Neal Pollack's Having a Baby

The world's greatest living writer tackles fatherhood

n the near light of dawn, my infant boy sleeps. I've been watching him for only a couple of minutes, but he's so tender and peaceful that I could watch him for at least a couple more. From this angle, he c looks like me. Not as handsome, naturally, but the resemblance is there. I have reproduced.

Before this child, I didn't think at all about being a father. But now I think about it all the time, and I'm so glad that I do, because it's given me an immense amount of amusing yet also touching material. The Sisyphean demands of time and energy that fatherhood has loaded upon me like a basket onto the back of a market mule might prevent this column from appearing every month. But I intend to write as often as possible about how I've changed as a man.

My son's mother, who I believe is named Laura, stirs in her bed.

"You're back," she says.

"Yeah," I say. "That party I went to tonight without you was smokin'!"

"The boy missed you," she says.

"And I missed him," I say. "So much. I'll miss him even more while I'm in New York meeting with the television producer who wants to adapt my novel into a weekly series for basic cable."

She begins to cry. I'm leaving again, but there's nothing I can do. My career means slightly less than it used to, but I still must earn for my family.

"Take it easy, babe," I say. "I'll be back in less than month."

I write a check and leave it on my boy's chest. He breathes. The check rises and falls. Maybe he'll be a little more interesting next time I see him.

s soon as Jill opens the door, I can see she's pregnant. And I mean very pregnant. This is no beginning of pregnancy. She's ready to burst.

"It's mine, isn't it?" I say.

She throws her arms around my neck and weeps with joy.

"Of course!" she says. "The ultrasound showed an unusual amount of brain activity! Only you could sire such an intelligent little girl!"

Having a pregnant woman dependent on you really does something to a man. It's so remarkable to see the body of someone you kind of care about mutate into a hideous parody Of itself. Pregnancy is strange. It's certainly different than not being pregnant.

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"I'm in town for only a couple of days," I say. "And I'm really busy."

"That's O.K.!" Jill says. "It's just so wonderful to see you! If you can play any part, even a small one, in our lives, we'll be grateful!"

I wonder if that gratitude extends to blow jobs on demand. Obviously, I hope so. In about an hour, I have to go to a movie premiere.

In a world as addictS ed to oil consumption as I am to hot sex, Venezuela plays a prominent role. I've come here to examine the truth about Venezuelan life, to find out if President-for-Life Hugo Chavez is really as much of a jerk in person as he appears to be when he gives interviews. The streets teem with antiChavez demonstrators. Other streets teem with pro-Chavez demonstrators. Man. This country is screwed.

Two hours later I'm at the coast, on the beach of a private estate to which I have an extra key. Consuela sits under a palm, fanning her perfect brown breasts with a frond. We need not say anything to each other. It's been years. I kiss her. My passion mixes with the cool breeze to create the perfect cocktail of love. Here on this beach, my true heart's desire percolates.

An hour later, we lie under a blanket. The stars have begun to appear in the sky, though it's not yet dusk. I look at my watch and wonder if I can catch the late ferry to Saint Vincent.

I hear a voice, in Spanish, call from the veranda.

"Mamacita!" it says.

I look around to see a boy, perhaps seven or eight, who looks exactly like me. Goddammit. When will these women stop trying to trap me? Suddenly, the immense responsibilities of fatherhood crush my chest like a cooler full of bottled beer. Where are my pants? I have to get out of here!

"Nealoberto! Come here and meet your father!"

"Nealoberto!" Consuela says. "Come down here and meet your father!"

"Oh, boy!" says my son.

We meet. His skin is smooth, his grip firm. The ladies are going to love him, which, from my experience, is a curse. But it's my job to watch and let the kid make his own damn mistakes. My warnings will mean nothing. That's the irony of being a dad.

"I wrote a story," he says. "Do you want to see it?"

"Of course," I say.

He hands me a two-page fable, which he's illustrated himself, beautifully. I read it and discover that, like me, he possesses magnificent literary talent. The piece is reminiscent of Kafka, Calvino, and Borges, yet it's also somehow completely unique. My Venezuelan son is a wonderful writer, and I'm so proud.

"Consuela," I say, "I think I'm going to stay over tonight."