Posts Tagged ‘memories’
And like that — poof — I’m a father. Didn’t have to fill out a form. Didn’t have to get a license. Didn’t have to kill a wild boar with my spear and eat its still-beating heart. No test. No spirit quest. No nothing. The strange thing is, for the last several years now, Father’s Day has been something of a maudlin day for me.
“You’re building the walls of your own prison. And the baby, the baby is the warden. Oh, he’s a cherub-cheeked warden, all right. He’s cute. Chipmunk cheeks packing love and adorability the way real chipmunks store acorns. But don’t misunderstand. He’ll run you hard.”
I fucking love the farmer’s market. Sometimes, crazy shit happens at the farmer’s market. Maybe it’s something in the air. Maybe everybody’s goofy on rhubarb. No idea what it is, only that it is. This is a story of just such crazy shit. It is the story of the blue eggs, and the bitch chicken that lays them.
Benjamin Charles Wendig — aka “B-Dub,” or “The Little Dude” — is downstairs with Mom and Grandmom as I type this. Chilling out after the first feeding of the night. He’s cluster feeding, now, which means he likes to eat a lot in very short order. He’s like a shark the way he shakes his head and approaches the nipple.
“One day I hope that you look back upon this letter and realize that, despite the face of confidence I put forth, I actually don’t know anything about anything and that it’s okay that you don’t necessarily know anything about anything either, especially when the time comes to have a child of your own.”
