The hardest part

of waiting for the nuthatch to hatch is not the waiting. It's the interminable repetition of the chorus to "The Waiting Is the Hardest Part" by Tom Petty. I cannot recall a jot of any verses to that song. I cannot say there are any verses in that song. That would involve google research and that is another hard part of waiting: my already brief attention span is, uhm, what was I saying? Shiny object, baby, Tom Petty, Mo, Tom Petty, fuck leave my brain alone, tasty coffee, Mo, shiny, Mo, baby, Tom, baby, Tom, Tom, ack!

This is not to say I am impatient. E arrived 7 days past due, so to speak, and I am not the panicked expectant father I was in 2004. Rather than sit around the house today, it being the due date, and shatter Mo's nerves with some kind of revision of the early narcotic experience (Sitting in a room, staring, asking "Are you feeling it yet? Did we get ripped off again?") we looked for something else with which to occupy ourselves. In the morning we went to the Y for a swim and in the afternoon attended some overpriced open houses so I could distract myself from Tom Petty in contemplation of this inflated market (7-figure teardowns - how on earth can whiny, self-entitled, middle class aspirants such as this correspondent ever afford to live on the west side without lottery winnings, the bane of tenants, or of these?), increasing lending rates, the gnashing of teeth, pulling of hair, the gnashing of hair, and pulling of Tom Petty...

On the way home, as we tried to assist e in some brief shut eye, we lost the battle. E's voice of parental command returned and I drove home to the following directives: turn the music on Daddy, turn the music on Daddy, turn the music on Daddy. Turn it on. Turn it on! Don't turn there, go that way. Go this way. Go this way. Don't do that. Daddy, don't do that. Don't do that, daddy. Get a room Daddy. Get a room Daddy. Daddy, get a room.

P-man out.