I Love You But

I love you but you’re boring.
same old wriggle
same old fuss.
humdrum humdrum
nappiesful of tedium.
Read More

He is (not) a Project

There are parents for whom a baby is but a project. The goal is the perfect child and each meal, teaching, toy and urging is a bullet point on a decades-long to-do list. There is love. But the mood of…
Read More


Music is a parent’s cure-all. I play music or sing or hum to entertain (him), engage (him), distract or sedate (us both). I cannot sing well so mostly I sing-talk. Lilting, running commentary like: This is a sock And this…
Read More

In His Dreams

He is one day old and asleep. His face is calm and healthy pink. Now REM-charged eyeballs pulse his eyelids and he frowns, his brow tensed, grown-up and troubled, now the tension releases quick as an archer’s bow and his…
Read More

A Step-by-step Guide to Calming a Fussy Baby

Insert milk. Not hungry? Sniff butt. Diaper smells fine? Change position. A baby’s digestive system is manual not automatic—often a simple tilt, shift, rub, or stretch will help the milk and air on their way. That made it worse? Ah…
Read More

More With Less

Our child is here and so is the life of more with less. More errands, necessity, urgency. More love required. Less time, energy, choice. Less control and space.  Before our son was born I feared these conditions. Can I be…
Read More

Getting Some Sleep

“I hope you’re getting some sleep” is the polite and expected thing to say to a new parent. It’s spoken as a sympathetic punchline. It’s “I hope you stay warm out there” chirped to someone who has to work all…
Read More

He Is Testing Me

It’s funny the first time.  You’ve wiped and dried your baby and applied a soothing teatree oil spritz to their undercarriage. You say something cute like “there you go, nice and clean, little pudding”, as you unfold a crisp nappy.…
Read More

His Eyes are Becoming

Nine days old and I still can’t tell the colour of his eyes. In his olive-green jumpsuit, they’re most certainly green. Sometimes I spot veins of caramel and gold—they’re hazel. When his mood turns his eyes are infinite black. They…
Read More

He Is Born

Compacted, pickled and purple, cradled by our doctor whom I’ve come to know by her lip-chewing, head-tilting inspections between each round of pushing, as though contemplating a chess board, as the Grandmaster. Our boy is trussed up in his cord.…
Read More