Zen Baby Lessons

This week's issue of the New Yorker is the "Summer Fiction Issue," which I usually skip because I'm not really one for short stories. They are certainly the "writer's genre" of fiction, but I'm more for extended character development and expansive settings. However, I noticed that Jonathan Safran Foer had a story in this issue, and he's one of my favorites. ("Everything Is Illuminated" in particular, is fantastic.) So, thinking that short fiction lends itself well to BART rides, I embarked.

Now I might start reading short stories more often. Brief declarations alternating between first person, second person, and first person plural told the story of an entire relationship. Beautiful craftsmanship, and idiosyncratic usages... It made me very happy. I hope Mr. Foer won't mind that I excerpt it, but here is my favorite part: "When you screamed at no one, I sang to you. When you finally fell asleep, the nurse took him to bathe him, and, still sleeping, you reached out your arms." (You were wondering when I was going to get to babies, weren't you?) The funny thing is, that second sentence is probably the longest in the whole story. I like to think that is because birth is the most full experience we have: short sentences just won't cut it.

We had a family dinner at Tacubaya last night (one of my favorite Mexican restaurants). The food is excellent, and it's a baby-friendly kind of place. Amelia had fish tacos, and I had quesadillas with baked asparagus and goat cheese, with a Pacifico on the side. It really took me back to our trip to Mexico a couple of years ago. It's strange to think of those times Amelia and I had together before Jasper. Then again, it's strange to think of my time before Amelia, too. But, with a baby it's different. Looking back on all of our vacations, road trips, dates, and nights at home, I wonder why we didn't know to savor those moments. It takes having a baby to learn how valuable all the little moments and indulgences are.

Don't get me wrong, I love having Jasper around for everything we do now. I can't imagine our world without him. But if I had a time machine, I would go back and tell myself sitting at the pool bar in Puerto Escondido at ten at night, "Enjoy that shot of tequilla. Have another. You never know when a perfect moment like this will happen again." I'm sure I would have taken my advice and had another shot, but I wouldn't have understood.

Until next time,
Papa