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.

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.

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!

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.

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