My 28 day old baby girl woke up for her second morning feed at 6am today. I was half asleep, holding her bottle to her mouth with my right hand Taking my cue from all fatherly characters in feel good family movies, I started to softly coo and babble baby talk to her as she was noisily sucking away at the silicone teat.
But instead of getting the overly familiar giggle, smile and cute gestures back, all I get was an intense look on her face with an expression that clearly resonated a chill of deep and dark experiences from my past.
It was that unmistakable female facial expression, with slightly frowned eyebrows, cocked head to one side and questioning eyes. "Like, Can I help you? Do I know you for some reason?"
In my short tenure as a father, the same thoughts did pass by in my mind a couple of times. Do I really know my daughter? Should I take for granted that she actually knows me? Or do we both just pretend that we know each other?
So she stared at me. This giant, holding her tiny body in his arms. Popping bottles in her mouth. With that look plastered all across her face.
She doesn't know me.
But she doesn't mind. Somehow she feels that it's safe and she doesn't cry or wail or kick me in the nuts and escape by rolling herself down the stairs to the neighbors house and cry "Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!".
I don't really know her.
But somehow I'd jump in front of a moving truck for her.
Then she kicked me into reality, signalling to me that she's had enough milk for now. I pull out, burp her while trying to ignore the milky stench, and was rewarded with a resounding audible of her poop and the unmistakable tremor in her diapers.
