Life in Bed Stuy

These days, my daily routine consists of riding my bike up Dean Street and passing through some of the most diverse neighborhoods Brooklyn has to offer-- Boerum Hill, Park Slope, Prospect Heights, Crown Heights-- and finally arriving in Bed Stuy, the neighborhood to which I recently relocated my office.  It's a ride that I've really come to enjoy because it offers a glimpse into the side of Brooklyn that people have seemingly forgot. Not the Brooklyn that's been packaged and sold as a lifestyle brand, but the Brooklyn that people actually live and work in. The neighborhood in which my office was formerly located-- Dumbo-- never quite felt like a real neighborhood. Despite the nice coffee shops and cobble-stoned streets, traveling through Dumbo often felt like listening to NPR-- smart and sophisticated, but very produced... make of that what you will (note to reader: I actually love NPR, I just couldn't think of another metaphor that worked).

As I rode my bike this past Monday morning, the sun cast long shadows on the ground and birds fluttered about, chirping loudly. Late August is one of my favorite times of year. The air is infused with sleepy urgency, and the entire world seems to move deliberately in slow motion. On this particular morning, a couple of people in suits were headed to the subway but most others seemed satisfied to sip their coffee and wander lazily about. A cool breeze blew, hinting of the seasonal changes just around the corner.

My trance, however, was broken by a large and very dilapidated truck bouncing down the street. The roar of it's engine assured that no one would be taken by surprise at it's approach, and with each pothole it struck, it seemed as though the entire vehicle might come apart in cartoonish fashion. Already stopped at a red light, I pulled myself back a couple of feet to allow this cacophonic monstrosity to pass. But rather than pass, the truck gave off a long tortured squeal of the brakes, and slowed down in front of me. A large, unshaven man hung his head out the window and screamed in a gravelly voice, "BIG MOMMA, I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU BIG MOMMA. I SWEAR I DO BABY. OHH BIG MOMMA."

To my left a middle-aged woman pushing a laundry cart passed by. She had, it must be said, a fairly large posterior, and it was clear that this was, this must be, Big Momma. With chin held high, she made a valiant attempt at ignoring him...but it was for naught.

"OH BIG MOMMA, YOU BEAUTIFUL. C'MON NOW. C'MON NOW, YOU BEAUTIFUL. GIVE ME SOME OF THAT BIG MOMMA".

Big Momma proudly lifted her chin a bit higher in the air, pretending she couldn't hear him. And then, as suddenly as he arrived, the driver stuck his head back in the window, slammed on the gas and in a cloud of exhaust, took off down the street.

As the smoke cleared and a semblance of peace returned, Big Momma continued on her way, the squeaky wheels of her cart and chirping birds calling attention to the sudden reemergence of silence. I edged myself forward a bit, leaning over the handle bars, partly to make sure the truck was gone, and partly to see if what I had just witnessed was in fact real. Indeed, it was. Bumping and bouncing along, I could see the big rig moving toward whatever unenviable destination awaited it.

And painted on the back of the truck, in robust letters, were the words: "The Velvet Touch Moving Company, for all your moving needs".

Ahh, irony. Thank you Bed Stuy. And thank you Big Momma. And thank you truck driver. Brooklyn may be packaged and sold, but it's good to know that even in the most perfectly polished borough of New York, there's still some good old-fashioned, honest, ugly weirdness to be found.

Reunion 2014

In what has become an annual rite of summer, Goomah returned home from France earlier this month. She was met with squeals of excitement and shouts of joy. It was a welcomed return, to say the least. Welcome home Goomah!

 

 

First Yankees Game

His attention span lasted about as long as the eight dollar bucket of popcorn he feasted on. But I'll be damned if the boy grows up without being able to say he saw Derek Jeter play baseball. Mission accomplished.

Winter 2014

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.

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.

8 pounds, 13 ounces. Love.

Big news. About 8 pounds and 13 ounces worth, actually.

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!

 

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.

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.

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.

Driving the Bulldozer. Oh yeah.

Chillin' on the Cement Mixer with Mathias

Taking turns driving

Taking it all in.

Waiting in line with Mommy.

How Not to Go Down a Slide