The Curious family—Big Brother T, Dr-Mrs-Dr. Curious, and I—were thrilled to welcome our new daughter, Baby S, to the world this past weekend. She arrived via a single gargantuan push, as second children are wont to do, while I stared unhelpfully in anticipation—my only job, to call out the baby’s sex for mommy, forgotten in the joy of the moment. Baby is doing great, and mom is doing “just great.”
The day of her birth, I lay her on my lap to hold our first staring contest. I win, as her eyes are mostly shut, and googly and unfocused when open. She is an engine of instinct and reflex for the next few weeks, designed by evolution to be irresistibly cute to adult humans. But one day she will smile at me, and that will change everything.
Before each of our children were born, I had formed a nascent image of them in my mind. Yet when they actually arrived, I gazed lovingly down at a lumpy red stranger with only vaguely familiar features. More, both of our children look strikingly unlike either of us. Perhaps our genes are a touch too well-blended.
No matter, because once we share a smile and a moment of eye contact, this feeling melts away; in the near future, I will have difficulty remembering a time before this little person was around.
I compose this fatigued and with a single hand, while a 3-day-old naps in the crook of my left arm. I hope it is intelligible. I wish you all a happy week. For us, it is time to nap, one and all.