Mylo is growing so fast these days, its hard to keep track of it in real time, much less in a blog. The thought always crosses my mind that he's turning into a little person-- which sounds weird because of course he's always been a person. What I mean to say that his personality is emerging, and he's begun to assert his independence. Which, while sometimes annoying (like when he repeatedly sifts through the garbage can despite my telling him not to), is also very rewarding. His endless curiosity is matched only by his deep sense of affection.
His first word is Ella, the name of our dog. Which is hysterical when you consider the many late-night, pseudo-serious discussions between Reedu and I over whether his first word would be Mama or Dada. And he doesn't just say her name occasionally, he shouts it constantly. Ella! Ella! Ella! It's usually his first word when he wakes, and his last word before going to sleep. He also jumps on Ella's back, covers her body with wet, open mouth kisses, and pulls on her ears. Ella accepts this all with the patience of a saint. Adding to the irony, his second word is DeeDee, the name of our cat. DeeDee has made it clear that she's not interested in any part of Mylo's physical nature, so Mylo will stand a couple feet away from her and pretend to kiss her though the air. This is tolerable for DeeDee.
Mylo's had a persistent cold that has lasted about four weeks now. His appetite is fine and his energy is boundless but it's distressing how congested he is, and a wet, crackling cough has developed over the last week as well. We took him to the doctor and got a prescription for some medicine which I hope will help but I've become exhausted by the constant worrying.
The seasons are changing, and cold weather has moved in. Although, even the weather is unpredictable these days. The new apartment has come together but I've realized that when you move your home, it's not just a simple matter of changing locations. Something much deeper shifts as well, and it takes a while to settle.
I'll end this with a Thanksgiving video of Mylo eating a banana and wearing my sister-in-law Sarita's boots. It's both ridiculous and heart-warming, and it encapsulates everything that I'm feeling these days much better than anything I've just written.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
New Digs, New Stress...
The past month has been a little crazy, to say the least. For starters, we've moved-- not far, just a few blocks over. However, moving, while always stressful, has brought an inordinate amount of chaos and turmoil this time around. Here's a brief rundown of all the constructive things I've been doing over the past month rather than writing blog posts:
-The 'moving company' we hired off of Craig's List (which can be more accurately described as two angry Russian guys with a truck) walk out on us the morning of the move. The inciting incident? I dared to question the line in the contract stipulating that I start paying them a half-hour before they arrived and continue paying them a half-hour after the move is complete. Crazy me.
-While every room in our new apartment has a cable and internet jack, I'm told by the building's developer that he has no idea what those jacks are connected to. What ensues, between panicked sprints to Starbucks to use their wifi for work emergencies, is a deeply humbling, two-week long marathon of phone calls and visitations from, first, Direct TV, and then Time Warner. My life was shortened by several years on this one.
-My back, citing irreconcilable differences with my body, has informed my brain that it no longer wants to be associated with us. Refusing to grant the divorce it seeks, I have been living with nearly constant pain from my tightly clenched, angry-as-hell lower back. I tip-toe around like a pregnant geriatric in order to avoid tweaking it again. (screw you back, I'll never let you go!).
My list of complaints shall end there but suffice it to say that I could go on. A long ways on. For example, my broken iPhone replaced with a refurbished and equally broken iPhone, the Post Office unable to deliver my mail for two weeks and counting because they can't get into the building, the stress-induced psoriasis developing on my left eyelid... dear God, I can't stop!
The fact that I'm even writing here, however, is evidence that things are maybe returning to some kind of normal state. Ahh, how I've missed normal.
I'll end with a few photos of Mylo dressed as a lion for Halloween.
-The 'moving company' we hired off of Craig's List (which can be more accurately described as two angry Russian guys with a truck) walk out on us the morning of the move. The inciting incident? I dared to question the line in the contract stipulating that I start paying them a half-hour before they arrived and continue paying them a half-hour after the move is complete. Crazy me.
-While every room in our new apartment has a cable and internet jack, I'm told by the building's developer that he has no idea what those jacks are connected to. What ensues, between panicked sprints to Starbucks to use their wifi for work emergencies, is a deeply humbling, two-week long marathon of phone calls and visitations from, first, Direct TV, and then Time Warner. My life was shortened by several years on this one.
-My back, citing irreconcilable differences with my body, has informed my brain that it no longer wants to be associated with us. Refusing to grant the divorce it seeks, I have been living with nearly constant pain from my tightly clenched, angry-as-hell lower back. I tip-toe around like a pregnant geriatric in order to avoid tweaking it again. (screw you back, I'll never let you go!).
My list of complaints shall end there but suffice it to say that I could go on. A long ways on. For example, my broken iPhone replaced with a refurbished and equally broken iPhone, the Post Office unable to deliver my mail for two weeks and counting because they can't get into the building, the stress-induced psoriasis developing on my left eyelid... dear God, I can't stop!
The fact that I'm even writing here, however, is evidence that things are maybe returning to some kind of normal state. Ahh, how I've missed normal.
I'll end with a few photos of Mylo dressed as a lion for Halloween.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Reunion
My mom just returned from two months in France with some concern, on her part, over whether or not Mylo would remember her. I'm happy to report that, upon her entrance, Mylo put his head on her shoulder, wrapped his arms around her neck, and gave her a long embrace. It was a nice reunion, to say the least.
This video is from a little later in the day, during mid-afternoon bottle time.
This video is from a little later in the day, during mid-afternoon bottle time.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Birthday Video
I've been MIA on the blog lately mostly because I've been working on this video. I intended it to be finished by Mylo's birthday on August 9th, however, it took a little longer than expected. Dirty diapers, work deadlines, my ever-needy handicapped pitbull, and a host of other daily travails held me up.
Aside from marking Mylo's first year of life this video also marks my evolving use of cameras. It was started in 2010 on my Blackberry phone, it progressed into 2011 on my iPhone, and it was finished this summer with my Canon 60D HDSLR. In the end, it's more of a slideshow than a video, but there's not much I can do about that. Unfortunately, Blogger only allows video uploads of 100Mg or less, so this video is seriously compressed. If you want to see a higher res version click here.
Lastly, it's been a true joy to put this together. A labor of love. People always tell me how quickly time flies when you're watching your kids grow and if this first year is any indication, that is frighteningly true. As I look back at early photos of Mylo, I can hardly believe how fast he's developed. Putting this together has allowed me to go back and savor many of the sweetest moments that flew by with the speed of life.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Happy Birthday!
Happy First Birthday Mylo! You are the apple of my eye, the chip off my old block, the skip in my step... and I couldn't be prouder of you!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Back to Hastings
On a beautiful, late-July afternoon, Mylo and I ventured back to Hastings, my hometown, for a joint, belated Dad's Birthday/Father's Day celebration. Aside from the festivities, the trip held special meaning because it was Mylo's first time in Hastings, and I was anxious to show him all my teenage hangout spots-- the high school, the town pool, the diner, etc. As it turned out, after a good romp around the park, Mylo was ready for a nap, after which we returned to Brooklyn. So the sentimental journey down memory lane will have to wait. But we had a great time just the same.
Grandpa teaches Mylo how to tickle the ivories
The park by the river
Happy Birthday Dad/Grandpa!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
It's Official!
We knew he was close. We knew it was coming. Well, it's here... in his eleventh month of life, Mylo has started walking. Incredible.
It started the week we got back from Montauk-- the second week of July-- with two or three steps. The next day he took seven. And by the following week he was walking throughout the apartment.
These are the legs that may one day scale Everest, and swim the Dardanelles. These are the legs that may circle baseball diamonds, or run marathons. The legs that will take him down an aisle. And while he walks like a drunken sailor right now (or as Reedu says, like Michael Jackson in Thriller), these are the legs that will grow strong and carry him through his life.
It started the week we got back from Montauk-- the second week of July-- with two or three steps. The next day he took seven. And by the following week he was walking throughout the apartment.
These are the legs that may one day scale Everest, and swim the Dardanelles. These are the legs that may circle baseball diamonds, or run marathons. The legs that will take him down an aisle. And while he walks like a drunken sailor right now (or as Reedu says, like Michael Jackson in Thriller), these are the legs that will grow strong and carry him through his life.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Montauk
Montauk. The location hasn't been a secret for some time, and supply-side economics have transformed its once mystical-sleepy-fishing-town atmosphere, at least partly, into something of a more homogenous commodity. Which is to say that hotel rooms are wildly overpriced, people who work there are outwardly resentful, and there's an unfortunate amount of garbage lying around. It's not an uncommon story these days. But the word still holds some cache for me: Montauk. It's the eastern most tip of Long Island and I've always appreciated the idea that, in order to get there, one could simply hop on a train, take it as far as it would go, and then get off. Montauk. Beneath the throngs of angry vacationers and vapid drunks, there is still a pulse, still something breathing, still something that refuses to be handled or shaped or reduced into a mere vacation spot. And for that, I love it. Montauk. I simply say the word and I'm transported there.
This year we took our second annual post-4th of July vacation to Montauk. On last year's trip, Reedu was pregnant, so it has special meaning for us to come back a year later with Mylo. I've also realized in my wise old-age that going on vacation just after a big holiday weekend (as opposed to going during the actual weekend) holds all sorts of terrific benefits-- among them, space on the beach, lighter traffic, and general peacefulness. All of which have become, in my cantankerous old age, increasingly important to me. So on the glorious 5th of July (sorry Founding Fathers), we packed up the family and headed out to Montauk.
Standing on the beach, I hold Mylo in my arms and point out at the great Atlantic. Mylo grasps my shoulder a little tighter and, with unusual seriousness, peers out at the vast expanse of space before us. The waves pound the beach so ferociously that, even from a distance, we feel their intensity and strength. A fine salt water mist slowly coats our faces. Reedu and I love the ocean, and we were eager to introduce Mylo for the first time. Nothing fosters such disparate senses of awe and calm as the ocean. Nothing creates such an immediate sense of humility. Or connection. And I have a hunch that, on some level, Mylo's eleven month old brain is processing all of that. Which is a beautiful thing to watch.
We set up an umbrella and lay our towels down in the sand. I attempt to build some sand castles with a bucket as Mylo shouts with joy and smashes them with his hands. Good fun. This goes on for some time and with each sand block destroyed I start to imagine the boy as a future force to be reckoned with, as a leader of men, a smasher of evil empires. I wonder if Ghandi ever smashed sand castles as a little boy? I'll bet he did. Before long, every inch of Mylo's body is covered with sand. And, for that matter, so is mine (observation: having sand in your shorts is not nearly as fun when you're 37, as it apparently is when you're 11 months old).
The next day we go to a section of Montauk called Ditch Plains, which is a little further east. It is probably my favorite part of Montauk, and when Reedu was pregnant last year, this is where we had some professional pictures taken. The waves break further out and are gentler on this beach, which makes it a popular surfing spot. We take Mylo into the water and he loves it. It's great to be back.
Later that evening, after we've showered, I walk Mylo up a large sand dune and, as a cool breeze blows through our hair and the sun goes down, we say goodnight to the ocean.
We set up an umbrella and lay our towels down in the sand. I attempt to build some sand castles with a bucket as Mylo shouts with joy and smashes them with his hands. Good fun. This goes on for some time and with each sand block destroyed I start to imagine the boy as a future force to be reckoned with, as a leader of men, a smasher of evil empires. I wonder if Ghandi ever smashed sand castles as a little boy? I'll bet he did. Before long, every inch of Mylo's body is covered with sand. And, for that matter, so is mine (observation: having sand in your shorts is not nearly as fun when you're 37, as it apparently is when you're 11 months old).
The next day we go to a section of Montauk called Ditch Plains, which is a little further east. It is probably my favorite part of Montauk, and when Reedu was pregnant last year, this is where we had some professional pictures taken. The waves break further out and are gentler on this beach, which makes it a popular surfing spot. We take Mylo into the water and he loves it. It's great to be back.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Good Day
The new Brooklyn waterfront park is a thing of beauty. And I say that as a person who has his fair share of grievances with the city (don't get me started about the MTA). However, the city has scored big with the park, and, even though it's not complete, it's popularity is evidenced in the shrieks and laughs of kids at play, and the satisfied smiles of watchful parents.
Mylo is a huge fan of sandbox village, where his grandma Claire frequently takes him, and of the water lab, where his grandma Claire also takes him, but where Reedu and I took him this afternoon-- sorry to move in on your turf Ma!
And after a little late-afternoon nap, we finished off the day with a Trader Joe's mini-hold-the-cone ice cream cone.
Now that's a good day!
Mylo is a huge fan of sandbox village, where his grandma Claire frequently takes him, and of the water lab, where his grandma Claire also takes him, but where Reedu and I took him this afternoon-- sorry to move in on your turf Ma!
And after a little late-afternoon nap, we finished off the day with a Trader Joe's mini-hold-the-cone ice cream cone.
Now that's a good day!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
New Photos
Alright, I know I'm biased but is the kid naturally photogenic or what? I wanted to post just one or two of these and I couldn't! I had to post all four! Ridiculous.
He Walks! (sort of)
The steering mechanism is going to take a little fine-tuning, but I'd say, overall, the engine is a thing of beauty.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
GP's in the House!
Until recently, my impression of grandparents was based largely on traditional images of wise, nurturing, huggable old people (think Wilford Brimley in the movie Cocoon) taking their grandchildren on nature walks or dispensing some vitally important life lesson before tucking them into bed and saying goodnight. I'm not exactly sure where these bizarrely cliche impressions came from since, looking back, I realize that I never really had any kind of meaningful relationship with my grandparents. Perhaps I watched one too many Hallmark Movies of the Week. Regardless, I'm happy to report that Mylo's relationship with his grandparents is blossoming into something very special.
When Dianne, Claire, Ghassan, or Alain come through the front door Mylo screams with excitement and reaches out to grab them. He relishes their visits and his love for them is unmistakeable. They each bring different things into his life-- different foods, cultures, languages, games, and songs-- that I know are helping to make him a healthier, happier, stronger person and so I'm filled with a gratitude that I find hard to put into words. Suffice it to say that his life would be considerably less enriched without their involvement.
Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much they help me out too. When I'm most exhausted or when I'm leaving for work and don't have any time, they swoop in and take Mylo out for a walk or to the park or some other fun-filled activity. Aside from heaping doses of love, they also bring food, diapers, toys and an enormous amount of material support that I probably wouldn't have the time or the money to buy. And, in fear of getting sappy, they make me understand what the old saying 'it takes a village' really means.
So here's a shout-out to all the GP's! I salute you, I thank you, I seriously appreciate you. From the bottom of my heart I say: Thank you Dianne! Thank you Claire! Thank you Ghassan! Thank you Alain!
Through my first 37 years of life I was not a great practitioner of the word 'cute'. As a new father I suddenly find myself elbow deep in it.
I find this video devastatingly cute.
Simply put, Kitty was the boss. She was the queen, the matriarch, a sultry lady of relentless attitude and love wrapped up in one undeniably female, furry body. My wife and I would often joke that this was Kitty's apartment, and it was only by her good graces that we were allowed to stay. She was bossy, hard-headed, demanding, and territorial. By equal measures, she was also sensitive, affectionate, loving, and intimate. She would lie next to me in bed, look deeply into my eyes and gently touch my face with her paws. Most nights, she would curl up on my wife's pillow, cradle her head between her paws, and rest her chin on my wife's forehead. These were moments of intense closeness, strange for their intimacy, yet impossible to pull away from.
Over the last couple of years, Kitty's health declined. She had a hyperactive thyroid condition, and she became senile. Yesterday, we said goodbye.
Unfortunately, Mylo won't remember Kitty. At seven months, he's too young. But I'll be sure to show him pictures and tell him stories when he gets older. And I can tell a million stories: how she was rescued by my wife. How she stood up to all the crazy, foster dogs that passed through our apartment. How loving she was to my wife and I. How crazy she was to any guests we dared to invite over without her permission.
But all that really matters right now is that a part of our family is gone. And we miss her.
I told Mylo exactly how I felt about the MTA: my deep sense of resentment towards their fare hikes, cut backs in service, and what I feel is a pervasive air of corruption within the agency. Mylo laughed and tried to bite my nose. We hopped on the subway. It was Mylo's first ride and I'm happy to report that he enjoyed it quite a bit. And I must admit... so did I.
When Dianne, Claire, Ghassan, or Alain come through the front door Mylo screams with excitement and reaches out to grab them. He relishes their visits and his love for them is unmistakeable. They each bring different things into his life-- different foods, cultures, languages, games, and songs-- that I know are helping to make him a healthier, happier, stronger person and so I'm filled with a gratitude that I find hard to put into words. Suffice it to say that his life would be considerably less enriched without their involvement.
Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much they help me out too. When I'm most exhausted or when I'm leaving for work and don't have any time, they swoop in and take Mylo out for a walk or to the park or some other fun-filled activity. Aside from heaping doses of love, they also bring food, diapers, toys and an enormous amount of material support that I probably wouldn't have the time or the money to buy. And, in fear of getting sappy, they make me understand what the old saying 'it takes a village' really means.
So here's a shout-out to all the GP's! I salute you, I thank you, I seriously appreciate you. From the bottom of my heart I say: Thank you Dianne! Thank you Claire! Thank you Ghassan! Thank you Alain!
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| Grandma Claire spreading the love |
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| Granna Dianna hugging it up |
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| Hacking around with Sidi Ghassan |
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| Meeting of the Minds with Grandpa Alain |
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Two Great Articles
These are two beautiful (and short) articles on fatherhood that I recently came across. They approach the topic from two completely different perspectives, but they're equally terrific.
The first is from the New York Times Magazine. A story about a fatherhood class for Korean men. Check it out here.
The second is from Baby Talk. Of which, I assure you, I'm not a regular reader, but my wife showed me the article and it's great. Check it out here.
The first is from the New York Times Magazine. A story about a fatherhood class for Korean men. Check it out here.
The second is from Baby Talk. Of which, I assure you, I'm not a regular reader, but my wife showed me the article and it's great. Check it out here.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Hurricane Mylo
Mylo has entered a new stage that I affectionately call the 'I'm Going to Tear this MF'ing House Apart' stage. This video is a fairly typical example of what it involves. You'll notice the tupperware scattered across the floor in the background-- some earlier wreckage that Mylo had sown. You'll also see Reedu's legs enter frame about halfway through.
Bad Dad
It's 3:30am and I'm pushing a stroller through a casino in Las Vegas. Mylo looks out with earnest curiosity as lights, bells, and debauchery explode around us. Judging by the look of surprise on people's faces, I'd say we've caught Sin City off-guard. Prostitution? Yes. Public Drunkenness? Check. Baby in a stroller? Whoa, whoa, whoa... that's over the line, dude.
Now, this is my first time in Las Vegas and, while I had some idea of what to expect, I didn't foresee a little, late-night jaunt with Mylo being such a complicated event. But as we saunter past the roulette tables, hardened gamblers drop their poker chips and sit slack-jawed at the sight of us. And in fairness, I can understand their shock. A nine-month old baby most definitely does not belong in a casino, especially at 3:30am. There are, however, some mitigating circumstances here. Allow me to explain: the boy is jet-lagged and for his little body it's actually 6:30am-- the time he normally wakes up. Furthermore, I wasn't the one who designed the hotel with a front door on the far side of the casino! My intention is simply to take Mylo out for a walk, buy my wife a few more hours of sleep in our hotel room, and hopefully exhaust the boy enough to get him back to sleep. Honorable enough, in my estimation. I'd like to explain this to the people staring at us but I don't have the energy. I've slept about 3 hours and, to be honest, I'm not in the best of moods. I'm also resentful of the feeling that I need to explain my sense of ethics to a group of drunken gamblers and over-stimulated, libido-gone-wild, twenty-something-year olds.
Through loud music, scantily clad cocktail waitresses, and the intoxicating ringing of bells and whistles, we make our way to the front door and emerge outside. Any notions I may have had about things being calmer and quieter outside, however, are immediately dispelled. I wasn't expecting soothing, moonlit strolls down cobblestone paths, I wasn't that naive, but, seriously, how could I have foreseen the half-naked (yes, that half) homeless guy getting tackled to the ground and arrested by the police? How could I have prepared for the drunken prostitute asking if she could rent my stroller? Or the throngs of tattooed fraternity brothers drunkenly shouting 'Vegas, baby, Vegas'? Eventually I spot a semi-quiet path off to the side which Mylo and I duck down. It turns out to be the entrance to Bally's Casino, and it's quite peaceful, which may not be such a good sign for Bally's but it suits our needs perfectly. The tree-lined path offers the illusion of pastoral calm, and the water in the fountain provides some white noise. It's just my speed. We hunker down here for a while, enjoying a brief respite from the storm.
Eventually, we return to the hotel. We walk back through the casino, suffering even more stares, and spend another hour hacking around in the lobby of our hotel. Mylo loves new places, and he loves to watch people even more. From our perch on a sofa in the corner, the huge hotel lobby offers plenty of both. Mylo bounces up and down in my lap and screams with excitement. At about 5am we return to the room, and shortly after Reedu wakes up and takes Mylo. Having reached a place beyond tired, I collapse into bed and am asleep before my eyelids even shut.
Looking back, I have to admit that our little adventure was fun. I certainly don't plan on taking any future late-night casino strolls with Mylo, but through the haze of sleep deprivation and cigarette smoke there was a feeling of excitement that I think we shared. We were seeing the crazy world through the same little window. We were together, in a bubble, looking out at a wild scene, and while it's probably a good thing that Mylo's too young to process it all, or even to remember it for that matter, I'll never forget it. We had an adventure. And it was fun.
Now, this is my first time in Las Vegas and, while I had some idea of what to expect, I didn't foresee a little, late-night jaunt with Mylo being such a complicated event. But as we saunter past the roulette tables, hardened gamblers drop their poker chips and sit slack-jawed at the sight of us. And in fairness, I can understand their shock. A nine-month old baby most definitely does not belong in a casino, especially at 3:30am. There are, however, some mitigating circumstances here. Allow me to explain: the boy is jet-lagged and for his little body it's actually 6:30am-- the time he normally wakes up. Furthermore, I wasn't the one who designed the hotel with a front door on the far side of the casino! My intention is simply to take Mylo out for a walk, buy my wife a few more hours of sleep in our hotel room, and hopefully exhaust the boy enough to get him back to sleep. Honorable enough, in my estimation. I'd like to explain this to the people staring at us but I don't have the energy. I've slept about 3 hours and, to be honest, I'm not in the best of moods. I'm also resentful of the feeling that I need to explain my sense of ethics to a group of drunken gamblers and over-stimulated, libido-gone-wild, twenty-something-year olds.
Through loud music, scantily clad cocktail waitresses, and the intoxicating ringing of bells and whistles, we make our way to the front door and emerge outside. Any notions I may have had about things being calmer and quieter outside, however, are immediately dispelled. I wasn't expecting soothing, moonlit strolls down cobblestone paths, I wasn't that naive, but, seriously, how could I have foreseen the half-naked (yes, that half) homeless guy getting tackled to the ground and arrested by the police? How could I have prepared for the drunken prostitute asking if she could rent my stroller? Or the throngs of tattooed fraternity brothers drunkenly shouting 'Vegas, baby, Vegas'? Eventually I spot a semi-quiet path off to the side which Mylo and I duck down. It turns out to be the entrance to Bally's Casino, and it's quite peaceful, which may not be such a good sign for Bally's but it suits our needs perfectly. The tree-lined path offers the illusion of pastoral calm, and the water in the fountain provides some white noise. It's just my speed. We hunker down here for a while, enjoying a brief respite from the storm.
Eventually, we return to the hotel. We walk back through the casino, suffering even more stares, and spend another hour hacking around in the lobby of our hotel. Mylo loves new places, and he loves to watch people even more. From our perch on a sofa in the corner, the huge hotel lobby offers plenty of both. Mylo bounces up and down in my lap and screams with excitement. At about 5am we return to the room, and shortly after Reedu wakes up and takes Mylo. Having reached a place beyond tired, I collapse into bed and am asleep before my eyelids even shut.
Looking back, I have to admit that our little adventure was fun. I certainly don't plan on taking any future late-night casino strolls with Mylo, but through the haze of sleep deprivation and cigarette smoke there was a feeling of excitement that I think we shared. We were seeing the crazy world through the same little window. We were together, in a bubble, looking out at a wild scene, and while it's probably a good thing that Mylo's too young to process it all, or even to remember it for that matter, I'll never forget it. We had an adventure. And it was fun.
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| Still exhausted. (Mylo's peeking out from behind the sofa). |
Sunday, April 24, 2011
No Other Word For It
Through my first 37 years of life I was not a great practitioner of the word 'cute'. As a new father I suddenly find myself elbow deep in it.
I find this video devastatingly cute.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My 3am Values
One of the less spectacular discoveries I've made as a father is that at 3am, almost everything is negotiable if the reward is sleep. Every possession, every dream, every deeply held belief-- they're all on the chopping block. If I cut off my right arm I can sleep for another hour, you say? That's doable, lets discuss. I would steal, I would burn, I would happily sack and pillage entire villages in exchange for just a few more minutes of blessed sleep.
And so it was around 3am, I believe, as I stood, blurry-eyed, exhausted, half-naked, and plunging the overflowing toilet, that I started to question my decision to use environmentally friendly, disposable gDiapers. What about climate change, you ask? A vast left-wing conspiracy, I say, as the dirty water lapped over the top of the toilet rim and splashed on my bare feet.
Let me start at the beginning: Reedu and I are both aware that thousands of tons of soiled diapers lie in land fills across the country. These diapers take a long time to decompose. Which means, basically, that a long time after I'm gone, my kid's crappy diaper will still be here. Which is not good. So Reedu and I found gDiapers, and breathed a sigh of relief. gDiapers use disposable inserts inside of a reusable, outer shell. Once soiled, the inserts are torn in half, dropped in the toilet and flushed away to some happy, earth-friendly after life. At least that's what they're supposed to do. Unfortunately, the problem with gDiapers, in my experience, is that about 30% of the time they don't flush.
Fast forward to 3am. My feet are wet. My arms are tired. My toilet is clogged. And my old, Hungarian superintendent will want to know why the hell I tried to flush a diaper down the toilet when I call him in the morning-- 'ze diepahs ah not for ze toilet'!
I know there are other options. We could use cloth diapers, or buy Seventh Generation biodegradable diapers. And we probably will try something else. But, alas, gDiapers, we had such high hopes for thee.
And so it was around 3am, I believe, as I stood, blurry-eyed, exhausted, half-naked, and plunging the overflowing toilet, that I started to question my decision to use environmentally friendly, disposable gDiapers. What about climate change, you ask? A vast left-wing conspiracy, I say, as the dirty water lapped over the top of the toilet rim and splashed on my bare feet.
Let me start at the beginning: Reedu and I are both aware that thousands of tons of soiled diapers lie in land fills across the country. These diapers take a long time to decompose. Which means, basically, that a long time after I'm gone, my kid's crappy diaper will still be here. Which is not good. So Reedu and I found gDiapers, and breathed a sigh of relief. gDiapers use disposable inserts inside of a reusable, outer shell. Once soiled, the inserts are torn in half, dropped in the toilet and flushed away to some happy, earth-friendly after life. At least that's what they're supposed to do. Unfortunately, the problem with gDiapers, in my experience, is that about 30% of the time they don't flush.
Fast forward to 3am. My feet are wet. My arms are tired. My toilet is clogged. And my old, Hungarian superintendent will want to know why the hell I tried to flush a diaper down the toilet when I call him in the morning-- 'ze diepahs ah not for ze toilet'!
I know there are other options. We could use cloth diapers, or buy Seventh Generation biodegradable diapers. And we probably will try something else. But, alas, gDiapers, we had such high hopes for thee.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
I Am Moron, Hear Me Roar.
Mylo is 8 months old today. We celebrated by dancing around the living room to his favorite song: Rolling in the Deep, by Adele. Alright, I don't know if it's his favorite song for sure, but I can say unequivocally that he really likes to dance to it. Especially that part in the middle where the drums kick in and the bass starts jamming. He goes wild during that part.
Having a child is an excellent excuse to throw off the shackles of humility, make silly noises, and jump around like an utter buffoon. I take full advantage of these opportunities and, truth be told, it feels good. Really good. Of course, I'm an excellent dancer (or at least my wife, Reedu, tells me so), but, just the same, I don't get too many opportunities to really cut loose these days. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more serious life has become. There's debt and sickness, insurance and careers, death and anxiety, and... sometimes I just need to dance. Because if I didn't hop around like an imbecile and make childish noises, if I didn't have that release, I think I'd probably go nuts. Interesting paradox: at the moment when I probably appear the most insane, I actually feel the most grounded.
Happy 8 months Mylo! I love you with all of my heart and I'm so impressed with all of the growing you've done in your short time here. Good work. I have a great idea: lets do some dancing tomorrow!
Having a child is an excellent excuse to throw off the shackles of humility, make silly noises, and jump around like an utter buffoon. I take full advantage of these opportunities and, truth be told, it feels good. Really good. Of course, I'm an excellent dancer (or at least my wife, Reedu, tells me so), but, just the same, I don't get too many opportunities to really cut loose these days. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more serious life has become. There's debt and sickness, insurance and careers, death and anxiety, and... sometimes I just need to dance. Because if I didn't hop around like an imbecile and make childish noises, if I didn't have that release, I think I'd probably go nuts. Interesting paradox: at the moment when I probably appear the most insane, I actually feel the most grounded.
Happy 8 months Mylo! I love you with all of my heart and I'm so impressed with all of the growing you've done in your short time here. Good work. I have a great idea: lets do some dancing tomorrow!
Saturday, April 2, 2011
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Mylo slept until 7:20am this morning. I could cry with happiness. I slept about 8 hours. I haven't slept 8 hours in a row in about 8 months, which, not incidentally, happens to be how old Mylo is.
Ah, my old friend sleep. I've missed you so.
Ah, my old friend sleep. I've missed you so.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tsunami Dream
5:57am. Can't sleep. My head is filled with images of tsunami's and dictators, giant earthquakes and radioactive fallout. Anxieties, calamities, disasters. How does anyone sleep these days...
The streets outside are empty. It looks cold. Very cold. But I'm not exactly sure what I'm basing that on.
Mylo slept until 4:30am this morning. And, for the record, that is progress. He stood up in his crib (for the first time-- gasp), let out a few grunts and groans to let us know he was awake, and so the morning began. I brought Mylo into the living room and walked around with him until he dozed off. If I can get Mylo to sleep one or two more hours a night, I would consider that a huge step towards normalcy. Ah yes, normalcy...
6:23am. Reedu just came out of the bedroom and told me that I gave her my tsunami dream. She was upset. I gave her a hug, told her it was just a dream. She went back to sleep. I feel bad. But, truth be told, I'm so grateful that I have her to share my tsunami dreams with.
The sky is turning a lighter shade of blue. I see people on the sidewalk, hustling off to work. I'm going back to bed.
The streets outside are empty. It looks cold. Very cold. But I'm not exactly sure what I'm basing that on.
Mylo slept until 4:30am this morning. And, for the record, that is progress. He stood up in his crib (for the first time-- gasp), let out a few grunts and groans to let us know he was awake, and so the morning began. I brought Mylo into the living room and walked around with him until he dozed off. If I can get Mylo to sleep one or two more hours a night, I would consider that a huge step towards normalcy. Ah yes, normalcy...
6:23am. Reedu just came out of the bedroom and told me that I gave her my tsunami dream. She was upset. I gave her a hug, told her it was just a dream. She went back to sleep. I feel bad. But, truth be told, I'm so grateful that I have her to share my tsunami dreams with.
The sky is turning a lighter shade of blue. I see people on the sidewalk, hustling off to work. I'm going back to bed.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Goodbye to a Friend
Simply put, Kitty was the boss. She was the queen, the matriarch, a sultry lady of relentless attitude and love wrapped up in one undeniably female, furry body. My wife and I would often joke that this was Kitty's apartment, and it was only by her good graces that we were allowed to stay. She was bossy, hard-headed, demanding, and territorial. By equal measures, she was also sensitive, affectionate, loving, and intimate. She would lie next to me in bed, look deeply into my eyes and gently touch my face with her paws. Most nights, she would curl up on my wife's pillow, cradle her head between her paws, and rest her chin on my wife's forehead. These were moments of intense closeness, strange for their intimacy, yet impossible to pull away from.
Over the last couple of years, Kitty's health declined. She had a hyperactive thyroid condition, and she became senile. Yesterday, we said goodbye.
Unfortunately, Mylo won't remember Kitty. At seven months, he's too young. But I'll be sure to show him pictures and tell him stories when he gets older. And I can tell a million stories: how she was rescued by my wife. How she stood up to all the crazy, foster dogs that passed through our apartment. How loving she was to my wife and I. How crazy she was to any guests we dared to invite over without her permission.
But all that really matters right now is that a part of our family is gone. And we miss her.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Boy Can Move
I'm thinking about attaching some swiffers to his outfit. The apartment would be dust free in an afternoon.
Workers of the World... Unite!
Good news. Apparently, the boy likes him some Howard Zinn. Of all the books in our bookcase, Mylo chose the ol' People's History to yank down, and nearly chew the cover off trying to get into! Which, I must admit, makes papa proud... damn proud. I think I smells me some Noam Chomsky around the corner!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Word 'No'
It can be said that a parent really becomes a parent the first time he uses the word no. As in 'no Mylo, don't grab the extension cord', or, 'no Mylo, don't bite the cat's tail'.
For the first five months of Mylo's life my wife and I showered him with yeses. Why wouldn't we? Mylo was a soft, cuddly, immobile pile of cuteness. And while he is still soft and cuddly, he is most definitely not immobile. Mylo shuffles about the apartment, honing in on the very things a six-month-old shouldn't be handling, and vigorously inserting them into his mouth.
'Mylo, don't put the dog's paw in your mouth'.
'No, Mylo, don't grab the flower vase'.
'Mylo, no, you can't have the knife'.
A litany of no's has left me feeling like a police officer, or disciplinarian, or the strict high school teacher (usually of Math, for some reason) who relishes in meting out punishment to his students. I'm exaggerating a bit, I suppose (I don't mete out punishment, I dish out kisses), but there is some irony in the fact that I, the person who never had much respect for the word 'no' while I was growing up, the air-headed adolescent who tortured my neighbors with wild parties in high school, the insufferable wise-ass who got kicked out of class and spent untold hours in detention, the 20-something-year-old daydreamer who was fired from countless jobs, is now saddled with the responsibility of teaching that word to my son.
In a way, I suppose it's a good thing. That, within this process, I'm not only setting up important parameters for my son, I'm also learning something about myself. Something that involves responsibility and growing up.
'Mylo, NO, do not grab that glass'!
But I still can't help but think that if my high school Math teacher could see me now, he'd laugh his ass off.
For the first five months of Mylo's life my wife and I showered him with yeses. Why wouldn't we? Mylo was a soft, cuddly, immobile pile of cuteness. And while he is still soft and cuddly, he is most definitely not immobile. Mylo shuffles about the apartment, honing in on the very things a six-month-old shouldn't be handling, and vigorously inserting them into his mouth.
'Mylo, don't put the dog's paw in your mouth'.
'No, Mylo, don't grab the flower vase'.
'Mylo, no, you can't have the knife'.
A litany of no's has left me feeling like a police officer, or disciplinarian, or the strict high school teacher (usually of Math, for some reason) who relishes in meting out punishment to his students. I'm exaggerating a bit, I suppose (I don't mete out punishment, I dish out kisses), but there is some irony in the fact that I, the person who never had much respect for the word 'no' while I was growing up, the air-headed adolescent who tortured my neighbors with wild parties in high school, the insufferable wise-ass who got kicked out of class and spent untold hours in detention, the 20-something-year-old daydreamer who was fired from countless jobs, is now saddled with the responsibility of teaching that word to my son.
In a way, I suppose it's a good thing. That, within this process, I'm not only setting up important parameters for my son, I'm also learning something about myself. Something that involves responsibility and growing up.
'Mylo, NO, do not grab that glass'!
But I still can't help but think that if my high school Math teacher could see me now, he'd laugh his ass off.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Family Photo's
It's 10:23am and I've cleaned up my cat's barf, my son's poop, and my dog's pee. Did I mention that it's 10:23am? Now I know that not every household contains a farmyard of special-needs animals like ours (two, cranky senior-citizen cats and a handicapped pitbull at last count) but, nonetheless, I've come to believe that behind every smiling, happy family photo there is a tidal wave of bodily secretions waiting to be cleaned.
 |
| can you hear the roar of the tsunami approaching? |
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Mylo's First Subway Ride
I told Mylo exactly how I felt about the MTA: my deep sense of resentment towards their fare hikes, cut backs in service, and what I feel is a pervasive air of corruption within the agency. Mylo laughed and tried to bite my nose. We hopped on the subway. It was Mylo's first ride and I'm happy to report that he enjoyed it quite a bit. And I must admit... so did I.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Unrecognized Miracles
In the waiting room at the pediatrician's office this past week, there were two boys, each about two years old, also waiting to see the doctor. As we waited, the boys had fun pushing small, baby-sized chairs around the waiting room, sliding them along the floor as though they were walkers. Mylo sat on my wife's lap staring at them with great interest. At five months old he's not yet able to walk, but he is developing in leaps and bounds (two teeth already in) and I'm sure that in the blink of my eyes he'll be sliding chairs around waiting rooms, too. He watched the two older boys, seemingly fascinated by their limitless physical capabilities.
I've never had more respect, more amazement and more awe at the incredibly sophisticated physics of our bodies that we take for granted everyday. After slithering out of the primordial soup, we have evolved into upright bipeds that balance ourselves on two legs, walk around, open doors, sit down and stand up... mindless tasks that I now see as unrecognized miracles. I imagine an alternate universe in which we flounder around in the dirt, like a fish taken out of a pond, because whatever electrical charge, whatever gene mutation, whatever little enzyme alteration or inexplicable thing that happened that allows us to stand upright and balanced, hasn't taken place. We crawl around on our bellies, accomplishing only those things that a supine species like ours can do: building mud huts, eating meals of berries and nuts, and growing massive callouses on our knees.
As a newborn Mylo was helpless (as I imagine all newborns are). He didn't have a blink reflex, much less any awareness of what was going on around him. In five and a half months time he has grown into a little wrestler, twisting his head from side to side in order to take in whatever is going on around him. He grabs most everything within his orbit and quickly deposits it into his mouth. He kicks relentlessly, as though swimming in the air. He screams with excitement, shouts with joy, laughs out loud when I change his diaper, and yells in overly-dramatic frustration when I try to pick his nose. He has, in short, developed into a little person with likes and dislikes, a huge interest in the world around him, and a great love in his heart.
The physics of it all are absolutely mind-blowing. Day by day I watch his body grow, and his mind develop, and his personality emerge. Friends with grown children always caution me how quickly it all goes by, and surely they are right if the last five and a half months are any kind of measuring stick. In no time at all he'll be walking, and then talking, and then going to school... and then (much to my wife's chagrin), he'll become a man and have a life. Much of that development will undoubtedly be my responsibility. But as I watch him grow before me I'm struck by how much of it isn't. Yes, I stand beside him smiling, whispering 'yes' and giving him kisses, but his growth and development, up to this point anyway, seem to be largely governed by some prearranged agreement between nature and his individual genetics. Which isn't to say that I'm inconsequential-- I know that I'm not-- only that I'm in awe of how much is contributed from elsewhere. Awestruck and, I suppose, grateful.
I've never had more respect, more amazement and more awe at the incredibly sophisticated physics of our bodies that we take for granted everyday. After slithering out of the primordial soup, we have evolved into upright bipeds that balance ourselves on two legs, walk around, open doors, sit down and stand up... mindless tasks that I now see as unrecognized miracles. I imagine an alternate universe in which we flounder around in the dirt, like a fish taken out of a pond, because whatever electrical charge, whatever gene mutation, whatever little enzyme alteration or inexplicable thing that happened that allows us to stand upright and balanced, hasn't taken place. We crawl around on our bellies, accomplishing only those things that a supine species like ours can do: building mud huts, eating meals of berries and nuts, and growing massive callouses on our knees.
As a newborn Mylo was helpless (as I imagine all newborns are). He didn't have a blink reflex, much less any awareness of what was going on around him. In five and a half months time he has grown into a little wrestler, twisting his head from side to side in order to take in whatever is going on around him. He grabs most everything within his orbit and quickly deposits it into his mouth. He kicks relentlessly, as though swimming in the air. He screams with excitement, shouts with joy, laughs out loud when I change his diaper, and yells in overly-dramatic frustration when I try to pick his nose. He has, in short, developed into a little person with likes and dislikes, a huge interest in the world around him, and a great love in his heart.
The physics of it all are absolutely mind-blowing. Day by day I watch his body grow, and his mind develop, and his personality emerge. Friends with grown children always caution me how quickly it all goes by, and surely they are right if the last five and a half months are any kind of measuring stick. In no time at all he'll be walking, and then talking, and then going to school... and then (much to my wife's chagrin), he'll become a man and have a life. Much of that development will undoubtedly be my responsibility. But as I watch him grow before me I'm struck by how much of it isn't. Yes, I stand beside him smiling, whispering 'yes' and giving him kisses, but his growth and development, up to this point anyway, seem to be largely governed by some prearranged agreement between nature and his individual genetics. Which isn't to say that I'm inconsequential-- I know that I'm not-- only that I'm in awe of how much is contributed from elsewhere. Awestruck and, I suppose, grateful.
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