Das erste Jahr jetzt auf:


The baby tames me (your taming, naturally, seems different to me). Witnessing one’s own affects is always interesting; making this observation additionally in the baby’s presence (in his decidedly favorable light) reveals things both astonishing and unexpected. Our baby distributes his teachings in measured doses: his refusal to have fresh diapers put on him, or not to instantly empty every filled cup onto the table the moment it is put in his hand, over the days and weeks of our time together (which otherwise is more marked by inquisitive cooperation). But then (and maybe it’s the crude contrast between cooperation and refusal that produces this intensity) the rage rocket ignites inside me (after the fifth or tenth attempt to attach the adhesive diaper fastener to its counterpart, or after wiping the mess off the table for the fifth or tenth time) and I already fear, no, not the worst, but at least a lasting annoyance that will ruin half my day, and just at that moment the rocket bursts and, astonished, I stand beneath a red-gold rain of spheres that gently and without a sound sinks down onto me from above (while the baby triumphantly holds up the diaper, handing it over to me, but I’m not falling for this now). So I am tamable, which means, I cease to obey myself, as I have been long since accustomed to doing. (One lovely day I thought, now I know who I am. On another lovely day, today, I think, I’m not at all the way I always thought: I’m not easily enraged on trivial occasions, no, now my rage calms me down the moment it breaks out. Come, baby, refuse once more, pour out your tea again! Come on, do it! – But he doesn’t want to.)

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