Some would say writing in an uncomfortable position is a luxury. I should’ve wrote this on the rubber hospital couch.

But now I am as comfortable as a nat in an empty beer glass.

Putting my t-shirt on backwards and pulling a hair in the reverse is as uncomfortable as it gets—currently.

I wanted to write this piece like Kerouac wrote The Subterraneans——fast, restless, jumping from one point to another—parkour so to speak. But I am not fast, I am not restless, and I am not taking copious amounts of stimulants.

It’s not that I’m avoiding a narrative structure. At the risk of sounding arty, I simply enjoy writing vague poetic prose. I love mixing images with memories, dreams, lyrics & dichotomies.

And so, when our second son was born—I struggled with what to say. Should I catalog every happening? Should I tell the story word for word? It seems unfair not to. The reality is, everything happened so fast—there was no narrative to tell. We woke up early, drove to the hospital, and 17 mins later, Miles’ brother Quinn was born.

Don’t get me wrong, there were some notable moments that are as follows:

Ashley asked for a t-shirt and I responded with, “Would you like one of my white shirts with the armpit stains?”
That morning Ashley said I could go to work, then she said I can’t go to work and we could have a nice breakfast, then she said we have to leave for the hospital right now.
She texted the wrong mom.
Ashley barfed on a pile of pillows on the way to the hospital (regretfully, I was unable to photograph said barfing episode).
At re, the ceptionist slowly & calmly asked simple questions while my wife moaned “help me”.
When we arrived in the labor and delivery room, the floors were still wet from cleaning.
Everything happened so fast, I barely had time to change camera lens before filming the birth. My 50mm 1.4 lens lay uncapped in a basket of snacks that were gifts for the nursing staff.
The look of Miles’ face when he met his brother.
Both of our sons were born during shift change, Miles at 7:02 AM & Quinn at 6:57 AM.
Miles weighted 7.2 lbs, Quinn also weighed 7.2 lbs.
Miles was measured at 19.5 inches, Quinn measured 20 inches.
Both boys had nasal issues—needing saline solution.
Both boys were born on a Thursday.

We are the same people who left for the hospital that morning—but we are fundamentally different.

This becomes increasingly harder to articulate as the days go by.

The flowers still wilt the same on the dining room table—but time has shifted out of phase.
We are like dust falling through a sun beam.
The faces of our world have become strange and unfamiliar.
The neighborhood echos are like a sound machine.

It is like summer break as an adult—sleeping in, eating breakfast at 10 AM, as kids run down the street barefoot.
There is basil drying on the lawn.
There are questions of scale accuracy.
The record player is in need of repair.
The fly screen is duct taped.
The oven is preheating.
The smell of dried breast milk and A&D ointment is surprisingly pleasant.
I have doors to paint and tomatoes to water.
I have a car to recycle, and cake in the freezer.
The best cookie dough ice cream I’ve ever had—was home made.
I could go on, but I have to make breakfast now.
Sometimes the adventure starts when the story ends.