Above the circle of the moon
New life steeped in spittle and excrement with a dash of Montaigne.
As you enter the ninth hour of sluicing milk fat into the quivering mouth of a one-week-old baby, the mind begins to wander.
You contemplate the things you’d rather be doing, the ideas you won’t have, the words you won’t write, the sights you won’t see. Because here you are: sitting awkwardly upright at 2am, backsore, holding a newborn in one hand and a bottle in the other.
You gape in slack-jawed focus on the singular task of shunting a slurry of breast milk, supplemental formula, and microplastic into the gut of this not-so-grateful infant. Your partner wearily sighs as the baby starts to scream again and you begin to think the cosmos are conspiring against you.
In moments of exhaustion-induced zen, you grow less resentful. You wonder, “Is this one of those purgatorial experiences where personal growth is disguised as a discomforting life phase?” Perhaps it’s a sort of “wax on, wax off” training, wherein you build some existential muscle as milkspit dribbles onto your crotch. Or maybe…
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