Whitman boys.

I’m sorry if this comes off as trite, but no one warned me about the little ecstasies of being a dad. Actually, they did, but when one is not yet a parent such warnings sound like white noise.

Today, walking through Target, pushing The Gus in his stroller for the first time, I felt a surge of parental pride and responsibility. I stood up straighter, and was careful not to kick the back wheels of the stroller with my forward strides. And I knew that all the passersby were admiring The Gus, so solemn and watchful, and thinking, “He [that’s me] must be a very special and lucky young man to be gifted with such an obviously brilliant and gifted first-born.”

Did I mention that today while having his diaper changed The Gus plunged his heel and leg into his own poo? And that tiny flecks of it remained between his toes even after a thorough wiping down? And that purely by coincidence the dog licked that foot as though it were a delicious canine lollipop?

Pure gold.

Not the sleep deprivation. That part is mundane, pedestrian. How do people cope with living with A BABY THAT BECOMES CUTER EVERY DAY? My brain is turning to mush.

We are trying to take one small excursion out of the house every day. So far, The Gus has graced three different Starbucks outlets with his business. Today we go for four. He is a week old today.

Things that The Gus likes:

his car seat.

Starbucks.

delicious life-giving boob.

slurping on his hands.

Things that The Gus does not like:

being taken out of his car seat.

his co-sleeper.

the sensation of a baby wipe cleansing his butt of poo and other nastiness.

having socks on his hands to prevent him from scratching his face with his fingernails, which I still have not cut.

The scene: T’s sister HJ, who lives with us and is our unofficial and uncompensated part-time nanny, has an ex. He is O. We have known O for an awful long time, and he is swell. O came to pay homage to The Gus today. He did not bear frankincense and myrrh, but promises they are forthcoming. In any event, O has some siblings that are much, much younger, and as a tall large-handed person, he knows how to handle a baby. He twirled and rotated The Gus expertly while relating that he was always willing to change the diapers of his younger siblings, “so long as they weren’t poopy.” Soaked with urine? Sure! But poopy? Poopy diapers required the services of a parent.

So O was holding The Gus and looking into his wise, beatific eyes while explaining these sensible limits, when a sound, an evil sound, somewhere in the triangle delimited by the sounds of ripping canvas, chicken bones in a garbage disposer, and a pressure-flush toilet, emerged from TG’s diaper. Giggling, I took TG upstairs to the changing table, where he proceeded to fountain liquid poo onto the old diaper, the new diaper I was attempting to put on him, and the second replacement diaper. I was howling with laughter the whole time, because TG throughout wore a dispassionate, disconnected look of pure ennui. I got him rediapered, buttoned into a new outfit, and took him back downstairs to HJ, who held him for all of twenty seconds before she announced, “He’s peeing! He’s peeing all over his back!” All this as a yellow bloom of pee saturated the new outfit. More diapering, a new outfit.

The rest of my life is this kind of lowbrow comic gold. I’m just afraid Ben Stiller will end up playing me in the movie.

A precis:

Day 1: 11 hours of pitocin-induced labor. No change.

Day 2: 10 hours of pitocin-induced labor. No change.

Overnight 2: topical prostaglandin on Ye Olde Cervixxe.

Day 3: Artificial rupture of membranes. More pitocin. After 2 hours, real labor commences. After a further 2 hours, severe back labor commences. After 5 hours of backbreaking pain, an epidural provides some relief. 3 hours later, pushing begins. An hour and a half of determined pushing, and The Gus makes his appearance.

My wife is the toughest and bravest person I know. And The Gus is perfect. But I need to cut his nails.