I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

These days whenever I sit down at dinner with my kids or unfortunate to catch them in

their busy lives, I was fully recall the pleasures of becoming

a father and the shock of it.

Not that Langston was an abstract idea for nine months, but when your child pretty much

a biological speculation grown into a creature is placed in your arms for the first time

screaming itself into the world, an amazing wave of obligation and accountability lands

full force into your heart.

No experience up till that moment suffices to prepare you.

When my friends arrived home with their adopted daughters, I read that same jolt of recognition

on their faces.

One evening, baby Langston's mother decided to join a girl's night with friends.

I took on all the duties.

I warmed milk, stuck them in my arms and fed him.

I flipped them on my shoulder and burped him.

After a few minutes of quiet, I smelled his poop.

I changed him carefully, undoing his diaper and wiping clean his bottom.

Just when I felt both of us falling into a deep sleep, he began to cry.

What flowed from his lungs was piercing, alone his screams seemed amplified.

I didn't know what artists were in the CD tray, but I hit play on our music system.

The opening vamps of John Coltrane's classic, a love supreme, issued from the speakers.

This did not stop Langston from crying.

...