The larger point is this: Business matters, and business success can be greatly rewarding in multiple ways. But family matters infinitely more.
15
The Beauty of Small Things
I had resisted the notion that fatherhood changes everything. During Sue’s first pregnancy, everyone wanted to remind me of this fact. Your whole world will be different, they would say. You’ll be different. Your priorities will change. Having a child puts everything into perspective. Work is not the same as it was—you don’t see it the same. It’s not that it becomes less important, but it just becomes another aspect of your life. This is what everyone wanted to tell me.
I rejected, entirely, the idea that I would soften. I never thought that I would be one of those men who cooed, who spoke in ridiculous baby voices, who handled diapers.
My business colleagues wanted to tell me stories about their children. They told delivery stories like they were telling war tales. It was like being part of a club. Where they were when their wife went into labor, what they thought when they heard, how they made it to the hospital. These were simply stories—nothing else.
I was running a company. We were working very hard to make money, and with that came some pushing and shoving. No one wanted us to make money; we had to fight for it. This was the part of the job I hated, but like anyone who is competitive, the prospect of winning appealed to me a great deal.
Besides, Sue was going about her life deftly. We had, in some sense, been through the worst of it, though that is not to say it was any easier. I was averaging four hours of sleep a night. All I could think about was work. I also had become part of various Washington circuits—political, social, charity, opera, theater. This was how we occupied our free time, though to call it “free” would be somewhat of a falsehood. I enjoyed it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t work.
When Sue went into labor, we were both calm. The fathers didn’t go in the delivery room back then. We waited in the waiting room. I had every reason to be confident. I paced. I made a list of whom I would call and in what order. I thought about how business would be transacted in my absence and when would be an appropriate time to return. I am not ashamed to admit that these things were in my head.
Finally, I was called in to see Sue. We had a boy. We named him Paul after my Grandmother Pauline. Sue held him in swaddling clothes on her chest. I touched his head. It was very soft, as if the plate of bone were not yet bone but just a thick layer of cartilage. This concerned me. The skin on his little hands was smooth.
A few days later, we took Paul home. I was carrying him in a small wooden basket about the size of a picnic basket. It was May and warm. We brought him into his room and placed him on the changing table. Baby powder and Vaseline were administered. The belly button was inspected. Sue was very good about this, and so was I.
The phone rang.
“Do you want me to get that?” I said to her.
“No, it’s probably my mother, anyway. You stay here. Are you okay to stay here?”
“Of course I am,” I said.
She left. I stood in front of the changing table so that there was no way for Paul to fall. I put my hands on his chest. He was very warm. The baby uniform, a little blue cotton one-size they’d dressed him in, was terribly soft. I walked my fingers up and down it to make sure all the buttons were fastened. His little legs were chubby. They seemed to move, along with his arms, in no pattern.
I moved my head down to his. He was as red as a radish, this guy. I kissed his temple. It tasted a little salty. I could feel on my lips the thin hair on his head. I did it again. Sweet, sort of. Kind of like baby powder. I did it again. That’s strange, I thought. I could feel the tiny veins in his head pulsing through my lips. I did this the way one would taste wine. Then I did it a few more times. I liked kissing his little temples. I think he liked it, too. Though, of course, I can’t be sure. I just got a sense of calm from him.
Sue came back in the room. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“It looked like you were doing something,” she said with a sort of sly smile.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
Paul is one week old and wearing yellow-and-white pajamas. I am holding him. He is about the length of my forearm. His eyes are blue. He has hair, flat on his head. There are yellow carnations on the bedside table, which sits in the corner. The bedside lamp is aqua-colored. He has a receding chin. He sleeps. He looks like a tiny old man. Sue plays with his hands. Imagine the heat coming off his little body. I hold him up for a picture before I leave in the morning for work. He looks at me. I lie with him on the white bed.
Arthur, who still resembles a college-age boy, holds him. Paul has a serious expression on his face. He is looking at the person taking the picture. Arthur is looking at him.
We capture his first haircut. He does pretty well. His shirt is off. We’ve saved the
