Things

In the early days we used to sit down in the living room and watch you sleep. Though, to be perfectly honest, which I always am, when the circumstances warrant it, which is, I suppose, not exactly perfect honesty, you mostly cried. At this point in time it was not the sort of misting up that you associate with a particularly touching movie, or wonderful novel. No. It was more like squalling as though you had been pulled from a blissful place into entropic hell. As it turns out, my dear, you were probably not remiss in squalling.

But you see, in those first days, when your mother couldn't really get out of bed, and I was bent over you changing your diaper nearly in the act of praying, almost to you, as though you were a golden calf, hoping that you wouldn't scream. What I'm saying is, those days were hard. When you would close your eyes and scream at the world around you, at the profundity and absurdity of it, when you would flail with your arms and legs in a way that I was near certain would have taken you miles away had we just put you in water. So much quieter.

And darling, while we're here, me peering down at your balled up face turned scarlet in anger, we should probably talk about shi-. You see, in those first days you generally held on to your bowel movements, uncouth I know, until after I had removed your diaper. And then, generally at 4 A.M. or so, as your tiny dairy aire was lifted in the air to assure maximal cleaning, you would shi-, prodigiously, as though you sought to create a masterpiece of modern art on the walls of the nursery. This, you proclaimed, is the future of art. What I'm saying here now, my dear, is that I want to apologize for squelching your artistic creativity at such a tender age, for wiping off those marks that you thought were indelible from window and wall. But in truth, I don't miss those days. Art, my dear, has always been dying, or isn't it pretty to think so.