Emmett is asleep in the kitchen, drugged to slumber by radio static.
White noise is an uncanny soporific.
We've been drugged, too, but by a different kind of white noise: the clatter and clamor of so-called experts, of baby-book authors with competing politics, of chatrooms, Web sites, blogs. (Massahoma, Oklachusetts is our hallucination).
New parents crave this dope like junkies, but they could learn from their children.
There is an unwitting wisdom in Emmett's response to racket. To sleep through commotion, to find rest in unrest, stability in upheaval, stillness in motion.
All too soon our son will rejoin the chorus (he's stirring as I type, chattering like a chipmunk). What's does he need? Is he hungry? Is he uncomfortable?
To tune in to Emmett, we tune out.
1 comment:
Wardo and Nora are all ooohs and aaahs over Emmet and his photos. The one on Thanksgiving, that one in the upper-right corner . . . that looks like Chad got transported in when Emily wasn't looking.
"Chad, Chad! What are you doing!? Come out of there right now!"
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