I went on break when the baby was born, and didn’t come back. I think that’s indicative of some deeper character flaws that I should be trying to overcome. But here I am, still plugging away. I’ve secured a place in the February release of Wormhole Electric: but for the grace of the editor goeth I. I may have a spot writing for the metal fabrication industry as well, hinging largely on my ability to get off my backside and work it out with the business. With a little perseverance I’ll finish a few writing projects and set up the next, like a normal little wordsmith, and so-on. I just can’t seem to shake this coat of rust.
Much has happened since April; it would be a shameful misappropriation of this blog to try and re-cap it all in one post. The single most important piece is of course the baby. She was born on April 16 as expected, with zero complication. She is hale and strong and undoubtedly a product of superior genetic material. Is that geek-ese for “proud papa”? I hesitate to publicize any more particular details, because deep down I know the internet is a filthy, evil place full of gravity-wells that lead directly to Hastur’s upper butt-crack.
I will refer to Baby by the nickname that’s stuck: “Nana”, or, because her father is something of a cave-dweller: “Gnaw-gnaw”. And she certainly likes to gnaw. On everything. Including her papa.
Gnaw-gnaw has already been to Houston, TX, Irvine & San Diego, CA, driven up over the continental divide, and back to the sites where her parents were married and where she was conceived (that’s not weird, is it?). She’s a good sport about internal cranial pressure for the most part. Mostly. Well, okay, not really. But what baby likes this experience? I could be a baby apologist… no, I can’t be. This is life. Airlines seem to have it figured out: all the babies get loaded into the rear of the aircraft, where the engine noise is the loudest, all the parents can exchange those exhausted, knowing glances and half-smiles, and share the limited aisle space while they try to console the inconsolable.
I did this. One more sub-set of experiences crossed off the list of things to do before forty.