Where once we spoke of art, philosophy, music and film, local politics, or international news, now we speak of the consistency of baby poo; the color of mucous, and the sleeping habits of our three-month-old son.
Our intelligence has all but evaporated— Wide-eyed we babble nonsense, dance to the beat of purple dinosaurs, and constantly seek advice from others, our adult confidence lost in a sea of parental perplexity.
We tiptoe around our home at nap time, drive ten kilometers below the speed limit, and decline dinner invitations because they clash with our routine.
We are doting slaves to the biological whims of an infant—compulsively obsessed with the consistency of baby poo.
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