Because you can

Every so often, it seems to me, the too-familiar routines and unthinking habits of our lives suddenly come into focus, and their limits suddenly seem clear, and alternatives, completely fresh alternatives, present themselves. What if I took a left turn, instead of the right turn that always leads me home? Or what if I walked? Or what if, while I walked, I did a somersault on that neatly manicured lawn? And then kissed the grass, or simply rang the neighbor's bell, and asked if I could join them for dinner?

You can call it thinking outside the box, or you can think back to Joyce's epiphanies, or you can shake your Teutonic brow and label it all merely foolish, but such a sudden reconceptualizing seems to be a rather natural consequence of spending a lot of time with a five-month-old. Sure, Cleo and I do many of the things I've always done: we walk the dirt path near our house, and the number of times I've taken her to Starbucks is probably better left unmentioned. But, on the other hand, even really familiar activities are now given a new quality. What if, while walking, we simply grabbed a maple leaf and popped it in our mouth? What if, whenever we were hungry, we simply wailed, and waved our arms? What if we took three naps a day?

Giving such possibilities room seems to me to be one of the basic charges of parenting. It's natural to try to impose our own order on the infant - but it's also occasionally rewarding (and, quite frankly, inevitable) to let the infant's logic guide us. And so we reach compromises that could never really be predicted, or perhaps even justified. Yesterday, Don Giovanni played (with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau singing; he's become a real presence in our home) while Cleo slobbered on the stringy hair of a wooden puppet, and rolled about on her back. And why fight it? I lay on my back, too, and tried to find out if I, like Cleo, can fit my toes in my mouth. I can't. But it was worth the try.