Free At Last (until Finn wakes up)

Hoo-wee, babies sure do demand a lot of attention. Our own little diva (divo?) likes to keep me on my toes, making sure I don’t stray as far as the shower or kitchen to address my own cleanliness and sustenance needs. On the flipside, everytime I try to do the dishes, without fail, he starts to cry. I’m totally serious. This is not just me using the baby as an excuse to get out of cleaning. Really.

Advertisement

Color of the week: Red

The jury is slowly filing in, and red seems to be the emerging consensus as the color of Finn’s hair. It’s a good thing we didn’t name him Sven.

Red is also the color of the periodic scratches on his face from his razor-sharp fingernails. When we clip them, we simply create new sharp edges for him to self-mutilate with. So we end up mitting him regularly. Although that doesn’t stop him from hitting himself in the head. I hope he doesn’t have self-destructive tendencies.

One Hundred Hours of Solitude

Two weeks ago today my world changed. After a relatively quick and easy delivery, we welcomed our little boy into our family. I was surprised by the experience of labor and delivery, having expected the worst agony and trauma of my life and instead having only a few hours of pain followed by excited nervousness and a few quick pushes. (yes, I realize how lucky I am, don’t hate me). Even the afterpains were overshadowed by the joy of staring at my little guy and calling him by his name for the first time, or seeing him quiet in Patrick’s arms, searching his face like a long-lost friend.

The initial days passed in a blur of love and tenderness, of resting while grandmas cooed and husbands rushed around tending to every need. Meals were brought in by attentive and excited church members who wanted to meet the baby and offer their help. I felt supported and capable, intoxicated by the rush of love for this new person, excited to slip into the new role of motherhood, even foolishly romanticizing the nightfeedings when it would just be Finn and I bonding in the middle of the night as we rocked in silence.

Of Egyptian bureaucracy and birth certificates

Learning to be a father, with all the requisite tasks of changing diapers, feeding, bathing, holding, putting to sleep, indoctrinating with tales of Notre Dame football and Braves baseball, etc., has been my first great adventure this week. My second great adventure was tackling the Great Egyptian Bureaucracy to get Finn a birth certificate and make him, Pinocchio-like, a real little boy. Fortunately, I was joined in my adventure by our friend Clay, who’s here studying Arabic — it’s a good thing he came, or I would have been totally lost.