Jerry Stahl

So I’m standing in front of the fridge, door open, wondering more-or-less what happened to my life, when I suddenly remember I have an eight month old baby in my arms.

Before what happened happened at Sandy Hook Elementary, I was going to write about back pain. Specifically “boomer back”—dark secret of infant–spawning post-50 boomerdom—a malady specific to “older parents”

Ideas, as famed vegetarian and human breast milk fan, George Bernard Shaw, once said, are not responsible for the people who embrace them.

My fear, as a late-in-the game dad, was that somehow I’d end up in diapers before my baby was out of them.

First time away from the baby, and the world is a strange new place. Before leaving, I spent an acid-without-the-acid-esque few days contemplating the tiny faux-hawked nipple-sucker perched atop E’s monstro breast.

Don’t let the idyllic lead full you. The night behind us has been so Game of Thrones-y that even now the blood squishes underfoot, the floor is littered with cast-off scarlet rags, stained plastic gloves.

Here we are, back in the doctor’s office. Our home away from home. We’ve come, yet again, to try and see why our unborn party ball has yet to start its descent into humanity.

E raised her head on the table, dizzy from doctor-probing. “Wh-what? A hickey?”

What going on there in Wombville? Has she heard me fart? Why is she shunning our invitation? Last to leave the party in mommy-gut…