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 Boy and The Dog

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.

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!

 

I Scream, Therefore I Am

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.