In the early days of fatherhood, I found the moments where Bratzo was inconsolable troubling. Desperate to help the little guy through his early onset angst, I’d run through the mandated checklist: hungry, dirty, tired? But more often than not, there was no clear answer. (Although a gentle shaking seemed to hint disconcertingly that the course of action most forbidden might offer my only relief.)

This confusion got me thinking about the flip side. If every second with my son was cooing and kissing and lovey clinging, I’d sure as shit become a baby junkie in no time. I’d forsake all other stimuli. I’d cease to speak to the mother, quit work, throw away my phone; in short, I’d drop out of the world to spend my days hugging him. Recognizing that the love of a child is a dangerous drug snapped me from my new daddy reverie. With effort, I’ve forced myself to embrace his crying, to not question the mystery and take it for the sign it surely is. Now, at the slightest screech, like a dedicated martial artist, I take his energy for my own and leave the house. Often this leads to drinking with other fathers, but for the record, it’s all done with the best interest of the family in mind.


2 Responses to “THE MERITS OF BAWLING”

  1. Shawn Says:

    Sounds familiar, and of course all too fair.

  2. coco Says:

    yes trace, yes.

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