Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

If we’re asked what we’re doing (the baby, you, I) the answer is, not much, strictly speaking we’re doing nothing, nothing at all. Apart from a few important things, we walk around without purpose. In fact, by now we’re taking care of even the most important things in the same way that we do the meaningless ones. Although — there really aren’t any meaningless things, although — there aren’t any important things. In short, we don’t do much, yet we experience a lot. With a side glance at our baby with his sidelong glance (he’s looking at a recently heat-insulated wall with a sign: “No leaning of bicycles here!” — at nothing, that is, that might serve as an experience), we say: it seems to us as though we had only recently started to experience things. Ever since the birth of our baby, little by little (because we’re slow learners) we have found our way into doing nothing, which is actually the richest kind of doing there can be, and now it would be hard for us to stop doing nothing. It is an unbelief that we share with some parents (but many have already fallen away from it), the unbelief of our contentment in not-doing, which is impervious to any activity we may undertake (after all, we are pursuing our professions, albeit with somewhat shortened work hours). So we can say without exaggeration: We have never been busier than today.

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

The surge of tender emotion toward our baby is great (our basic makeup is simple: water, fire, heart, passion). Our baby moderates us; this is one of his favorite ways of practicing his mastery. We have never met anyone who can demonstrate more clearly what is conducive to his well-being. It is not our delight or exuberance that makes it hard for us to recognize this conduciveness. We are so terribly inconsistent in the use of our senses: we see what our baby likes, provided we purify our seeing of ideas, but we also don’t see when we fail to include the right idea in our seeing. It’s the same with our other senses, and we are quite upset by our difficulty in moderating our tenderness. No, no, on the contrary, we are happy that we are so able, again and again, to give and to take within measure, not too much and not too little. This is how our baby teaches us – and then he hangs on us, lays his face on ours, starts to exaggerate, truly exaggerate without measure, knocks his teeth against our knee, bangs his forehead against our nose, dribbles all over us and painfully claws at our neck (we forgot to cut his nails), carries on and yanks at us in a fury of tenderness, laughing as he does this (and slightly, just slightly, he is laughing at us).

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

Only babies stay serious at the sight of animals. Babies never make fun of other beings, that is an ability (a doubtful ability, we doubt that it’s an ability at all) that we, the grownups, can claim for ourselves. If one questions the ability to make fun of others, it doesn’t take long before one is regarded as somewhat weird: a telling example of the humorlessness of people who consider themselves jokers. And one appears to be particularly weird if one protects and supports the baby’s admiring responses at the zoo: but I can’t help it. The shrieks of two Egyptian Geese are so delightful in their loudness and expressive power, the quacking couple’s choreography so convincing, the drama of accusing one’s partner and heaven simultaneously so overwhelming, that any stupid remark about those funny, comical, cute animals (remarks that have cropped up all around us from the moment we entered the zoo) simply forbids itself. From his stroller, the baby looks about in astonishment at this great spectacle (which happens to be taking place in the giraffe enclosure, to the complete disinterest of the animals themselves) while I put on the airs of a guardian of the world’s order by indulging myself in a loudly uttered comparison between man and beast (more specifically, I am making fun of man, the zoogoer per se). With lightning speed I move into the twilight realm of the dubious, dragging our baby with me. He saves the situation with a change of direction: There! His hand points up, where the giraffes’ feeding basket hangs (a humorous remark is already underway), and at the single specimen that is avidly plucking out hay and further processing it with broadly chewing mandibles. I could swear that it is not only our baby who is imitating the animal’s way of chewing, but that all the other visitors (who have already forgotten us) are chewing all at once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

For one shocking moment (or was it a whole day?) I forgot our baby. It seems to me that the shock coincided with the moment of forgetting. But I am only able to notice that now, after being awakened by a panic that was initially soft and then louder and louder (an insidiousness for which I am grateful). Exhausted, I stay in my shame, which appears to me, even though I am alone, as an utterly public situation (even if every single human being knew of my shame, it could not be greater). Basically, I think, I have violated a sanctuary, destroyed a temple, torn heaven asunder: I forgot our baby! But how could I forget him? I mean, how was it possible for me to forget the baby, who is at one with unforgettability, with his unforgettability, without which he would not be what he is, without which he would not exist in any way at all (I won’t even attempt to excuse myself by outer circumstances – work, a fight, the visit of a friend -, since to do so would be self-deceptive; and so, in this spirit of honesty, late in the evening, I approach our sleeping baby’s bed to seek the inner reason for my forgetting. And then I realize: I was mistaken.) 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

It’s disconcerting how slowly and almost unwillingly the baby finally takes notice of the other babies and cautiously recognizes them (a small gathering on the rug, babies, mothers, fathers. Apple slices, pieces of banana, spelt biscuits. Fennel tea and water. Sitting on the floor is extraordinarily easy: we’re almost floating. Where else can one sit together so comfortably?). It can’t be said that life face to face with one’s own kind (that the other babies are babies is something babies recognize instantly) begins with a great deal of trust. Some aversion is involved, but to a much greater degree it’s indifference. The aversion may be due to waking up, the slow slide out of the baby-cocoon (we can’t imagine it: it’s a gliding in all directions), and it will accompany the babies all their lives: these others who are like oneself, who needs them, who wanted them to exist? The indifference is great, but has already been shrinking for quite a while (two hands reaching for a little ball are simply one hand too many), and not to let it shrink too quickly is the greatest challenge for the parents. Social contact (which everyone thinks is so worthy of being encouraged that speeding it up seems a good idea): let it make its own way on its own terms; for the babies will have need of this treasure of indifference later on. (Haven’t we been trying to regain it for some time now? This is an arduous task and almost as impossible as becoming a baby again.)

 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

A look into the future: We recognize you, baby. We will never lose this ability (however much the baby you are now will one day be obscured, diluted, or dissolved within you). We will never not recognize you, your outer appearance will never deceive us. This face, your baby face, guarantees us a lifelong rediscovery. That this certainty has set in already is a fact we attribute to the immortality of your face (some things will die in you, your baby face is not one of them). Isn’t it incredible how easily we become prophets if we just contemplate a (your) face extensively? (What kind of face do you actually have? A softness moulded by your firm gaze; high cheekbones, a broad snub nose, the high vault of your forehead, supported by strong, light brown eyebrows, a fulsome mouth that has been more than once been foretold a future rich in the joys of kissing, a distinctive rounding in the great roundness of the whole face, the eyes blue and blurring into gray, large and open under long lashes — is that all that convinces us that we recognize you?)

 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

We notice how forgetting has prevailed (secretly, but not insidiously), a process that seems to have formed a mysterious conspiracy with our baby’s memory. No sooner has a day passed than we find it hard to remember it. Not because it is so similar to the other days, not because today was so different from yesterday. Even the uniqueness of a day does not help us to retain something from it (that would be more than something). We will not be able to prevent what we already anticipate (and which people all around us confirm): these first months of our baby will shrink in retrospection to something smaller than a single day. And due to a peculiar, parallel simultaneity, the baby too will forget this time and retain no more of it than the mere fact time itself. While to us forgetting seems to be a loss, for our baby it will prove to be a gain. In order for him to develop and thrive, he won’t need this kind of memory, which we are so loathe to lose, at all. What is essential for his life he will retain without remembering it. Now we understand for the first time why we ourselves are in such need of forgetting, need what we feel is a palpable loss, just as much as we need memory (the tremendous swaths of fat that still envelop, grace, adorn our baby’s thighs, thighs that by now are almost chronically proving their resilience). 

 

 

Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

Our noonday nap threw us both (the baby, me) onto the big bed, two tired creatures falling asleep, intimately close together, without hesitation. The other’s sleep is palpable even into the depth of one’s own sleep, a soundless bond, inextricably dense and robust, so that it’s surprising how quickly, almost suddenly this bond was dissolved upon awakening. Yes, there lies our baby, unaffected by my awakeness, simply setting me free from my sleep, as if he were none of my waking mind’s business. And so it is: there are two lying here on the bed, only one of them still asleep, the other awake, two who could only be flooded by each other in sleep because they are these two (and continue being two, regardless of whether they are both asleep, or only one of them, or both awake). I look at the gap between the dark red curtains, a shaft of light that seems to be lending stability to our darkened bedroom, and then at our baby’s pretty face. I have forgotten his age (I know it, of course, but the compulsion to know is asleep at the moment), and my own age has vanished too, all age is gone, all there is are two tired creatures, two people, and the only difference between the two of them is that they are not one. Content with this twoness, I turn over for another round of sleep.