This past week I paid a visit to some friends in Kansas City and their newborn. I was excited for several reasons. First, I’ve been friends with this couple for several years and was present for the entirety of their courtship including the courthouse wedding. Second, this was the first birth amongst my friends that I did not secretly believe was the product of a half-hour deviation in birth control dosing and a quicky before work. Lastly, I’d seen pictures of the newborn and she was cute. It’s difficult be sincere when such is not the case, especially when juxtaposed with the new parent’s pride in such outstanding evidence of our evolutionary heritage.

“Isn’t he adorable?”
Large sip of rum and Coke made for the occasion.
“He’s really, really something”.

I was given some very minor responsibilities with respect to care of the child, most of which required light bouncing. For someone who hasn’t been around newborns much but is vaguely aware of things that are not good for them, being asked to “bounce” a 3-week old is a terrifying prospect. Sitting down on an exercise ball and looking past those unfocused gray eyes to the loosely held brain, I saw what I imagined was a complex network of delicate glass tubes, each containing a critical aspect of the child’s future.

“Is this OK,” I ask, sitting on the ball, not moving.
“Umm, you can bounce a little more.”
“How about this?” I’m now bouncing on the ball, but moving my arms 180° out of phase so as to cancel out the motion of the baby.
“It’s OK, I’ll take her.”

As it turned out, the child seemed to enjoy being in my care. I credit this to now being strung somewhat less tightly than a piano wire, which dogs and babies can smell. I’ve discovered several keys to my relaxed demeanor, including 10 hours a day of rigorous physical/mental activity, a strict diet, Wi-Fi, and triple ply toilet paper. Watching Mom and Dad time-manage to the extreme (breast-pumping while making a sandwich and dictating computer code) I became aware that my personal maintenance requirements would need to be radically trimmed before I could think about caring for an infant. This was driven home by the distressing updates I received regarding the health of my succulents back home, which I cared for enough to name but not enough to put in the sun. I’m confident that I’ll be able to breathe some life into them when I get home and start caring again for my baby, a fetal PhD.