Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left open for surprises]

two things about a baby

1. An observation

One of the trickiest among many tricky things about having a child is that you fall in love with him and you must not be shy to remain in love with him even if sometimes it seems like that love is unrequited. This is an unfamiliar sensation. Normally, in all my other relationships, if I've felt love blooming in me for another and sensed a dearth of love blooming back, I've either moved on post-haste or at least started making a list of things to pack for when I did eventually move. Here, there's no packing, there's no moving. If I love Finn and somehow he ends up deciding that he's just not that into me, that is too bad for me. I will have to live out my life humbly and openly carrying my torch. I'm not saying that Finn doesn't love me. I'm saying it's too soon to tell, and that sometimes a neurotic person could read his vibe as NOT INTO THAT PERSON*. And I'm totally into him. I write his name on my Peachee, his initials on my sneakers, I give him a code name**, I want to ask him to the Tolo. Finn 4-Ever. I will be the dork who never gives up. I will walk 500 miles and I will walk 500 more. I joke about this, but it's also pretty serious. It's dangerous! to bring a person around that you are going to fall on your knees adoring, and risk none of the love coming back your way. It's one of the reasons that I've never pursued acting with the vigor I might have liked to pursue it with***. Rejection is so deep, man. So scary. It's so much easier not to ask for the thing you want so much, and not to have to hear NO spoken aloud. C'mon, Finn. Love me. Mama needs a new pair of shoes.

* I also take his gassy smiles personally, though, so I'm reading things into things on both ends. Better for my emotional teeter-totter.


***I will risk the icy indifference of grammarians with that preposition, fuckers.

2. A gross event

Dave and I went into Fremont for an hour the other day while our unbelievable doula Sara watched Finn. I had burped him beforehand, and he'd puked down my chest into my bra. Nothing to write home about there. Cleaned it up and moved along. But when we came home later I was idly playing with my hair and in back there was a clump that Finn had puked on that had invisibly congealed into some sort of small clear papier mache hair dagger. Oh, I can't tell you, can't tell you how creepy it was. It looked and felt like a little dagger, or a crow's claw****, or something else just horrible. I was so deeply skeeved that I could barely accompany myself to the bathroom to wash it out. I kept stalling and showing it to Dave a few times. Look! Look at it! Feel it! Look! I really had to force myself to go with myself. Ugh. Oh. Erf. Wash. Blarf.

****And now, hopefully a long hiatus from any even vaguely bird related content.