My latest Publishers Weekly Life in Comics column is up — and of course it has to do with the baby. It’s fascinating to me how the little creature has managed to wrap my whole existence — for now — around his little tiny pinkie finger. It’s necessary, of course, the result of ample oxytocin coursing through my body, but, subjectively, I’ll say it’s because Mateo is completely marvelous and beautiful, simply the best baby in the world, and he would amaze everyone who ever thought that they knew a great baby because their experience of a great baby is like the shadows on the cave wall in Plato’s allegory. Or so I was telling Mateo earlier after he lifted his head and turned it while I was making a stuffed octopus sing “Friday I’m in Love” to him. I’ll acknowledge that I’m probably an insufferable bore to anyone else right now, but I don’t suppose it matters at the moment.
Still, the outside world is starting to creep back into my consciousness. I expect to be a fully functioning adult human before Mateo goes off to preschool. Until then, I’m happy to read Middlemarch aloud to him. He’s a very precocious three-week-old.