A rock-’n’-roll writer becomes a father and finds it wonderful.
Pollack (Never Mind the Pollacks, 2003, etc.) was a hip single guy working the rock scene. Then he found fetching, quirky Regina from Nashville. She was the woman he was looking for, “a smart, confident, talented, patient, bossy, good-looking Southern nerd.” So he married her. Soon, with the combined application of scientific method and the tried-and-true old-fashioned way, they made a baby. The proud daddy describes, perhaps in more detail than necessary, the birth of Elijah (9 lb, 10 oz), the best child ever. We learn of doulas and birthing techniques, obstetricians, grandparents, baby showers and, of course, the yeas and nays of circumcision (“Peeniegate”). There are narratives about schooling choices, butt rashes, applesauce, Elijah’s attempts at walking and talking and his penchant for blood-drawing biting. The little nuclear family moves from Chicago to Philly to Austin (where there are neighborhood problems) and, as of last report, to L.A. Pollack’s journal includes an excursus now and again regarding such matters as road trips with a band, his wife’s anatomy and the salubrious effects of getting stoned on good grass. Elijah is now four, Dad is 36 and they are both growing up nicely. God job, Neal! Someday, Elijah will especially enjoy this history, and meanwhile, we can look forward to his Bar Mitzvah.
Foolproof material, illustrated with snapshots proving Elijah’s cuteness.