I’ve started thinking that our blood talks to us. I don’t mean this in a sign of impending psychological collapse, and I’m using “blood” metaphorically, of course, but I’ve started wondering whether epigenetic imprints influence us subconsciously. Was it my ancestors’ blood, made from the waters of the Hanseatic shipping lane, that set them to sea and called us both to New York? Did my blood help engineer decisions and yearnings that somehow drew it “North” and “to winter?” In turn, my son’s blood saw this pointing and compelled him to lift his hand, point, and intone lowly: “buuuuuuu, buuuu.”

It’s around this time of year that I’m put in mind to remember when I had my kid. Actually, I didn’t do the having. I did a lot of sitting nearby in terror as my wife had our kid.

There are lots of packing lists about what you should bring for mom and baby, but there’s not a lot for men. So I’m going to send one out to my fellow fathers(-to-be) in the following post.