other things, I’ve tightened up the title. I now call the song “Row, Row.” I’ve deleted the merrily stuff. I’ve deleted the boat and the rowing. I’ve deleted the stream. In fact, I’ve deleted almost everything but the melody, and as Timmy and I sit in the dark, rocking in our rocking chair, father and son, I invent filthy lyrics to keep myself sane. True, I adore that final line, “Life is but a dream,” but it had to go. You don’t sing about a pair of horny pigeons and end with “life is but a dream.” It does not fit. Not with pigeons.
Tonight, I’ll branch out.
Buggering mice, maybe.
Although I haven’t written much since Timmy was born, I now sit in the dark and produce some of my best work in years. No pressures to publish. So far no bad reviews. I’ve finally found my subject.
Bleep, bleep, bleep like mice,
Gently up the bleep,
Verily, verily, verily, verily,
Firmly bleep the bleep.
As I mentioned earlier, Meredith and I had come within a whisker of calling it quits over our deadlock on the children question. She very much wanted kids. I very much did not. And so it happened that on a late night several years ago we exchanged heated words on the subject, each of us digging in, and eventually Meredith announced, wearily but bluntly, that there was no future for us. I was hurt by this. I asked her to leave, which she did, and for a couple of weeks we saw nothing of each other.
Now, singing “Row, Row” in the dark, I recall only bits and pieces from that period of silence and separation—mainly the word “crocodile” slithering through my head. I was appalled that Meredith could love something that did not exist, in fact the idea of something that did not exist, more than she loved me. It seemed cold-blooded. It seemed heartlessly reproductive.
In the end we met for drinks on neutral ground, in a Cambridge, Massachusetts, bar, and for several hours we learned a great deal about each other, not only emotional things but also the contents of our personal histories, the biographical facts that had brought us to this bar and to this impasse. Meredith talked about her mother dying. She talked about her father, a good man but sometimes a distant man, a man who too often seemed absent from her life. She talked about her sisters, one of whom had been institutionalized for decades with severe schizophrenia, the other of whom had twice attempted suicide (and would later succeed). She talked about the dream she’d been cultivating since she was a little girl, the dream of a happy, normal family life. “Maybe it’s a fantasy,” she said, “but don’t I get to hope for something?”
On my part, I opened up about pretty similar things. An alcoholic father. A father who often scared me and who sometimes didn’t seem to like me much. I talked about the tensions in our house, the late-night shouting matches between my mom and dad, the cruel words, the brittle silences that followed for weeks afterward. I also expressed, as best I could, my suspicion that I’d make a far less than ideal father. I was impatient, I told Meredith. I was stubborn. I was absent-minded. I was protective of my time. As a writer—a preposterously slow writer—I feared I’d come to resent the minutes and hours and days spent changing diapers and singing silly bedtime lullabies.
Meredith and I managed to work it out.
In that Cambridge bar, and in the weeks afterward, the realization began to stir in me that I too yearned for a happy, normal family life, even if I remained terrified of failing. There were no promises, exactly. But there was a prospect. Three years went by, and Meredith and I got married, and our son was conceived, and now I sit here in the dark, rocking my precious, life-hating Timmy to sleep, singing an unprintable new edition of “Row, Row.”
The miracle hasn’t panned out. In some ways things seem more hopeless than ever. Although “Row, Row” will eventually put Timmy to sleep, he continues to wake up screaming after a half hour or so, often after only a few minutes. He can’t tolerate his crib. He looks pale and angry. He’ll often cry while he eats, and without exception he cries immediately after he eats. The crying has become infectious. Meredith is crying—a lot. I’ve cried. All three of us are ragged with fatigue. If this is normal, normal isn’t normal.
A dear and very generous friend named Anne Dolan has flown in from Paris to help out, mainly to spell us as we try to stitch our psyches back together. For three days and two nights, Anne endured exactly what we have been enduring. But on the third night—the night before last—she shook Meredith awake and explained that she was helpless, that she couldn’t take it anymore, and that our son would not and could not and probably never would cease crying.
And so once again we call the doctor’s office. Once again we hear the dreaded word “colic.” Once again we are informed of the astonishing news that “babies cry.” Once again we receive advice: babies need to be held. And the opposite advice: put him in his crib, shut the door, and let him cry himself to sleep. Once again we get instructions to check for diaper rash, to bathe him in lukewarm water, and—for the quadrillionth time—to place him in a basket atop the clothes dryer.
Alas, I’m back to “Row, Row.”
Not only am I exhausted beyond exhaustion, but I’ve also exhausted all possible combinations of dirty rhymes. I’ve turned to politics. By daylight, mostly in my head, I invent catchy verses that will carry me through the coming hours of night. I begin by seeking out a fruitful rhyming pattern, then later I devote myself to the overall artistry. Bush—tush. Rice—advice. Rumsfeld—beheld. Cheney—rainy. First names, I’ve discovered, are much easier. I have fun with George and Don. I have a shitload of fun with Dick. Condoleezza has proven difficult, but like my poetically minded friends, I have no scruples about cheating with near rhymes. Often, to keep things interesting, and also in the interest of poetic richness, I’ll combine my two genres, the political lyric blending into the dirty lyric, a hybrid that may represent a profligate new genre unto itself. My masterpiece is a version of “Row, Row” that I sang to Timmy just last night, a version in which every word but one must be redacted. It goes like this:
Bleep, bleep, bleep Dick’s bleep,
Bleepily bleep bleep bleep,
Bleepily, bleepily, bleepily, bleepily,
Bleep Dick’s bleeping bleep.
I am going mad, of course, but Timmy doesn’t notice.
For a few blessed minutes he sleeps.
And perhaps one day, if he survives his life-is-but-a-nightmare infancy, he will thank his father for this solid foundation in modern dirty-mouthed political discourse.
Two and a half weeks pass. Things have changed but not for the better. Our friend Anne Dolan fled back to Paris last Thursday. Timmy has lost a quarter pound of body weight. He blinks away tears as he eats; he chews more than he sucks; he vomits; he hisses at us; he hisses and he shrieks both at once.
Day before yesterday we received new advice from our pediatric nurse. We were instructed to secure the boy in his car seat, bundle him “loosely but warmly,” and drive until he settles down.
We’ve been driving by day and driving by night. We’ve clocked one hundred and sixty-eight miles.
