Babies are strange and other things

So, probably one of the most interesting things about having a child is watching their little brain develop. And when I say, watching their little brain develop, I want the emphasis to be on the little part. I mean, I can be sitting there carrying on a perfectly wonderful conversation with s.

M: Who's the baby?

s: Drools

M: Hi baby Sadie.

s: Cocks her head in a way that denotes irritation followed by a lowering her eyebrows in a way that might express confusion.

M: It's baby Sadie.

s: Stares over my shoulder at some bit of light.

M: Hi baby Sadie.

s: Staring at light.


And so on....This is pretty much the substance of most of our evenings. Even on a good night I know that I'm eventually going to lose out in her affections to our blingin' chandelier. I mean, how's a father supposed to compete with a giant retro chandelier? He can't. This is why I spend the majority of my time trying to emulate a pure beam of light. I always dress in yellow when I'm holding her, and I'm using glisten on my teeth to create the sort of shine that she's accustomed to.

Trying to get a babies attention is akin to getting the pretty girl to talk with you in high school. I mean, sure it might happen for a brief moment, and you're almost certain that the world is a beautiful place designed for your happiness when you suddenly realize that your conversation about what been assigned in English class is over and some guy who doesn't know the difference between commend and command is now sidling up to her while you drift away like so much smoke in the wind. Or something like that. I mean, a baby smiling at you is way more kick ass than some pretty girl.

Other things:

It turned out that all we ever wanted was to wander down dirty streets with someone we loved where the sun's relentless rays kept watch on our pale backs. We wanted to slip through the streets like ghosts. Wander until we reached some strange body of water, pale too, and green. We wanted to strip off our clothes and go swimming in that warm little bay in the middle of nowhere, and I wanted, I now, I wanted to do it with you.

And instead I find myself taking pictures of strangers, sun reddened and tired. Sometimes I might pretend that the people in the pictures are us. And one day, I even walked right up to a couple, British, I think, and I asked them if I could call them sometime in the future. I told them that we'd had a wonderful time, and the dear pleasant people acted like we've wanted everyone to act since we were but mere babes in our mother's arms, they acted like the oldest and best friends I'd ever had.
And we spent the afternoon in some dusty bar, drinking to what was left of our health. They were the closest thing in the world to angels. She, with her rotten British teeth, and he, with his razor sharp British wit. They were like characters in a story, this couple. And I wish you could have seen them. They assured me that they would have loved you, old Alec and Amy. But then again, the damn Brits haven't been right about anything in nearly 100 years. No. They'd have probably liked you as little as I should have, with your cold nasally laugh and pale shoulders. I confess that when we were done drinking, stumbling home through streets made of sand, the wind making patterns in the banyan leaves, I still found myself missing you, and I left those people we used to know and sat down for another drink, this time, pure rain.