Little Brother

We announced it yesterday, just another lazy saturday like any other except this time we had some big news. Yes, the wife is pregnant. And we will be having a second son.
How can my little 7 month old be a big brother so soon? He’s still so small and just seems to enjoy all the attention. By the time my next is born, W will be barely 1 or perhaps not even 1. Yes, they will be considered Irish Twins and 2 under 2. Quite crazy really.
Did we enjoy him enough, solely him? More importantly, did he have abundant time to have all the love and attention? Is it too soon and are we stretching ourselves too thin?
It is much the same way with typewriters, i think.
We likely started with one. We probably poured ourselves 100% into it and let ourselves be immersed and absorbed completely. Our thoughts enveloped around her and only her. You went hand in hand, inseparable. And there was no other choice. There was no such thing as an option. It was perhaps inconceivable at the time.
But then it happened. The day where #2 came along. Maybe it was happenstance or fate. Maybe a haphazard accident or delicious destiny. I dont believe we would have purposefully deceived #1 about #2 but maybe we didnt make a big deal about preparedness or formal introduction or permission, even.
Maybe we considered it progression – Onward!. Nature: growth and development.
Maybe we considered it a rare magic. New life. And it should be universally celebrated.
Well, let me tell you – my first son (we shall from now on refer to him as “W”) – he certainly is a ham. He absolutely adores our watchful eye, so much so that every now and again he will stop what he is doing and look around and make sure our gaze is fixed upon him. It wouldnt surprise me to find out that he actually thinks that it is a permanent arrangement – that our eyes are spotlights to his one-baby show which of course he will always be the star.
And should our gaze be on anything else, he stares at you until your eyes again find him. And this stare, his look dares you: “Really?” it seems to question in naive bewilderment. “Is there anything more beautiful or important to look at than me?” – he asks without so much as a peep. And of course, coming from a baby it is nothing short of cute and innocent and truly wonderful. You cannot help but smile and answer back via telepathy: “sorry, baby! – you are my whole world!” and you mean this emphatically and absolutely.
My first typewriter was a burgundy-maroon beauty Silent, which i had found out was deemed a speedline. i prefered this speedline design to the earlier flattop because it was a lot more aerodynamic (as if it would take flight one day) and therefore smooth and sleek like myself. It represented me, and at the moment, i thought: this is the ultimate typewriter! It is not black and it is not grey. It’s color is a vintage wine and it isnt brash but instead subtle as all the stories it has lived, seen, and heard in its decades of existence. It belongs neither to the night or day and exists without being tied to the rules of time. In addition to the color, I was further pleased that it was a Silent model, and i imagined it harkened back to the silent film stars. By using this, i became a sort of Rudolf Valentino/Douglas Fairbanks and my typewriter was my Mary Pickford and she had a voice but only i had the ability to hear it.
Lastly i really was fond of those glass keys. They allowed the passage to the past because they a sign of the times and werent as manufactured as plastic. In their reflection with a hard squint you could still see those who used the machine before you.
She was all i had ever hoped for in a typewriter.
And just a few hours later that day came my Olivetti 32, by a stroke of luck and better stroke of genius.
I will make this bold comparison that our typewriters are like our children, to an extent. Can we pick and choose? Sometimes we do, but we know we shouldnt. We should love the same and harbor no favorite or preference. And ideally, we share the love equally.
My wife told me something vastly substantial: Your love grows.