I suppose is when the language gears will jump, as he finds it necessary to communicate with me. Still, I am fascinated by his non-verbal, linguistic talents. I wonder if these gestures will fade away as words replace them, and if so, will I remember them in the days and years that (I hope) stretch before us? We want our children to grow up so that our work is less and our pleasure greater. We want to be able to communicate with them. But I will miss parts of this time. I will miss the hand motions, the pointing, and the elaborate physical twists that Thorn uses to try to convey messages to me. I will miss the excitement he gets when given his bottle, the little happy dance that makes me feel warm deep in my heart.

I do hope you grow up, but not too quickly, little Thorn, not too quickly at all.    

Loving Thorn

I can scarce remember last September.

Was it cold? Did I have a lot of work?

It was the first September of life with Thorn. I thought, during the long nights and the frantic days, that we had a new status quo, and that life would eventually settle into a new pattern. I was wrong. Life didn't settle, and the status quo kept changing. In fact, it is still changing. What was true yesterday is not true today, and so I'm living in my own personal version of the post-modern universe.

What is truth?

Something I'm daily discovering anew.

Life with Thorn is wondrous. It remains frantic, though not nearly as much as last year. And he is changing. He is bigger, of course. He has more hair. But that doesn't impact as much as the little personality that is rising in him. He isn't saying very much beyond 'dad' (of which I'm still inordinately pleased) and 'dog' (which is now beginning to settle on the correct species rather than all animals), but he understands. He learns quickly. If you show him something, like how to put a block in a slot, or how to turn pages, flip cards, open cans, or stack boxes, he replicates your actions. When left to his own devices, he will eventually figure out how to get through most barriers and locks that bar his way. He will not be contained. He likes certain things now. He loves books, dogs of all sorts, and dancing. He doesn't like having his diaper changed, but who can blame him. He has begun to imagine. Yesterday with Drake, Fox's brother and Thorn's uncle, he pretended to drink from a large, yellow cup. He knew there was no liquid inside, but he still made the slurping sound, still brought the cup to his lips. I know imagination of this sort does not seem remarkable, and in the fact that nearly every human being alive has this capacity it isn't, but to watch it begin -- to watch a child begin to separate and to play with the boundaries of the real and the fantasy is amazing.

Every day I look at our Thorn, and every day he surprises and delights me. What will you do next, my son? What dreams will you weave? What will I teach you? What will you teach me?

Goodnight Moon

Thorn, our 15-month old (on Saturday), went to bed clutching his copy of Goodnight Moon. He does not have a single toy or doll that he likes to accompany him into the realm of sleep and dreams, but he has never (as far as I'm aware) taken a book to bed before. I'm absolutely delighted. He wants to read every day, although, of course, reading consists in flipping rapidly through as many books as possible, but he loves the tome, he loves the images, and I think he will learn to love the words. My bibliophilic heart is warmed. I look forward so much to the years and the days and the hours that are ahead.

Fatherhood: The First Hour

Thorn will be a year old at the end of May.

A year ago, when Fox was nearing the end of her pregnancy, when the fateful moment was weeks and not months away, I made a decision. I decided that I would capture the memories of my first year of fatherhood in a special journal, and then I would share the best parts with whoever would listen. I chose a happy blue journal--we knew Thorn was a boy, and so blue seemed only fitting. Affixed to the front was a lacquer turtle, and, because it was cute, it fit with the sentiment of a father's journal about his son. My pen scratched in some small details of the day Thorn was born, but the rest of the journal is bare.

I never understood how much work it was to raise a child. I knew, of course, that it was work, but the time, the hours, the exhaustion…these were things about which I possessed no accurate sense. I have spent a little time beating myself up for not keeping to my original plan. But that type of self-indulgence just doesn't sit well for long. No, there is no point getting upset about work you haven't done. Don't cry over spilled milk. Clean it up. Dear friends, here is the beginning of that process.

---

Thorn entered the world eagerly. Weeks ahead of his due date, he decided to squirm his little body out into the bright light of his first day. Unfortunately, his attempts met with little success. Simply put, his head was too large and Fox's bones too delicate and slender. The most exceptional physician knew what to do, and so Fox and Thorn (still wriggling away, perhaps aware that his moments in the womb were swiftly departing) were ushered off to the nearby operating room. Never before in my life had I observed a crew of people move so quickly and so calmly. I, alas, was anything but calm. C-section. Surgery. They were going to cut open my love, and she was out the door before I had time to get the green frock they'd tossed in my direction over my head. I did manage to get garbed. Many thanks are owed to my mother-in-law, who maintained her serenity when I had lost mine to the rush and the winds. The pants were several sizes too large, and so I had to hold up the ensemble with one hand. For minutes (exceedingly long minutes) I waited just outside the operating room. A nurse eventually arrived to convey me to Fox's side. The operating room was small. A huge curtain had been raised above Fox's midsection. The anesthesiologist sat by her head. His small corner of the room was filled with enormous machines that hissed and whistled as they pumped merrily away at their appointed tasks. Another nurse, or perhaps the same who led me in, provided me a folding chair. I sat down, my legs trembling, my breath short, and my heart pounding. The surgery had already started. I could hear it, though blessedly, I couldn't see it. Fox and I comforted one another as best we could, as the most exceptional physician did her work.

We knew the baby was out before we heard him. There is this terrible and intense moment, when, blinded by the curtain, you cannot see the babe they've pulled from your love. You wait, counting heartbeats, straining to hear a breath, a cry, a squeal, anything to confirm that your child is healthy--that your child is alive. There is a sound that comes first, a strange suctioning sound, and then, finally, you hear the intake of breath and the cry. Loud. Throaty. Indignant. Little Thorn wailed to the world that he had arrived and that he didn't think it was as great as he hoped. No doubt it was too bright, too cold, and too crowded with strange and mysterious folk garbed in sterile greens and blues. Thorn was cleaned, placed in a plastic bed atop a cart, and then wheeled over where we got our first look.

He was thin. His long limbs of bone thrashed about while the nurses measured, poked, and prodded to see if all was well. All was well. I think I cried a little, and I kissed Fox, and she kissed me. We were parents. Here was our child. He was red and distressed. His skin was wrinkled and filmy. And yet, he was beautiful.

The most excellent physician restored Fox's body to its closed state, and then they once more wheeled my love away. I remained behind to stand as a witness to the marking of my child. Hospital rules require that each parent and child receive wrist-bands that indicate you belong together. These bands come off only on the day you take your baby home. Fox needed to be in post-surgical recovery, and so I stood, jittery, dancing from foot to foot, as the nurses took samples of blood from Thorn's foot, and then placed identical tags on each of us. I got my first good look at him. He was well-formed. A strong torso and the lungs to inhabit it extended into four bony limbs that twitched and flailed passionately. He had hematite eyes -- I will never forget them, though now they've gone, replaced by browns and lighter grays. His skin was warm and dry when I touched him. I was not permitted to hold him yet, but I longed to. He was my son. My boy. My firstborn. Together, once he was tagged, diapered, and bundled, we went to find his mother in recovery.

I thought the most stressful time was behind me.

Silly me.

---


More on Fatherhood in a later installment.

Tooth? No, Teeth

Thorn is eight-months old today. In that time he has learned to crawl, learned to say "Dad", "Da-da", "daddy", "ma", "mom", and "goo", though only "goo" and "da-da" with any regularity, learned to hold his own bottle, and has mastered the technique of getting his parents to pick up after him, which, I imagine, will have terrible ramifications later. But, what has got our attention piqued this week has been the appearance of a tooth, which, today, became the appearance of teeth. Tristan's two bottom central incisors have appeared. This has made his teething worse, naturally, and his sleep cycle is less a cycle and more a series of kick-filled naps. But we have teeth! Little, ridgy baby teeth. To think that a year ago we were still imagining what he eyes would look like...

Food News

Today we have seen a converging of events, so it seemed the best time to write a blog entry. This way, if some of the information is tedious, I'll be too busy going onto the next item for you to get bored. How considerate of me. Really.

Thorn will be eight months in two days. He's right on target, leaping over his baby milestones one at a time. He crawls, he babbles ("dad" is still his favorite word), and he's eating solid foods with only an occasional raspberry splatter. Today, I gave him his first bite of meat, which smelled of dog food but didn't taste awful (yes, I taste His Highness's food first). Having secured the viscous pink goo in his mouth, I sat back to see what would happen. After a pause in which he rolled the stuff around his tongue, he closed his eyes and shuddered. Seeing as I've read so many Pearl S. Buck novels lately, the first thing I thought was, "Heavens! He's a Buddhist!" I've since come to my senses and mixed the chicken with vegetables. Now he's fine. He wasn't a Buddhist; he was a gourmet.

Thorn is also about to secure another milestone, too: today, having felt Thorn's gums, Sparrow exclaimed, "I think we'll be seeing a tooth soon!" His words were prophetic, for pulling back Thorn's lower lip revealed a tiny ridge of white. This, of course, touched my alter ego (who, for those uninitiated, is a rather flamboyant fey thing), who instantly began to wonder what color Thorn's toothbrush should be. I think he might be settling on orange.

In other news, I put on my engagement ring today. It fit. Breastfeeding is the best diet ever.

Homecoming

Thorn and Fox returned from Florida this afternoon. Meeting them at the airport was one of the happiest things I've ever done. I thought my boy would cry when he saw me. I thought I would have become a "stranger" to him, but I hadn't. He didn't know me right away, but he soon figured out who I was. He held my face, touched my beard, and eventually gave me one of his shy smiles. This evening I got a much larger smile when I smiled at him, and I even made him laugh a few times. It was only ten days, but it felt longer. I don't think I could have handled more than ten days. I barely made it through the ten. I used to imagine myself a lonesome fellow. I used to think I'd live alone more readily than with someone, but I've been with Fox for ten years now, and I am just not a complete person when she isn't around. I'm like someone in a shadow world, shuffling along, not sure of anything, confused, dazed. I'm glad she's back, and I'm glad Thorn is back. The work increases now, but it is good work, welcome work. Vitam meam amo.

Tormented Face

Our son struggles against his bonds: his swaddle, which I have re-fixed for the eighth time tonight. He struggles because he wants to scratch his face, where pinpricks of blood mingle with interstitial fluid in a haphazard brickwork of red upon red. The creams I have applied, the ointments with which I have slathered his face -- these do nothing to keep him from his suffering. There is an itch to scratch, and the more he scratches it, the worse it will become. Or he won’t scratch it -- by some miracle I will manage to stay awake through the night, holding his hands down in their swaths of cotton -- but it will begin again tomorrow.

His face looks better. It ought to be better. He only wears cotton, now, which has been laundered and double-rinsed. He gets soaking lukewarm baths every day, and facial washings several times a day. He only drinks my milk, from which I have removed every trace of dairy from my diet -- why must it take weeks to remove the traces from his body? Why must the almighty cow -- a benign-looking, silly beast -- attack his skin so terribly?

How am I supposed to sleep? A moment could have his hands free; a moment could have him dragging blood-glazed gloves across his cheeks. How am I supposed to sleep? His head rocks back and forth. We used to think he was fighting sleep: now we know he’s trying to scratch his cheeks by rubbing his head against the mattress. How am I supposed to sleep? My son suffers, and he does not have the capacity to reason through it.

His eyes are crinkled with tiny blisters and sleeplessness. He opens them, sometimes, and stares at me when I breathe cool air upon his broken face. Too tired to smile at the relief. He knows too early that life means suffering. Or maybe he doesn’t think he suffers: maybe he already considers this normal, as I did with my persistent allergies. A tissue in every pocket, every room. My allergies, which gave him his eczema.

4:59 am

I have a new appreciation for five o'clock in the morning. Once, and not so long ago, I considered it a benighted part of the day. If awoken anywhere even remotely near five, I would grumble bitterly, cursing my ill fortune. Since Thorn's birth, however, five o'clock has become a glorious time. I am effusive at five. Ecstatic. I sometimes even do a little dance.

Why so joyous?

My waking at five these past two weeks has been a direct result of Thorn sleeping "through" the night. Sometimes we get five straight hours of sleep now, but most of the time it is closer to seven. How delightful. How marvelous.

I never thought I could appreciate seven hours of sleep as much as I do. I don't think you can unless your sleep is interrupted every hour or every two hours for a few months (or, if you happen to be a chronic insomniac). My earlier sleep patterns (eight to ten hours at a stretch) were, I now realize, tantamount to receiving one of Hera's golden apples.* Utterly priceless.

But, aside from all of my frivolity, this is also a milestone for Thorn. He's growing up. Quickly. He's beginning to "talk," and smile, and hold his head up without support. Every day something new, and now that the days begin so much earlier, I have more time to enjoy it all.

* We moderns don't use mythological references enough. Time for that to change.