Of stress and lack of sleep, I mean. Second kids are easier, but when she refuses to feed and then refuses again and screams tiny screams of hot rage at your attempts, and won’t stop and won’t eat, and you’re not getting much sleep, and the house is being renovated, and you’re hoarding your ration of lucidity, it comes out in the oddest ways. I drove way too fast to the supermarket to beat their pharmacy closing time, really needing a prescription filled; made it with minutes to spare, and when I walked into the mostly-empty store, someone had turned up the music and the wild old electric Layla was playing: Let’s make the best of the situation... (you know the rest of that verse) and it made me cry for my five-day-old. Oh, and one more thing: women have it harder, way harder. [P.S. The baby’s fine, gaining weight, grunting reassuringly in her bassinet as I write this; the big picture is OK.]
