Being a father of twins means perpetually multi-tasking, like a juggler high up on a tightrope, wearing a clown costume.
On the rare occasion the kids decide to sleep in for 15 minutes you feel overwhelmed with the feeling of freedom and possibility.
Immediately, I knew what I wanted from my fifteen minutes in heaven: french press of Antigua coffee and Jiayang Fang’s New Yorker piece on Hong Kong. But first things first: I hastily washed and cut a half pint of blueberries for the twins and set up for their breakfast. I also prepared bowls of different cereals for papi and mami.
I sat down with the magazine, poured a cup of coffee and started reading; it was as brilliant as I knew it would be. For weeks, I had been following Jiayang’s Twitter dispatches from HK as she meticulously prepared her piece. Her essay opens with a riveting scene in City Hall, which most days functions as a performance space. A troupe of students is boldly putting on a play about the protests, which are simultaneously happening on the streets outside.
A page and a half in, I reached for a bowl of cereal, poured in the milk and when I went to take a spoonful realized I had taken HRM’s bowl instead of mine. My forehead crumpled in disbelief, but I was hardly surprised at myself.
Then I heard the sounds of Luca and Olin stirring awake in the bedroom.