Now let us turn to the subject of oatmeal.
In the dark and forboding twilight hours of sleepless fatherhood, my precious oatmeal has been my only true companion. Alone, illuminated by the shameful blue light of my laptop and accompanied by my atonal gutteral dronings, my oatmeal has soothed my shames with its warm, creamy essence. In hiding from a fussy infant and beleaguered wife, I cravenly return time and again to my oatmeal in hopes that its hearty texture and savory oat-pleasures will bring me comfort . More often than not, the thickly aromatic oatpaste is able to burrow through my stomach into my soul and fill it with nutrition and meaning.
My oatmeal is flavored with the finest Vermont maple and sweet brown sugar from the engorged breasts of Mother Hawaii herself. In an act of sheer gluttony, I often mix raisins in with this concoction to create a alchemy of oats and dried fruit that would make a priest incontinent. I am like a dark wizard stooping over a bubbling cauldron of oaty enchantment.
Come to me now, my oatmeal lover. My bowels groan for you.
P.S. The following illuminating conversation took place midway through the writing of this post as I was rocking Oliver to sleep.
ME: Do you want to take him?
WIFE: I’m in the middle of this.
ME: I just want to finish my blog entry.
WIFE: Well, you have a child now.