Those of you who know me know that despite my often crass and callous exterior and my snide view of much of the world around me, there beats within my chest the heart of a truly opportunistic self-serving bastard. So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that when I first found out that I was to be a Dad for the second time, my second response was “thank God, more source material for the blogs”.

The first response, of course, was excitement with a tinge of anxiety thrown in. A different kind of anxiety, not the “oh wow, can I actually raise a human child without killing or physically/psychologically maiming it? I’ve killed forests worth of desktop-variety cactus plants, and¬†that¬†takes a certain type of talent!” kind. No, this was the “once more unto the breach, dear friends” variety, the fear of the known, which in its own way is just as insidious as its counterpart. (Nothing, for example, will raise the hair on the back of your neck like the sound of a baby crying at 3:00 a.m., which is why the good people at the Guantanamo Bay Inn play it at all hours for their, um, “guests”.)

But still, that was overshadowed by the prospect of another little one in the house, and I will say that I was and still am thrilled that she was a she. Babies are fun, even when they are not, and writing about babies is fun, especially when they are not. Plus, having a second child gives things a sense of completeness – Beth and I are both older siblings, and it seems right that Lucas is now one as well. It is, as the kids say, all shades of good.

Except that I’m as tired as a blog post about poopy diapers. I forgot about that part; I didn’t actually start blogging about Lucas until he was a few months old and we were all sleeping through the night. I’m not sure I could have done it. Pre-Zoe me would get up at 5:30 a.m., go surfing for an hour, work until 5:00 p.m., come home, fix a killer meal for the family, play with Lucas and the dog, maybe take everyone to Barnes and Noble and peruse the History and Literature sections, come home and watch TV and read and write, hit the sack at 11:00, repeat. The past two weeks, it’s been: fall out of bed at 6:00, stare at the coffee pot while it works its magic, go to work, come home at 5, toss a frozen Trader Joe’s Entree into the oven, and pass out on the couch by 8:30. I thought I’d be a bit more prolific, and that a new baby would inspire me to write all sorts of inspired prose, but my brain feels like it’s been poked with a…a…sharp pointy object of some sort, like those things you use to eat, I dunno, meat. A fork, that’s what it’s called.

Honestly, there was a point to this, but it’s 8:54, and I feel like I might just fall asleep right here at the keyb

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