Friday, February 15, 2008
Il est cinq heures, Paris s'éveille
When you're going to become a parent for the first time, you're extremely joyfull and you can't wait to take that baby in your arms. But at the same time there's that nagging fear in the back of your head that something will go wrong during pregnancy. When the baby's born, it's a great relief for any parent that yes, the baby does have two arms and two legs and ten fingers and ten toes – not to mention the fact that he has a head and all that.
Even afterwards, you sometimes doubt whether his vision and hearing are all right, and you keep running over to the doctor's way too much 'just to be on the safe side'. Still, it's a great shock after all those months, to discover that my son has a genetic defect.
He is a morning person.
The blame is squarely on his mother, who is a morning person of the third degree. But even then, Wolf is taking it to the next level, making his mother wimper with despair when he announces that, yes, he is ready to take on the world. At 4.30 AM!
Of course, I let Mrs.B deal with it since she is the one who passed on the foul genes. Being a genuinely civilised evening person, I am physically unable to get up at that ghostly hour. My internal organs are in a state of hibernation so early in the morning. I run the risk of breaking a limb because certain parts of my brain that are responsible for stability and balance run on solar energy. My batteries last up until 3 in the morning, but then they have to recharge.
I mustn't blame all the boy's defects on his mother. Sadly, he has my hair. He will curse me for it at length when he becomes a teenager, like I cursed my father for handing me that unwieldy, sticky patch of dog's hair. Poor boy, he won't even realise then that it will only get worse once he gets older.
Genes, what can you do, eh?