A Whiff.

After having a child, your relationship with your spouse changes.

It’s really one of those ‘you gotta be there to experience it’ experience, because in no way words can convince or dissuade you otherwise.

Hell, even I still don’t believe it some days.

The best way I can describe it, is to imagine yourself to be 17 or 18 again, right?

When you thought you were so cool, edgy, and avant-garde, so ready to be a better grown-up than the grown-ups around you.

I look back fondly at that confidence and positivity, but I also want to dig my throat and hurl.

Anyway, the spousal change - it’s not a bad change, just a different change.

For example, I am 100% confident that before Hana, we wouldn’t have been able to pack and survive on a camping trip while having COVID.

Pre-father Harvard couldn’t imagine the logistic, just like how he couldn’t imagine wiping ass for four years.

But we did it.

I guess, there’s also the unspoken rule that the person who brought COVID home has to suck it up. If the wife wants to go camping, you fucking shake the tambourine. She wants to drive and set up the tent, you get out of the way. She wants you to do it instead, you jump in.

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Me waiting for my sense of smell to return.

On day four, as I thought my symptoms were ‘mild’, my dear son Ollie (short for olfaction aka sense of smell) left me. I’ve had it once before due to sinusitis, but this time, fear became the primary symptom of the virus. What if this C word becomes a long C word? If the brain can switch off smelling, who knows what else was switched off? Common sense, memories, things I chucked in the garage because I never used but sure it’s really important?

Alright, the bright side of not having a sense of smell: I can make fire without the charcoal smoke choking my face. The biggest fear of long drop / no flush toilet, gone.

The downside? Well, let’s see all I’m missing is the joy of eating, cooking, the access to memories, the reason to exist. It’s not big deal. Most importantly, I will not know if a fire is burning the house down or if the wife just farted silently in my face.

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The saddest part - I probably cooked the best meal of the year.

Number 7 thickness on the Marcato Atlas.

I made dumpling skin using the pasta machine, the filling was chicken, prawn, chives and Chinese cabbage.

Made Kanelbullar cinnamon scrolls with proper double fermentation, french butter, grade-A cinnamon grounds and sugar glazing.

Mastered cooking steak on charcoal fire.

Satoshi gave us fluffy white bread, mince pie and coffee.

All of those, are just for texture.

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Like I said before, having a child changes you.

We had a choice, to be miserable at home, or miserable with nature.

At least, for Hana, the next time she thinks of COVID, she’ll remember camping.

The ocean, sand on her toes, hot chocolates.

That one time mum and dad were really unfriendly to the other campers.

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It’s day 9 now, and I’m still coughing like an old lady.

And like an old lady, I’m having bouts of dementia.

My estranged son Ollie would visit from time to time.

He’d bring food, drinks, we’d talk about good days, bad days.
I’d turn around and he’s gone.

All I have is the hope that he’ll be back one day.

So, this isn’t a ‘woe is me’ COVID post; this is a post to remind you to call your loved ones.

Sometimes, you’re the only reason they get up from bed.

Thanks, everyone for the good wishes.

I just really really want to smell my armpits right now.