A Very Special Christmas

Emma and I spend a lot of time together in a park near our apartment. Serena is busy with some logistical problems – our new Swiss bank won’t deposit a large check she cashed, which you’d think would be their core competency. And, we’re also slowly being digested by Geneva’s Sarlacc Pit of house hunting – still nothing.

Back at the park, Emma and I each share one of my Ipod headphones and shuffle songs. She liked the Doors’ “Not to the Touch the Earth.” When Emma is tired or unsure of herself, she reaches up so she can walk with my forefinger in her hand. Having a kid is a humanitarian’s wet dream; there’s always good to be done. I get a misty euphoria that I last felt in Darfur, where once I gave my shoes to a man who had burned his feet. I guess having kids is a lot like what they said about high school extracurricular activities: you can get out of them as much as you put into them.

Emma and I enjoy shady solitude until late in the morning, when the playground suddenly erupts with the chaos of an animal testing laboratory. A horde of eight year olds in cheery t-shirts flood into the park, followed by college psych students with dreadlocks and nose rings. One of them catapulted Emma off the teeter-totter. Another morning, a kid nailed Serena in the eye with a shovel. His nanny apologized. Then he started chucking stuff at her, too. She shielded a baby in her arms, probably his sister, and tried to run. He chased her all the way across the soccer field with sticks and stones. I felt like I was watching a Ramones lyric.