W hen my first child was born , I discovered, as many new parents do, that my love for her was more profound than I could have anticipated. I had friends and relatives for whom I was willing to die. For my daughter, so visceral was my love, so instantaneous and complete, I knew I would kill. That I loved my daughter was never in doubt. My problem was that I didn’t much like being a father. This came as a shock. I’d wanted a baby because I had taken such pleasure in life that I’d felt driven to