A Monastic Trio

It's 9:19 a.m., Thursday morning in America, and Eleanor has just done the coolest thing. But, wait, before I type this, let me acknowledge that I am aware that the rest of the world does not give a shit about the developments of a nine month old baby. (And I know it's not that the rest of the world is mean, cold, unfeeling, and hateful of the little things. Rather, there's bigger fish to fry. Gross National Products, industrial timelines, 401k's, and the rest of the human drama, private and global, bristling with monstrous energy.) New parents often forget this fact, and you have to watch out, 'cause if you're in an enclosed space with one for very long, you'll be treated to story after story about various "cute" things, "cool" things, and, at times, "amazing" things, which are the absolute worst. I'm pretty sure hari kari would hurt less than an hour with a parent who does not know that The World Don't Care None, Baby!

In my pre-Eleanor days, I hated, hated, and HATED stories about people's kids. That's how I roll, though. I dig kids. I can't deal with stories about them. Here's me listening to a co-worker drone on and on, ten months ago:

Co-worker: Hey, Jonathan.

Me: Hey. (Let's say I'm busily typing up some clinical notes.)

Co-worker: So, you know, Toby's a year old and he's walkin' now, and man is he into everything!

Me: (Unh. Total silence. There's no way I'm encouraging this line of dialog, even though I know it won't matter.)

Co-worker: He sure keeps me and his daddy on our toes, though! I guess that's a good thing.

Me: (unenthusiastically) Oh, yeah?

Co-worker: Big time. Just the other day he did the funniest thing...

Me: (oh God, please murder me with a celestial dagger NOW.)

Now that I have a kid, though, something wonderful has happened: I am no longer not only immune to these stories (because I've told forty thousand of them myself already, and Eleanor's only nine months old), I'm actually interested in them. I, gulp, enjoy them. It now happens, quite often, that when a friend, acquaintance, or total stranger wants to tell me about their kid, I'm all ears. And naturally, as soon as there's an opening, I'll start blabbing about Eleanor, until we're both frothing at the mouth like wolverines in some kind of fucked-up feeding frenzy, going on and on, comparing notes about the most mundane details of the Life Of A Baby. I'm sure it's disgusting to the uninitiated. I'm just glad I'm immune now. I'm like a vampire. And I have a vampire wife and a little baby vampire with tiny little fangs. Together, we stalk the night...Okay, so back to what just happened and why it's cool.

Our rented house came equipped with an old school boombox. And because it imparts a really nice sound (even though the speakers are fairly small), lately, morning time has become song n' dance time around these parts. And today, a Holy Moment happened in Songsville: I had a coffee in one hand, and Eleanor in the other, perched on my knee. We were listening to an Alice Coltrane album called A Monastic Trio, which is a sometimes-lyrical, sometimes-skronkfest album of "sacred" free jazz, mostly concerned with peace, enlightenment, and mourning/remembrance of John Coltrane. Anyway, as E.B. & I were listening to the ocean of sound of a song called "Lord Help Me To Be" crash and fall in multiple waves, Eleanor closed her eyes, totally relaxed, and fell into a deep trance while sitting completely upright. "This is new," I thought before carrying her off to her bed, where she dozed for an hour or so while I listened to the rest of the album.

There. That's it. That's my story. Know why it's cool? Because peace on that - or any - level don't come cheap for teething babies. Except that today it did. Frau Coltrane worked her mojo on the nipper. And I was there. It was amazing.