Your emerging personality

You’re six weeks old, and this is what I notice about you so far:

You have no shame in peeing on our guests. You pee when you want to, where you want to, and on anyone you want to. You pee on me, and you even pee on yourself. Devil may care. Pee and be damned.

You are not afraid of strange bearded men in dark robes, the rabbis we brought over to the house to conduct the Pidayon Ha’Ben ceremony. You were not in awe. You farted right in their faces.

When you sleep, you stretch your arms out above your head, like a boxer after victory, like a champ – confident and imperious – staking your territory. You’re not afraid. Do not disturb.

You have my anger. It’s quick and nasty until you get what it is you’re after. Mostly it’s your mother’s nipple. I know how you feel man. Hang in there.

You love going head-to-head.

Like Winston Churchill.


You’re smart and resourceful: you’ve figured out how to feed yourself; no hands. You clearly crave independence and freedom.

You’re little, but you have charisma, confidence, strength and courage. Like a Jedi.

But you’re not all tough and cunning. You love being massaged, you love bathing in warm water, you love being bounced, and you love being held.

I love you. Stay just as you are.

Father’s Day

My son, it will be many years until you read this, and probably some years after that still until you fully understand what’s written here.

I write to you from outside of time – so that in the future you will know me as I am now, and not just as I am then.  I’m addressing you as the man you will be, with God’s help.

My son, we cannot know the future, we can only live in the moment. Not very long ago my heart broke, literally and figuratively, but Your Mother saved me, literally and figuratively, and God gave me a second chance at life, literally and figuratively.

I didn’t stay down for long. One mustn’t stay down for too long.

I took my second chance gratefully, as one must be grateful everyday for the gift of one’s life. Remember that, live by it, it’s very important.

I’m stronger now, and wiser about my body, my food, my stress, my blood, my heart; I’m healthy, and happy.

But I cannot tell my future. The shock of a heart attack for a young man, for any man, goes deep; it is still with me, and the fear that it will happen again is never far away.  That’s the thing to remember about fear: it’s always there, but it is entirely your slave. You are entirely its master.

I try not to think of what was. Instead I think of the eternity in every moment that you and I share.

I look at Your Mother, and at our families and friends: I stay close to them and so must you – they are our angels.

I look at you, now one month old, and my heart… it…heals.

You melt me completely. You build me up completely.

When you fall asleep on my arm you make it ten times stronger.

When you lie on my chest it becomes a mountain.

When you wrap your hand around my finger no force in the universe can dislodge us.

I am father: giant, impenetrable, invincible, timeless, ageless, all seeing; cunning, determined, and when protecting you, utterly ruthless.

This is who I am now; this is whom you have made me.

So my son, thank you for this first father’s day.




You’re a cheap date

You’re such a cheap date.

Tonight Your Mother went off gallivanting with your grandma and aunt and left us men alone.

The cats were away and the mice were going to play.

I fed you. A whole bottle. An entire bottle of the best stuff.

Then I massaged you. With oil. A full body massage with oil. Both sides of your little body.

There was quiet Mozart in the background, to set the mood.

Then I bathed you, in warm, quiet water. 39 degrees, just the way you like it.

The music was still on in the background. We were just getting started.

I clothed you, put you on my shoulder, and started bouncing you on our favorite giant ball.

I whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

Daddy loves you. Daddy will always love you. I’m here. I’ll always be here.

And then, after all that wining, and dining, and massaging, and music, and sweet nothings…

You went out like a light.

I gave you some of my best stuff. I was hoping we could play a bit.

It’s ok though, daddy always liked cheap dates.

Goodnight my little man, see you in a few hours..

Your Mother

Your Mother says she doesn’t understand why I’m so tired all the time, as she’s the one that gets up most of the times at nights to feed you.

She says my tiredness is fake, and must be psychosomatic; yeah, I also don’t know what that means. Maybe she means soma-somatic, that would make more sense, no?

She should look these things up before she says them, she’s not a doctor, wouldn’t you agree?

In any case, you should know that I also get up to feed you at night, not as much as your mom does, of course, who could ever get up as much she does??

But I do wake up when you start squealing for food. I may sometimes fall back asleep straight away, but I do wake up, to make sure everything is, you know, in order.

Sometimes I get up just to look at you. I walk over to your cot, lower my face to just above yours, and hover there for a few minutes. Scanning every millimeter of your face. Lovingly stalking you, you might say.

And sometimes, get this, your mother is too tired to feed you in the middle of the night and she jabs me with her elbow, right in my ribs, sometimes also in my neck, and tells me to make you a bottle.

I take these midnight blows without complaining. I carry the bruises inside, quietly, as a man must.

So don’t believe her when she tells you, years from now, that I wasn’t really tired, and that I was involved in some complex psychological sleep conspiracy.

After all, who would you believe, someone like me, who takes the time to set out the truth here for you to see, and who takes blows for you, or someone like your mother, who doesn’t even write a blog?

Just saying.

Praying for Poop

My kingdom for your poop,

If you poop, daddy will buy you a pony, a race car, an aeroplane.

When you poop you are happy. Don’t you want to be happy?

Daddy will be happy if you poop. Don’t you want to make daddy happy?

Daddy and mommy feed you, bathe you, soothe you, caress you, kiss you a thousand blessings, bounce you on a big ball,

And all we ask in return is that you poop.

I know it’s hard. I know it’s new to you, and you’re still trying to figure out how to use your new body.

I see you trying, straining your little stomach muscles, pushing it down, trying to get it out. You try so hard.

But my son, here’s the secret: Like so much in life, you’ll learn, things happen easier when you relax, when you let them happen.

So poop my little man. Relax, and poop.

Because when you poop the angels smile, and all is good in our house.

Because when you poop we can all go to sleep. You love to sleep. We love to sleep. Everyone loves to sleep.

Poop my child.