When we came to North Carolina, we were prepared for many things. But there are two things that we could not even begin to be prepared for.
Thing Number 1:
The immense amount of apples. North Carolina is apple country? Since fucking when?! There has not been a single moment in my life as an American citizen where someone has asked me if I want to bite into a crisp North Carolina apple. No one has mentioned the apple-picking good times in the Old North State. The weather is balmy and tropical—this is apparently apple weather? Given that the two places I WAS aware there were apples—Washington and the Northeast—are not inclined toward 100% humidity and little tropical lizards and the potential to actually be the mountains of Guatemala at any moment if you squint hard enough, there was no indication that this was suitable conditions for apples.
But oh boy are there apples. So many apples. A robust economy of appleness, with seasonal apple pickers swarming North Carolina in apple season (fall I guess? I obviously don’t know shit about apples) and a multitude of cideries, more than I have seen anywhere else.
And when I say North Carolina loves apples, I mean they love apples, as evidenced by this man who devoted his entire life to rescuing apples.
Thing Number Two:
Donkeys. Seriously. There are so many donkeys here. People are so confused when I bring it up, as if seeing a field of donkeys every five miles is perfectly reasonable and normal. It is NOT normal and I would like to know what North Carolina is up to, hoarding this many donkeys from the rest of the country. I have made it my mission to find out. So far I have learned, “I don’t think we have that many donkeys,” and, “I don’t know, people like them?” Neither of which are satisfying answers, because clearly there is a much more nefarious donkey-related takeover planned, and everyone is being cagey about it.
In other very important news, I have acquired a bird feeder, but I have yet to convince any birds to eat out of it. I feel confident that they will eventually eat out of my bird feeder, because the 12-year-old who sold it to me at the farmer’s market told me they absolutely will, and she seemed like she knew what she was talking about.
Also, I am going to come right out and say it: our baby has slept 7.5 hours every night for a week. American culture dictates that I ought to feel guilty about having a baby that sleeps so well and attribute it to his own unique personality and take no credit for this.
I absolutely refuse. I am the god of baby sleep and I attribute it to taking many naps in pregnancy, regulating our melatonins as Our Patron Saint Huberman told us, and telling the baby every night, “Hey, you know what makes you cool? Sleeping.” Since he’s Dan’s baby, I know he is committed to being cool, so this is probably the best sleep tip of all time—make sure your baby wants to be cool and then imply he might not be cool if he doesn’t sleep. Slam dunk, sleepy baby every time.
Most of all, I attribute it to my red lightbulb. I had few desires for my baby registry (and still not a single person bought the baby the Wyatt Earp single action Colt revolver marked Must Have, but it’s fine, my friends hate me and my child, whatever), but the two things I thought would make having a baby much easier were puppy pee pads and a red light bulb for the baby room.
So far, I am correct in these desires.
The puppy pee pads are an endless source of usefulness and make changing him far less soul-crushing when he inevitably shits on you after giving you the face that says, “Hey, I’n going to shit, don’t ignore these poop grunts and this face that says I need to shit, I am not fucking around and will shit on you if you ignore me,” and you proceed to ignore him and get shit on but are happy that at least you can whisk away the puppy pee pad (now a poop pad) and not have to wipe anything down except for your hand that is covered in shit.
But the red light bulb has been key to a happy baby. The light bulb was mostly a whim because I heard sailors used them at night and sailors are one step away from pirates and I love pirates, so if it was good enough for pirate sailors, it was definitely way too good for my baby, who has yet to prove himself as a pirate, but I got one for him anyway.
It turns out that red light at night is an actual feat of science, which the pirates already knew but I learned from my new professor Andrew Huberman. It was quite the delight to stumble on his podcast about using light for better health and realizing at 4am that there was more to the whole red light thing than just the potential for becoming a pirate, and that using red light helps with regulating one’s melatonins, something I still haven’t quite understood but I am sure I am doing it right every evening when the baby eats and then immediately passes out again with no interventions from me, because he is bathed in red light which is long-wave and therefore less likely to wake him up and gives him an easier chance at finding his circadian rhythm, something babies are notoriously garbage at because they’re babies and don’t know anything, including how to sleep, an oversight that makes you wonder how the human race has survived at all.
And now he has slept for 7.5 hours every night for a week straight.
If only it wasn’t 8pm to 3:30am.
Apples, Donkeys, and Red Light
You're a brilliant baby sleep whisperer. And circadian rhythm is no joke.