Original sin, part I

It's fair to say that the books that we've been reading to Cleo probably won't ever make it onto the reading list of a graduate seminar on narrative complexity. Instead of a plot, one book gives itself entirely over to pictures of fruits, and vegetables, and animals. Another places Teddy the Bear in a number of reasonably interesting settings, but we never learn how he arrived at the breakfast table, or where he chooses to drive his nice red car. In fact, the closest we've gotten to any real sense of narrative conflict is in That's Not My Dragon, where we're allowed to look at a range of dragons that allegedly don't belong to us - the text is quite emphatic about that, in fact - before we reach the climax, or the resolution, on the final page, when we see our dragon, with its scaly wings.

But, as one of mankind's oldest narratives reminds us, into every Eden comes a serpent. In time, Teddy at his table is no longer enough; we want motives, or tensions, or (if we're French) frisson, and (if we're French academics) obtuse semiotic relationships. Complexity, in short, eventually enters the picture. And it often does so in shocking ways. Captain Ahab finally comes into view, or Judas decides to accept the silver pieces. We look to the sky, and suddenly see the imperial star fleet approaching Tatooine.

Today, our six-month-old narrative arrived at such a moment. As you may remember, Cleo's been trying solid foods for about a week now. She's downed a few tablespoons of boiled pear, and nibbled rather critically on some strained squash - all while offering a range of expressions that range from plainly disgusted to wavering, and uncertain. But if she was withholding opinion regarding these new foods, she was also withholding something else: her poop, that is. For three days, nothing.

Until today, when the dam finally burst. A better writer, perhaps, could come up with an original description; for my part, I'll simply refer you to George Orwell's description of Sheffield's slums, in The Road to Wigan Pier: "And the stench! If at rare moments you stop smelling sulphur it is because you have begin smelling gas." Or begun to throw up alternative smells, as roadblocks: after tossing the heroic diaper that had tried, valiantly, to stem the tide, and after giving Cleo the most vigorous bath I've ever given her, I retreated into the back rooms with her, and began to remember where we keep the incense.

Now is a good time to reconsider the photo, above. Look at her: she sleeps, untroubled, scent of baby, angelic, as though made of cotton and milk. And yet, I now realize, that center could not hold. The story was simply too dull, and evil had to enter the picture. And now it has done so, and the complexion of our tale is irrevocably changed. There are forces of darkness, folks, and they suddenly crowd our horizon. We will remain strong; we will continue to feed her pears. But we now do so in a world that is no longer innocent.