KNOPF
months 1-3
KNOPF IS HOME
Nicole ended up staying in the hospital for three nights, which handed me one final flicker of a life I’d never return to. Obviously, I was thrilled for us. But goddamn was i happy for those last few days of freedom.
After suffering though yet another brutal stretch of insomnia all winter, something that’s haunted me ever since taking a few too many heroic doses of LSD on the PCT back in 2017, sleep had become a topic of anxiety. But the night I first locked eyes with Lou, I went home and just… fell asleep. A true miracle. I had felt it in my core when we first met eyes, like a gear slipping into place that had been misaligned for years and suddenly... sleep returned. As though my soul had been waiting for this exact moment to let go.
And let me tell you, I sure as hell made the most of those final solo days. I lounged hard, ate big slabs of red meat, went for long runs in the forest. Pumped iron. Jerked off in the living room with unapologetic finality, marking the end of an era. It was all mine, my time, my space, my rhythm. I’d ride our borrowed moped to the hospital like a hip-ass bachelor grandpa, breeze into the room, hold Lou, that five pounds of unfiltered organic matter, until I was soaked in sweat (those rooms were sweltering), and then sayonara, señorita, I'd zip off again, no diaper bag in sight.
I knew it wouldn’t last and I consciously soaked it in. The quiet, the freedom and the wild and surreal exhilaration of standing on the edge of a new adventure.
Meanwhile, Nicole was living an entirely different story. Her nights in the hospital were a blur of constant nurse visits and sheer exhaustion. Lou wouldn’t latch, instead, he demanded his colostrum served up like some adorable wiseass. One nurse would suggest a method, then her shift would end, and the next would suggest a slightly different method, or maybe the exact same one with a new twist, until Nicole had tried everything. And poor Nicole, tethered to an IV, could barely move, let alone manage a squirming newborn with one arm.
Until finally, the first night at home arrived.
Nicole’s milk still hadn’t come in, just colostrum. Naturally, we hadn’t bought any formula, despite the wise wisdom i received from my friend’s wife who had just given birth, to have some on hand, just in case. It was one of those things we just... didn’t get around to.
So there we were, on our own. Giddy with joy and soon to find out, thoroughly unprepared.
Knopf screamed. We bounced between pump sessions, each one producing barely enough to buy us fifteen minutes of peace. He’d feed, crush every last drop and then wail like a tiny banshee when it ran out. This repeated all night. Hour after hour, his little body pulsing in rhythm with his screams. From the belly of his core, screaming with raw survival instinct. His face beet red, his screams echoing through every corner of the apartment with desperate, unrelenting urgency.
It was half-terrifying and half-hypnotic. Terrifying because we had no idea what we were doing and no idea how to fix it. And hypnotic because there he was, this small, furious miracle, throbbing in my arms like an ember.
Nicole and i looked at eachother with this “what the fuck did get ourselves into” look, followed by a tired and knowing smile that it had begun. And we were in it together.
DESIRE
During the pregnancy, all Nicole ever seemed to hear were horror stories. “Oh, just wait until month seven…” or “Wait till this or that.” It felt like humanity had rewritten pregnancy and birth from a sacred rite of passage into something more like a slow-motion disaster, something to brace yourself against rather than grow through. Where were the stories about joy? About transformation? About awe?
Everyone had some unsolicited, grim warning to toss her way disguised as concern. And it didn’t stop once Lou was born, all that happened was that they said the same things differently. “Just wait until he…” or “You think that’s bad? Wait till…” As if every baby is the same. As if someone else’s struggle guarantees yours. It sounded like those grizzled old gym guys in denim jeans giving unsolicited life advice — “Just wait till you’re my age”, as if ignorance and aging badly is a badge of honor.
Suddenly everyone already knew what we were in for.
The truth is, its bullshit.
No two paths are the same.
Every kid is different. Born in a specific place, at a specific time, in a specific moment. Lou, for example, was “due” 11 days before he actually showed up. And if he’d arrived just one day earlier, he would’ve had an entirely different astrological sign, maybe a different temperament, a different rhythm altogether. Whether you believe in that shit or not, every child floats down to Earth like a snowflake, unrepeatable. And every parent meets them from their own particular place, with their own baggage, their own bandwidth, their own blind spots.
I want to say this upfront: the struggle is relative. The frustration of a trust fund baby getting cow milk instead of oat milk in their “god knows what” latte is the same as the frustration of a single mother trying to get a hospital bill covered by insurance. And honestly? Most of the times I felt overwhelmed, it wasn’t because Lou was especially difficult. It was because I was. It was my own resistance, my own need to take a piss, my own inability to be present with him. My own desires getting in the way.
Like literally, sometimes all I needed to do was take a piss. And right then, BOOM, shit hits the fan. Lou’s wailing out of nowhere, red-faced and furious like the world’s ending. And now I’m torn between tuning in, trying to stay present, trying to figure out what he needs, (because there’s always a reason, even if it makes no sense) and the fact that i gotta piss like a racehorse. But I can’t piss. That simple, primal urge is suddenly off-limits. That need, I can’t meet it. And that’s when I start to spiral. Not because of him, but because I JUST GOTTA PISS QUICK.
The worst is when you’ve done everything you can do to calm him, offered warm milk and went through every possible way to hold him, included all the ways that usually work yet he’s still wailing and wailing like an alarm clock you can’t shut off. You put the nookie in his mouth, he quiets. It falls out, he screams. You put it back in, quiet. It falls out again. He screams. In. Out. In. Out. You end up just holding it there, your hand cramping, your body still, like that’s your only job now: be the thing that holds the pacifier in place so the screaming stops. And meanwhile, all the little things you need to do to get ready to leave weigh heavier and heavier on you, suffocating you. You just want to take a bite of a sandwich. Take a piss. Sip some water. Put on your shoes. Take a shit. Pack his bag. Pack your own. But everything feels so far away. Distant. The crying drowns everything. It throws a blanket over your brain, smothers your thoughts. You tell yourself that you just need one second of quiet. A second to think. All those tiny, ordinary things, things that take less than a second become unattainable.
It’s a never-ending struggle to stay level, to stay present. He forces you to stay in the moment, because the second you let your mind drift, even just a little, the second you desire anything other than take care of him, is the moment you start to lose. If you don't redirect that energy fast enough, the louder his screaming hits you. The more it grates and slides downhill.
Even if you’re present enough to distinguish that he’s in pain, that its not for attention, that maybe it’s a cramp, teething or constipation, knowing doesn’t help, knowing doesn't make it stop. And the fact that he just keeps going, builds resentment and frustration, which create an impenetrable invisible wall between you and you’re only savior:
compassion.
strawberry Fields forever
Lately, I’ve been drawn to smelling my kid’s head like a fiending washed-up club rat hovering over a line of coke. No shame in it either. I’ll be mid-walk, mid-task, mid-thought, don’t matter, and I’ll suddenly realize I need a hit. I seek him out, find where he’s laying all adorably and shit and walk over, exhaling the whole way so that the inhale is timed just right. By the time my nose is hovering right above that precious melon, I take a giant snort, the kind of inhale so aggressive an eight ball wouldn’t stand a chance if it were sitting there instead of my kid’s scalp.
And then it hits me: that sweet, strawberry-like scent. It floods my system. Takes ahold of me. Instantly calming. Lowers my shoulders. Clears the static in my brain. His head is like a fragrant blooming flower, a wild baby head musk.
Turns out, there’s actually some science behind that scent. What i’m smelling is the early buildup of sebum, a biological cologne engineered for bonding. A sensory handshake between parent and child written in molecules instead of words and is a waxy, oily substance of mixed of natural oils from overactive sebaceous glands which are still riding the hormonal wave left over from pregnancy. That extra oil, traps dead skin cells on the scalp, which, after you add a bit of heat, a touch of sweat, and a naturally occurring yeast called Malassezia, oxidize and harden into the waxy, scaly-ass patches known as cradle cap. It’s harmless, super common and goddamn does it look disgusting, like an old persons scalp who was suppose to die 100 years ago, like a croissant made of flaky skin.
It clears up on its own and doesn’t itch or bother the baby, just us parents, who have to stare at it. It seemed to last forever, and all i could do was resist the urge to take a fine tweezers and pull the flakes off one by one like a game of operation. It clears up on its own and doesn’t itch or bother the baby — just us parents, who have to stare at it day after day. It felt like it would never end, and all I could do was fight the urge to grab a fine pair of tweezers and pick off the flakes one by one, like some weird game of Operation.
We didn’t really treat it at first, but eventually Nicole whipped up some concoction of oils and gently massaged his head. Whatever she mixed together seemed to help, within days, the stuff started to magically vanish like snow melting in a patch of grass And while it was a relief to see his head clean and clear, there was something kind of sad about it too. Because with the cradle cap gone, so was that addicting scent .
I thought this was going to be a sacrifice?
I thought having a kid was going to be this huge sacrifice, like I’d lose all of my me-time. Lol, okay, that part is true. Most of my me-time now gets swallowed up in Knopf’s screams, smiles, feedings and poopy diaper blowouts that run all the way up his back. But here’s the strange thing: it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.
The time that’s been pulled away from me and funneled into him doesn’t feel taken. In some abstract, hard-to-explain way, it feels redirected back towards myself. Like the love i feel for Lou is such, that taking care of him feels like taking care of myself in some roundabout way, revealing a version of myself I don’t think I would’ve met otherwise. It’s weird enough that if you had told me this before I became a dad, I probably would have rolled my eyes, unable to conceptualize it as im sure anyone reading this without kids would also think.
But the truth is: he scratches an itch. I used to think only a run in the mountains or a smooth patch of single track could reach that inner stillness, that feeling of vastness and simplicity, of being reduced to just a body moving through space. And in many ways, that’s true. But now, a five-block walk to the park seeing Lou’s head poke out from under his blanket smiling from ear to ear or trying to get him to roll with me on the floor does something eerily similar. It’s not the same, of course. The air doesn’t sting with altitude nor whistle through my ears. There’s no dramatic horizon or ridge to traverse. But that feeling, that love for him, is somehow close enough to make me question what I’ve been chasing all along.
Maybe I was never after the thrill or the mountains themselves, rather I was after the part of myself that only shows up when I strip everything else away. The part that syncs with its surroundings and the current moment.
And somehow, caring for this tiny human, being tethered to his needs, immersed in his growth, draws that same part of me out. Not in sweeping, cinematic moments, but in the small, quiet ones: like when he starts to realize that those things always flailing in front of him are arms, his arms. And those five tiny digits at the end? Fingers. His fingers. Fingers he’s just beginning to understand he can control. Or when I lean over him and, after a beat, he recognizes my face, really sees me, and breaks into a smile as big as the world.
It makes me wonder: how many so-called adventures were just me trying to meet myself in a different setting? How much of my search for freedom was actually a longing to be more present?
I used to think the wild was always out there, along some faraway ridge or trail. But maybe, the wild is also here and everywhere else you look. In the middle of the city, my living room and hidden within the cracked rhythm of being a father for the first time, where the only thing im being asked to conquer is the change of a dirty diaper.
And it’s in those everyday environments, that if im paying attention, i catch glimpses of the same thing I used adventure to find.
Organic movements
One of my favorite parts of having this little guy around is just watching him, or better yet, feeling him move. When I’m on the couch and he’s curled up on my belly, the way he moves feels less like a person and more like a flickering flame. Raw and untamed. Sometimes his movements are slow and smooth, like a field of tall grass moving in unison on a windy day and other times sharp and sporadic like a lone leave dancing with an inconsistent breeze. It’s like he hasn’t quite figured out how to live in his body yet. His movements aren’t fully his own, there are inconsistencies, these little jolts and jostles, almost like a lagging video game, coming from some ancient, pre-conscious place that is lost as one becomes more themself. A place before coordination and intention.
When he raises an arm, it can be sudden and jerky, like a reflex being fired before the brain catches up. And that’s because, it is. His nervous system is still immature and he’s operating largely on reflexes and involuntary motor responses. His myelination, the sheath that coats his nerve pathways and allows for smooth, controlled movement , are just getting built. So everything comes out in these odd, unpredictable bursts: a quick twitch, followed by a soft, almost fluid fade, like a hydraulic piston being pressed and then suddenly released.
It’s mesmerizing. Every movement feels half-accident, half-magic, like he’s not the one doing it, but rather something is moving through him. And in a way, it is. His body is a conduit for pure instinct. It hasn’t been trained yet, hasn’t been layered with learned behavior or intention. It just is. And being able to hold him, to feel that motion up close, to sense that raw, flickering life without filter or purpose, it’s like holding a small piece of whatever it is we’ve all spent our whole lives distancing ourselves from.
As we grow up, we develop body control — and with it, a powerful sense of security. When we’re thirsty, we don’t panic. We know how to orient ourselves in space, reach for a glass, place it under a faucet, and satisfy that need. That ability — to solve a problem with precision and ease — gives us comfort. It's what allows us to survive, and eventually, to thrive. But it also marks the beginning of a lifelong trade: exchanging the wild unpredictability of pure experience for the clean reliability of control.
It’s a delicate balance that shifts as we move through life. In the beginning, we exist almost entirely in the realm of the free — flailing limbs, unpredictable hunger, cosmic moods. And then, slowly, we begin to manage ourselves. We learn to walk, to speak, to sit still in classrooms and follow directions. Eventually, we structure entire days around control — alarms, deadlines, productivity hacks. We build routines to keep the chaos at bay. And as we age, that control tightens, sometimes until we’re clenching to maintain it. Ironically, near the end of life, we find ourselves once again shitting our pants, only this time knocking on deaths doormat.
Obviously, some degree of control is necessary. Without it, the structure of our lives would collapse. Routines help us find stability. Goals give us direction. Planning provides a sense of agency. It feels good to shape our days into something predictable — to organize chaos into a calendar. I don’t think i need to spend anymore time convincing on this physical exchange between freedom and control. What I’m more interested in, is how that trade creeps beyond the body, defying gravity and floating north, where it occupies our thoughts. Our identities. Our very way of being.
We start managing not just our time, but our emotional responses. We filter what we say to be likable and safe. We attempt to curate our joy, grief and love from a place of logic instead of truth. And without even noticing it, we become trapped in our minds, thinking how we would like life to be instead of experiencing life as it is.
Somewhere along the line, freedom became uncomfortable. Chaos labeled dangerous. And the only wonder has been morphed into wondering what could go wrong, the wonder of awe got tucked away in our cute little underwear drawer with childhood.
It reminds me of an alan watts quote:
“Let's suppose that you were able every night to dream any dream that you wanted to dream. And that you could, for example, have the power within one night to dream 75 years of time. Or any length of time you wanted to have. And you would, naturally as you began on this adventure of dreams, you would fulfill all your wishes. You would have every kind of pleasure you could conceive. And after several nights of 75 years of total pleasure each, you would say "Well, that was pretty great." But now let's have a surprise. Let's have a dream which isn't under control. Where something is gonna happen to me that I don't know what it's going to be. And you would dig that and come out of that and say "Wow, that was a close shave, wasn't it?" And then you would get more and more adventurous, and you would make further and further out gambles as to what you would dream. And finally, you would dream ... where you are now. You would dream the dream of living the life that you are actually living today.”
I can’t help but feel we’ve traded something essential, our true power, the raw force that brought us this far. Whatever “us” even is, and wherever “this far” may be, for the illusion of security. Choosing comfort over mystery and control over trust. We build walls and routines and exit strategies, all while forgetting that the moment we’re born, we’re handed an inevitable death certificates. Any day, any breath, could be the last.
And yet, we live as if permanence was promised.
It reminds me of that line from Troy:
“The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal—because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”
There’s something hauntingly truthful in that. A reminder that impermanence isn’t a flaw in the system, it’s the whole point. And the beauty, the urgency, the tenderness of this life? It exists because we’re running out of time.
And in their chaos, their mess, their uncontrollability, is a kind of freedom that feels dangerously familiar. Like something you once knew and forgot.
Not because they’re extraordinary in the usual sense, but because they feel like a return to something I didn’t know I’d lost.
We live under the quiet illusion that if we eat organic, drink water instead of beer, take our vitamins, and follow the rules, doing everything “right” could earn us brownie points with destiny. And in that illusion, we live like there will always be a tomorrow, moving through life beside the ones we love without fully being with them.
Maybe this is the hidden gift of being around babies: they show you truth because they have no other choice. And in that forced surrender, in the mess and unpredictability, a strange kind of freedom opens up, not the freedom of doing whatever you want, but the freedom of not needing to.
And when I let that sink in, even for a second, I realize: maybe we’re not meant to master life. Maybe we’re just meant to feel it.