The pattern emerging isn't pretty. Apparently every winter I will experience one completely debilitating and slightly weird illness that will completely knock me out of commission for a period of time. Is this a by-product of getting old? Of having children? Or of just being completely exhausted all the time? I have not the answer. But of this I am certain: getting sick really sucks.
Three years ago I contracted the Coxsackie Virus from Mylo. Also known as hand, foot, and mouth disease, this lovely little illness leaves you with sores all over your... wait for it... hands, feet, and mouth. In my special case however, the sores appeared all over my mouth, my hands, and my face-- leaving me looking like an escapee from a leper colony for about a week. Friends and family will continually confuse your diagnosis with hoof-and-mouth disease, to which you will respond through sore-laden lips, 'no, that's different-- that's what cow's get'. From what I've read, and from those I've spoken with, Mylo had a fairly mild case in which he had sores on the back of his legs for about a week, and little else. I had a fairly horrific case.
That was followed up last year by what I affectionately call the four month cough. There's not too much explanation required since the name pretty much says it all. But by the time it was done I had gone through two rounds of antibiotics, a chest x-ray, a new doctor, and a final diagnosis of a viral infection that there wasn't a damn thing I could do about besides go home, drink tea, and rest. Thanks Doc.
Which brings me to this year's revelry. Reedu very generously passed on her strep throat to me, which morphed into an ear infection that left me feeling as though someone was trying to clean my aural canal with a screwdriver. After two rounds of antibiotics (the second of which I finish tomorrow), ear drops to numb the pain, and a host of other cold medications that bring new meaning to the concept of futility, I would truly like to believe that I'm at the tail end of this joyous little journey. However, as of the writing of this blog post, my right ear is still filled with fluid, rendering me deaf in that ear for what has become a two week sojourn. Merry Christmas.
The remedy that's suggested most often by doctor's is rest. Which happens to be the one medication I can't seem to get. So, I keep my cough drops near, my tea hot, and I look forward to Spring with baited breath.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The Girl
For the first month of her life I barely saw her eyes open. Now her gaze follows me around the room, and she breaks into big beautiful smiles when I approach.
Needless to say, I'm a sucker for her charm... and she's got boatloads of it.
Needless to say, I'm a sucker for her charm... and she's got boatloads of it.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
8 pounds, 13 ounces. Love.
A telling sign of what my life is like these days, is the fact that I'm writing about my daughter's birth almost three months after it happened. In other words, I'm a tad busy as of late. So much to say, so little time to blog about it.
Welcome to the world Reya Taha Wood! You're too beautiful for words!
Thursday, August 1, 2013
A Poo Grows in Brooklyn
Henceforth, August 1st, 2013 shall be known as the day Mylo first went poo-poo in the potty. A cause for great celebration across the land, but nowhere more so than here, in our humble abode. So shout it from the rooftops-- a poop has been laid! May there be many more to come and, God willing, may they be much easier to accomplish than this first.
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| I went poo-poo on the potty and all I got was this lousy fire truck |
Reunion 2013 / 4th of July
On the fourth of July, 2013, Goomah returned from France. It was, by all accounts, a joyous reunion.
It being the 4th of July, it was also a joyous holiday.
In the interest of full disclosure (and so as not to get a visit from social services), it's not my normal practice to let the boy run around naked with it is essentially a small, medieval torch in each hand. But it was the 4th of July, and this is what we had in lieu of sparklers.... and I knew it was going to look cool when I shot it in slow-motion.
It being the 4th of July, it was also a joyous holiday.
In the interest of full disclosure (and so as not to get a visit from social services), it's not my normal practice to let the boy run around naked with it is essentially a small, medieval torch in each hand. But it was the 4th of July, and this is what we had in lieu of sparklers.... and I knew it was going to look cool when I shot it in slow-motion.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Touch-a-Truck
Whatever mad scientist came up with the idea of parking a whole bunch of different trucks on a street in Brooklyn and lining up kids to sit in the driver's seats should either be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize or charged with crimes against humanity. While standing in an absurdly long line to sit on a tow truck,
surrounded by screaming children, piercing sunlight, and a fair amount of abject chaos, I
was, admittedly, considering a trip to the Hague to press my case. However, after seeing how much fun Mylo had I'm most definitely leaning towards the Nobel. Yet another instance in which parenthood manages to straddle two complete polar opposites.
Of this much I am certain: on a lovely Saturday afternoon in May, we took Mylo to the Touch-a-Truck festival in Park Slope. We sat in a bulldozer, a tow truck, a trolley, and a garbage truck. We had arepa's for lunch, and frozen yogurt for desert. We ran around with Mylo's good friend's Mathias and May (and our good friends Lucia, Juan, and Paul), and a damn good time was had by all.
Of this much I am certain: on a lovely Saturday afternoon in May, we took Mylo to the Touch-a-Truck festival in Park Slope. We sat in a bulldozer, a tow truck, a trolley, and a garbage truck. We had arepa's for lunch, and frozen yogurt for desert. We ran around with Mylo's good friend's Mathias and May (and our good friends Lucia, Juan, and Paul), and a damn good time was had by all.
 |
| Driving the Bulldozer. Oh yeah. |
 |
| Chillin' on the Cement Mixer with Mathias |
 |
| Taking turns driving |
 |
| Taking it all in. |
 |
| Waiting in line with Mommy. |
Monday, April 22, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Oh Yes, Indeed!
Fasten your seat belts folks! Part Deux, coming to a theater near you in about seven months!
Sunday, January 13, 2013
The Wood and Wallack Waltz
Video by me. Music and titles supervised by Reedu. And yes, I admit, I was reluctant to add the music at first. And the titles. But Reedu convinced me.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Bug, or Dee Dee
She arrived with the name Nietzsche. A small black and white package, a blur really, darting around the apartment in search of safety. It was my brother-in-law, observing her small feline size, who remarked that she was quite
like a little nugget. And so she became just that: The Nugget, or simply The Nug. Names, however, have a way of constantly evolving in our house, and because of her diminutive size and nervous behavior, her name continued to transform from The Nug to The Bug. This last moniker actually seemed quite apropos-- reflecting her size, demeanor, and general presence. And yet it didn't prevent the further, and inexplicable, morphing of her name into Dee Dee. Don't ask me how, no one seems to remember. But that's how we ended up with a small black and white cat named The Bug, or Dee Dee.
Over time she became more comfortable, no longer appearing as a nervous blur, but also never seeming to be completely at ease. While our other cat, Kitty, would stretch out on the living room floor like a lion taking an afternoon siesta in the mid-day sun, Dee Dee would spend most days huddled up in the darkness of our bedroom where she knew no one would enter until evening. When she did get up, it was only to tip-toe to the living room for a quick bite, and then to retreat back to her cave.
Admittedly, this submissiveness and continual need for safety kind of irked me. After all, it doesn't get much safer than our house, and I wanted Dee Dee to realize that. I wanted her to be comfortable. I wanted her to be at ease. And so I would be overtly physical with her, assuming on some subconscious level that my aggressively affectionate nature could force the awkwardness out of her and replace it with self-confidence. I was wrong, but it didn't stop me. I would scoop her up in my arms and launch her into the air. She would sail four or five feet through our bedroom and land with a dramatic 'Meow'-- always a little embellished, I thought, for effect-- on our mattress. Without fail, she would follow this up by shooting me a look of considerable annoyance, which was my cue to grab her by the nape of her neck, push her down onto the bed, and kiss her all over her face. This was the antithesis of what Dee Dee liked-- too much human contact was deplorable, and especially when it wasn't on her terms. As I explained to her repeatedly though, if you live here you're going to get kissed and hugged. And as I kissed her repeatedly, and as she yielded to it without any resistance, I often thought she looked as though she was smiling.
Maybe that was the wrong approach. Looking back, perhaps my 'rough love' technique was insensitive and I should have been more accepting of who she was, on her terms. But Dee Dee was an unusual cat, and as such, we had a somewhat unusual relationship. Casual annoyance dominated our day-to-day interactions. She was annoyed with me for being so forcefully affectionate, and I was often annoyed with her for being so relentlessly fixated with water. Yes, odd as it may seem for a cat, Dee Dee was completely infatuated with water. It was the one thing from which she refused to back down, refused to take no for an answer. Her obsession with water, and her need to have every available spigot in the house running at once, was, to put it mildly, merciless.
When I came home late at night from work, she was waiting for me in the bathroom, meowing up a storm that threatened to wake everyone, and demanding that I turn on the bathtub. When I woke in the morning and stumbled toward the kitchen for my morning tea, she was waiting on the kitchen counter, swatting me in the face with her tail, and demanding that I turn on the kitchen sink. No amount of fatigue, no severity of illness, no extenuating circumstances could ever take precedence over Dee Dee's water. And if turning on the water actually solved the problem, or even reduced the problem, well, lets just say that I probably wouldn't be complaining about it now. But in fact, turning on the water would only multiply the problem. Once one faucet was running, she would frequently move to the next one and meow until it too, was turned on. And if the water wasn't running too hard, she would often dip her head in and let it cascade all over her face. While seemingly cute, this practice was much less than practical since having a sopping wet cat walking about the apartment, dripping and shaking water all over our bed, sofa, clothes, and floor, is not exactly appreciated for a number of obvious reasons.
As Dee Dee grew older and her kidneys went downhill her demands for water only multiplied. And so our annoyance with each other grew accordingly. One of the truly unfortunate realities of life is that far too often the real value of our relationships is only realized after the relationship comes to an end. And in Dee Dee's case, that end came surprisingly fast. Over the course of just a few days, she lost the ability to eat, drink, or move, and it became clear that she was suffering. Exactly one year and a half after Kitty died, we said goodbye to Dee Dee.
In general, I'm not a fan of cliche's. I don't like taking solace in fabricated notions of reality. And so it's hard for me to admit, because it's really quite silly, but I sometimes imagine launching Dee Dee into the air, and watching her sail serenely through space, landing in a big grassy field somewhere. And as she lands, she turns and shoots me an annoyed look over her shoulder. But then she looks around and sees Kitty, sees the sun shining, and feels the warm wind blowing through her fur. A stream flows nearby with a steady trickle of water for her to drink from. And as she goes to take a long, cool drink from the stream she seems comfortable, completely at ease, and maybe, just maybe, as though she is smiling.
Over time she became more comfortable, no longer appearing as a nervous blur, but also never seeming to be completely at ease. While our other cat, Kitty, would stretch out on the living room floor like a lion taking an afternoon siesta in the mid-day sun, Dee Dee would spend most days huddled up in the darkness of our bedroom where she knew no one would enter until evening. When she did get up, it was only to tip-toe to the living room for a quick bite, and then to retreat back to her cave.
Admittedly, this submissiveness and continual need for safety kind of irked me. After all, it doesn't get much safer than our house, and I wanted Dee Dee to realize that. I wanted her to be comfortable. I wanted her to be at ease. And so I would be overtly physical with her, assuming on some subconscious level that my aggressively affectionate nature could force the awkwardness out of her and replace it with self-confidence. I was wrong, but it didn't stop me. I would scoop her up in my arms and launch her into the air. She would sail four or five feet through our bedroom and land with a dramatic 'Meow'-- always a little embellished, I thought, for effect-- on our mattress. Without fail, she would follow this up by shooting me a look of considerable annoyance, which was my cue to grab her by the nape of her neck, push her down onto the bed, and kiss her all over her face. This was the antithesis of what Dee Dee liked-- too much human contact was deplorable, and especially when it wasn't on her terms. As I explained to her repeatedly though, if you live here you're going to get kissed and hugged. And as I kissed her repeatedly, and as she yielded to it without any resistance, I often thought she looked as though she was smiling.
Maybe that was the wrong approach. Looking back, perhaps my 'rough love' technique was insensitive and I should have been more accepting of who she was, on her terms. But Dee Dee was an unusual cat, and as such, we had a somewhat unusual relationship. Casual annoyance dominated our day-to-day interactions. She was annoyed with me for being so forcefully affectionate, and I was often annoyed with her for being so relentlessly fixated with water. Yes, odd as it may seem for a cat, Dee Dee was completely infatuated with water. It was the one thing from which she refused to back down, refused to take no for an answer. Her obsession with water, and her need to have every available spigot in the house running at once, was, to put it mildly, merciless.
When I came home late at night from work, she was waiting for me in the bathroom, meowing up a storm that threatened to wake everyone, and demanding that I turn on the bathtub. When I woke in the morning and stumbled toward the kitchen for my morning tea, she was waiting on the kitchen counter, swatting me in the face with her tail, and demanding that I turn on the kitchen sink. No amount of fatigue, no severity of illness, no extenuating circumstances could ever take precedence over Dee Dee's water. And if turning on the water actually solved the problem, or even reduced the problem, well, lets just say that I probably wouldn't be complaining about it now. But in fact, turning on the water would only multiply the problem. Once one faucet was running, she would frequently move to the next one and meow until it too, was turned on. And if the water wasn't running too hard, she would often dip her head in and let it cascade all over her face. While seemingly cute, this practice was much less than practical since having a sopping wet cat walking about the apartment, dripping and shaking water all over our bed, sofa, clothes, and floor, is not exactly appreciated for a number of obvious reasons.
As Dee Dee grew older and her kidneys went downhill her demands for water only multiplied. And so our annoyance with each other grew accordingly. One of the truly unfortunate realities of life is that far too often the real value of our relationships is only realized after the relationship comes to an end. And in Dee Dee's case, that end came surprisingly fast. Over the course of just a few days, she lost the ability to eat, drink, or move, and it became clear that she was suffering. Exactly one year and a half after Kitty died, we said goodbye to Dee Dee.
In general, I'm not a fan of cliche's. I don't like taking solace in fabricated notions of reality. And so it's hard for me to admit, because it's really quite silly, but I sometimes imagine launching Dee Dee into the air, and watching her sail serenely through space, landing in a big grassy field somewhere. And as she lands, she turns and shoots me an annoyed look over her shoulder. But then she looks around and sees Kitty, sees the sun shining, and feels the warm wind blowing through her fur. A stream flows nearby with a steady trickle of water for her to drink from. And as she goes to take a long, cool drink from the stream she seems comfortable, completely at ease, and maybe, just maybe, as though she is smiling.
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