The Baby-Faced Gangster

19 July 09

Ada is as cute and sweet as all get out. I’m sure she’s no different from other babies in her ability to charm her parents. There's an evolutionary reason babies are so darling: to keep crazed sleepless parents from putting the screeching kid outside the cave door at night. Evenings have been tough. Ada gets fussy and requires constant attention, bouncing in arms and an impromptu song or whistled melody as I trot up and down the hallway, acting organ grinder and dancing monkey at once. Was going to write about how down I've been with stress of work and having no time to myself, and even less time to read and write. The chained feeling of suddenly having to work for three, and my own lack of creativity and insight causing me to lumber under the weight of daily survival, slouched and ground-staring, from here to long past my remaining green days. But then the thought of that darling girl made me laugh and forget my selfishness.

Ada is actually laughing now, an abrupt little cough of a laugh, her big-cheeked smile cocked up on one side like James Cagney, eyes narrowing dubiously. In fact, many of her expressions have a wry quality, sly and scrutinizing. She's the baby-faced gangster seeing through your cheap moves, pushing away that pathetic unloaded pistol of a bottle, ignoring your hapless pleas, unmoved by your late-night dancing pantomimes for peace. For a while we weren't sure if her smiles were anything more than mere facial experimentations. But that laugh of hers is the real deal, a crack of lightning through the clouds.