La Familia

As a bloated corpse is to the buzzard, so a newborn is to the in-laws. Baby came home on a Friday, and by Sunday, the relatives had occupied both spare beds, spilled out into a hotel, and were spending all day every day drifting in slow, expectant circles around the papasan . Shoes fill the vestibule, suitcases liter the guest room, and the pantry is full of items that I don't recognize and won't eat.

In principle, having a few extra hands around for the first few days after birth seemed a great idea, partly in the spirit of 'it takes a village to raise a child', and partly because Catalina and I are so wretchedly ignorant about the most elementary aspects of child rearing. In fact, it is proving something of a headache, in spite of the fact that I enjoy my inlaws' company and, in normal circumstances, would be pleased to have them around. What ends up happening is that we lose sleep on two counts, one because of the baby, and two because of the weird, unspoken social pressure to 'hang out' with the family. Add to this sleep deprivation low-level but surprisingly intense struggles of will about how Zoogle ought to be dressed, bathed, fed, and put to sleep (it's curious how our total ignorance in no way stops us from harboring strong opinions) and what emerges is an exhausting blend of physical, social, and emotional stresses.

On the other hand: Francisco has done dishes almost every night. He has also proved a champion baby-quieter, even going so far as to share his secret Paseo de Camello with me, a proprietary step whose placative properties undo even the fussiest of babies. Juana has worked magic in the kitchen, treating us to a spectacular brunch that included homemade cinnemon rolls, hollandaise sauce, and poached eggs. And Beatriz has cleaned the house: aggessively, relentlessly, repeatedly.

Parenthood is reputed to serve as a catalyst for wisdom: something about how assuming total responsibility for a new lifeform puts all that youthful, obsessive concern for our own lives in telling evolutionary perspective. But I am beginning to see that even beyond basic biological continuity, even beyond the notion of 'link' and the telling implications for individuation, lies the notion of the organic power in small social networks. The relatives will come. And not only am I powerless to structure the form and magnitude of their presence, I find, in the end, that I welcome it, that in spite of the chaos and tears and lost sleep, the strained silence between two divorced parents out-cooing one another over that strange, Gallapagoid creature in the crib, the periodic surging impatience on Catalina's face, the exhaustion of needing to talk, that somehow, in the center of this strain beats the Heart of the Species. I resist the family, I accept the family, I am the family.

If only I could now find out who made off with the measuring cups....