Five minutes
After a year, it’s time to wean the baby. That’s why my wife has been sleeping in the kids’ room so I can take on the joyful task of sleep-training the baby on my own.
That Saturday morning, when I got up, I found my wife already awake, sitting on the floor outside the kids’ door. The baby, who had also woken, quickly climbed onto her, clamouring for his mum.
Somehow the middle child had already climbed the bunk bed—without a ladder—to join his brother on the top bunk, doing whatever it was he was doing.
Wife: Good morning, dear.
Me: Good morning.
Wife: Can you not touch the iPad or your computer today?
Me: Eh… sure. I had been writing my essays. I wish you had read my essay The Boundary of Being Human. It’s really good.
(It was an experiment—exploring the nature of LLMs, and what that might say about what makes humans human.)
Wife: Why don’t you write an essay about me?
Me: Eh… okay. What about?
Wife: About how I have to think about what to cook every day, and design the grocery list.
Me: Eh. Okay. Tell me about it.
Wife: First of all, there’s four of you—and you all like to eat different things. Then you get tired of eating the same food too often, so I always have to think of new variations.
Me: …
Wife: Then there’s the allergies. And twice a month I have to do vegetarian.
(My eldest has wheat, peanut, almond, and dairy allergies. My second has cashew. So the first can have the nuts the second can’t, while the second can have the nuts the first can’t. My mum has vegetarian on the first day and the middle of every lunar month. It can be challenging to keep track of a lunar calendar while living by the Gregorian one.)
Me: Mmm. I think we’ve got your essay.
Wife: I am both a nutritionist and a catering company—and school holiday planner.
Me: …
My wife smiles at my eldest.
Wife: Are you the echidna doctor?
(The echidna doctor is a character from a Taiwanese storybook she’s reading with him, as she tries to keep his language up while we live in Australia.)
“Fly alert! Fly alert!” my eldest shouts, having spotted a fly on his window and leaning dangerously over the bunk.
The middle son, standing up there, waves a large soft toy—haphazardly and excitedly. I am not quite sure what he was doing.
The baby, still on his mum, starts shouting and crying, louder now.
I see the light coming in through the window, softly illuminating the chaotic scene.
And the day was already underway.
Wife (upon proof-reading this): And you should add—your mum doesn’t eat beef.