The Diaper Chronicles

Chompers

2012-01-23T17:44:00.001-08:00

Tooth Fairy

Tooth Fairy Land Way

Tooth Fairy Land, CA 90210

January 23, 2012

Dear Molly,

Congratulations on losing your firsttooth! You are growing up sofast. I know that your parents,aunts, uncles, grand parents, friends, and cousins are all so happy for you andproud of you.

You’ve become quite a wonderful youngwoman, happy, smart, learning so much, so quickly. For losing a tooth, you receive shiny quarters (like Lillyin that great book Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse!) and a book.

I hope to visit you at either your mom ordad’s house – or even a cruise ship, a hotel, grandparent’s house or whereverit is your teeth decide it is time to make way for the bigger girl teeth.

Please make sure you brush your teeth twicea day! And tell your Abba to getyou the new mouthwash for kids!

Love,

Gladys Chysratheum Lavender

(Your official Tenafly Tooth Fair)

Truthfully,if you want to lose your first tooth in style, rough-house with a couple ofboys. That’s what happened toM. After swimming today, she wasplaying in the tumble room at the JCC and took an elbow to the mouth. Out popped the tooth with a littleblood.

Itook her right to the bathroom because who needs an open wound and dirtyfingers poking around it. Now Ithink they’re all going to start tumbling right out of her mouth.

Hermother got emotional. A businesstrip to Florida during a big life moment will do that to you. Yes, we can’t all be there for ourkid’s big moments. As long as Idon’t have to explain tampons or sex (someone still needs to explain both tome), we’ll be okay.

Honestly,I thought this tooth was going to come out when she fell onto them last summerat a sushi bar off a four foot stool. Or two winters ago when she fell in a playground and bled from themouth.

Nota lot creeps me out, except for wiggling teeth. Maybe it was from watching three older brothers and everykid in elementary school wiggling their teeth. Or it could be I haven’t recovered from my barbaric wisdomteeth removal of ten years ago. Either way, tooth wiggling is pretty gross…especially when people getthem horizontal.

Itseems like America is obsessed with pearly, pearly white, perfectchompers. Mine are in terribleshape. Throw in a boat load ofcavities, a few broken teeth, braces that probably did nothing, and a nightguard for grinding and I’ll bet you I’m ten years from dentures. I don’t even have the coffee drinkerexcuse for their lack of whiteness.

Inany event, the kid got a couple of quarters – because I only had twenties in mywallet – and a new book. She wantsone of those Nintendo DS games. Who wouldn’t? I’ll stickwith my iPad. And I get to lookforward to months and months of wiggling and asking “is my new tooth in yet?” Actually, there’s a little bud of atooth. Either that or it’s a pieceof the old one. I’m one hell of atooth fairy, I am.

Ho Ho Oh No!

2011-12-17T16:04:00.001-08:00

We finished our holiday shopping today. This entailed a trip to one of thelocal malls, of which Bergen County has 7,856. A slurpee was necessary. M was stalwart and didn’t mind being schlepped throughstores. Of course, the first fewstores we window shopped for her, which eased us into the activity.

Truth be told, I hate shopping. As my relatives have provided wish lists for their kids –one even taking the time to write a letter to me, shopping should have beeneasy. Well kids, I thought out ofthe box this year…which meant trips to the store. I honestly thought if I were ten, seven, six, five, threeand one – what would I want. Theanswer was a trip to a warm climate for at least a month.

The mall wasn’t too busy and we surprisingly found parkingeasily. We passed the photo Santastand and headed into the bookstore. Presents came fairly easily and M settled down with a book that she readto herself, asking for a few words here and there. I read her another book and attempted to read a second.

The train section was overrun with screaming kids with snotstreaming down their faces and parents Facebooking. So I steered M across the hall to the Pottery BarnKids. There M happily played inthe fancy kitchen while I Facebooked. M should have been on commission as she showed the joy andfun behind playing busy bakery with me making occasional deliveries and gettinglost in the suburbs.

Upon exiting the mall, we passed the Santa photo stand. The line was long and I felt supremelysorry for everyone. M asked, “Isthat the real Santa who gives gifts?” This is a dangerous line of questioning which led to “Is there really aSanta?”

She’s barely six. Her friend was in the local paper sitting on the lap of Santa with herbrother. Who am I to debunk themyth of Santa when we’re months away from the Tooth Fairy stopping by?

I said, “it’s an actor who looks an awful like Santa.” And it was true; the mall Santa wasburly, with ample girth, and a meticulously shaped and authentic looking beardand mustache.

“But is Santa real?” Then M launched into a debate about which was better Christmas where youget presents on one day or Hanukkah where you can get eight nights of presents.

It was here that I launched into a probably ignored storyabout what the holidays are really about. I talked about how this is a great time to get together with family andthat a gift is really about giving. I reminded her how proud I was that she didn’t cry (too much) aboutdonating her old stroller (which she still liked to push her pretendstudents/kids around) and car seat to people who lost all their things in afire. “Giving your time or toysand books that you don’t use to others is a great thing to do. Reading to people or spending time withpeople who don’t have family is also really nice to do anytime of year.”

“But Abba…Hanukah is better, right?” She talked about her friend R and howhe was going to get lots of presents. I reminded her that she has five uncles, two parents, and four grandparentsworth of presents coming to her.

Belief can be potent. We all want to believe in something like one another or even the toothfairy. The other day while waitingfor the school doors to open, one of the boys talked about how the tooth fairyleft him a dollar. I said, “M’smom and I had a discussion with the tooth fairy and she was going to bring Mbooks.” That got a huge eye rollfrom all the kindergartners. She’ll probably end up with a book and a dollar.

Hanukah doesn’t involve elves or guys zipping across theworld delivering toys. Most Jewsdon’t deck the halls with lights other than those from the menorah. Christmas is everywhere – on the radio,television, in the stores. Theschool is going through all the holidays of the season; encouraging parents tocome in and discuss our traditions send holiday cards and family photos. M came home with art projects forseveral of the holidays including a tongue depressor menorah and an Eid-el-Fitrstained glass window. The holidaymusic concert featured a Hanukah song, which M sang loudly from memory. I guess it’s better than watching aChristmas special at school.

Part of me wants to turn off the holiday noise. Not just for Christmas, whichdominates. I’m not feeling theholiday spirit. There’s nothingquite like the warm, wonderful glow and families singing the Hanukahblessings. There’s a simple joy tositting and playing a game of dreidle and reading a book or playing with one ofher presents. Those moments arethe holiday spirit….simple, basic rituals. Throw in hanging with the family for an afternoon and thesheer exhaustion of kid’s comparing presents, their visceral and disappointmentat one uncle going outside the box. Who could ask for anything more? Repeat at other people’s homes once or twice more.

Does learning about all the holidays make our kids moreaware and sensitive? Does it teachrespect for those who are different? Will she stand up and defend anyone who attacks a friend’s beliefsystem? Not at six. Frankly, I'd rather she be in engaged in math, science, reading, and social studies. Plaurailty and political sensitivity reign supreme - thus she learns all this and every holiday. She could really use the extra time on reading rather than Ramadan. And, I know this makes me seem insensitive and anti-holiday. But I'm just a dad who pays taxes and wants my kid to learn the basics before she has to worry about holidays less pronounced than our's. Isn't it enough that kids mimic Tebow and people want more prayer and religion in public schools? I pay for religious school and attend temple with her to learn about our religion. Other parents should do the same. M will still end up a sensitive, aware, responsive, responsible person who defends her and other's belief systems because that's how we're raising her.

Today at lunch my dad was talking about his memories ofkindergarten and first grade. Heremembered being engaged by the Wizard of Oz books and the trouble kids gotinto for dipping girl’s hair into inkwells in the desks. So I guess the lessons of school– someof them – will stick. Typically, aswe drove home from the mall, M growled about having to go to Hebrew schooltomorrow because it meant having to wait that much longer to get at thepresents. Little beats the thrill of opening an envelope for a personalized, well meaning gift card. Yeah, it’s better at six…whether or notyou believe or celebrate in any holiday.

Reading is Fundamental

2011-11-15T18:09:00.001-08:00

The other day, M put on her serious face, and asked mymother: “why did my daddy skipKindergarten?” She’s wondered thisfor a while. My own answershaven’t sufficed. Inquisitivenessis one of M’s many admirable qualities. As her mother and I joke somewhat seriously, it is her way ofprocessing.

My mother responded, “We felt he’d learned so much inpre-school that he’d be bored in Kindergarten.” M regarded her as if she had six heads. M’s world is Kindergarten. She’s excited for homework, alreadyknows which teachers she wants for later grades, and has complained about theafterschool program.

Living across the street from her once and future school fora year and repeating pre-K was torturous. The academic oasis was just out of reach despite circling the joint bybicycle and frequenting the playgrounds. It helps that one of her good friends from pre-k round 2 is in classwith her. And, she’s made some newfriends, as well. Once we pay thePTA fee, we’ll probably get the student directory and be able to hook upplay-dates with other classmates.

Academically though a funny thing happened on the way toKindergarten. M kind of didn’treally learn to read. Yes, sheknew letters, numbers, and shapes. She could spell out words based on situations. Sitting in Burger King she discerned the letters and read“King.” Despite being surroundedby books and reading at every meal and before bedtime, even finishing sentencesin books from either memory or reading, M didn’t actually read.

I don’t know that any of the other kids could really readeither. But M has readingsupport. The teacher is amazingand M is part of a program that reads to neighborhood dogs which has abated herdesire for a pet. Although herinterest in dogs will spark anew once she spends a few weeks at overnight campwith the dogs there.

The thing is my student-centric graduate degree in Educationdidn’t prepare me to teach my own child to read. It supported her desire and fueled a love for books. But the basics – phonics and sightwords weren’t part of my parenting curriculum. I foolishly assumed that just by reading lots of books, Mwould get it and know how to do it. We didn’t really sound out words. Once on vacation, we watched some episodes of the original ElectricCompany, and phonics were right there. We ignored them. You canlead a horse to water, but you can’t make him or her drink.

I’m thinking this is my own stubbornness at work. That plus a general lack of my owninquisition about how a child learns to read. Ironically, I love to read. We head off to the library once or twice a month and comeback armed with books. M hatesbeing rushed through the library because she likes to sit on the pillows andhear a book or two because she likes to make the right book choice. She also wants to linger over their DVDand puzzle selection.

I’m glad that M has reading support. There are computer games she gets toplay, worksheets, and there’s a read pride in seeing her practice with a bookthat she has to read to the dog. Tonight, I spelled a word in front of her and M beamed when figured outwhat I spelt.

NYU’s academic philosophy (my graduate program) was that intime students get it. Surroundthem with what they are interested in reading and learning, and they will learnit. This is a sound principal intheory. In practice, I’m slowlyseeing it come together with my own child.

This isn’t to say I had the expectation that M would walkinto Kindergarten and own the place. Sure, I’d love for her to be the kid that everyone calls forplay-dates. (Unfortunately, unlessthey call my cell the number they’d call belongs to someone else due to myunfortunately timed switching in phone/television/internet providers and thenswitching back really quickly. When I cancelled the service of one provider, I lost the number theschool had and have yet to formally alert them.) I’d love for her to be at the head of the class.

But I’ve taught enough smarty pants know it alls, to notwant that for M. There has to be abalance between smart, sports-wise, and culturally in the know. Tonight at the library, M asked if shecould get an “iCarly” or “Hannah Montana” DVD. I said no to both. I also nixed “Max & Ruby” because the characters whine an awful lotand Ruby is kind of a bitch. Shepicked a Barbie Rapunzel movie that thankfully was so scratched it couldn’tplay past the first ten minutes.

We saw “Puss in Boots” this weekend and M was legitimatelyexcited, happy, and scared of some of the movie content. So what would she make of iCarly andHannah Montana. I don’t know awhole lot about the shows, but I’m pretty certain six is too young for both ofthem. At her mother’s house shewatches “Family Game Night.” Hereshe views a range of cartoons – many of which leave that awkward five-secondpause for the child to answer a basic question.

She doesn’t watch a wealth of television. Usually a bit in the morning as I graba few minutes more of sleep or shower and at night before we head upstairs forher bath, playing, and reading before bed. M has declared herself too old for “Sesame Street” but I’mnot ready for her to age up to iCarly. The easiest answer to this quandary would be try to stomach an episodeof the show myself. But I’m notready for me to age up to iCarly.

She started watching “Phineas & Ferb” because her friendwatches it. As soon as M comeshome with more of those pop culture clues, she can slowly graduate up to thoseshows. In the meantime, we’resounding it out syllable by syllable. I could probably get a book about all of this and speed up the wholeprocess. But frankly, skippingKindergarten all those years ago has made me somewhat academically lackadaisical. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the rightquestion and the five-second pause to answer it.

Pizza Face

2011-11-13T17:29:00.001-08:00

Halloween came and went and then came back this year thanksto a freak once in twenty year October storm. With school cancelled for the day of Halloween, it wasrescheduled for the following Friday. However, Friday the 29^th, M wanted to go to the schoolHalloween party. Wanting tosupport her and a burgeoning social life, I went for it.

The local PTA organized the party and we were charged awhopping $10.00. This fee allowedus to play as many of the carnival style games, have a slice of pizza, popcornand water or juice box. Each game– whether you won or lose – in the style of everyone’s a winner parenting –presented us with some made in China Halloween themed item. We came away with florescent teeth,rubber pumpkins and skeletons, and stickers.

One of the party organizers was the mother of one of M’s classmatesand friend Mi. I can’t say I’vegotten a great vibe from Mi. That’s a terrible thing to say but I’m certain over the next twelveyears of parenting, I’ll be saying it a lot. If there were a mean girl test, Mi would pass it with flyingcolors. She’s got older siblingsand carries herself as if she is a queen. Her combination of confidence and arrogance at five or six is prettyimpressive. Factor in her dressinglike Cleopatra complete with eye makeup and she looked the part. M tried to follow Mi around as sheswept through the party looking like she owned the place. When Mi disappeared, we simply waitedon line and played another game.

The pizza arrived and Mi grabbed M and they each got aslice. At each and every birthdayparty she attends, the pizza sits in front of M staring, begging to be eaten,no less touched. We had aplay-date with a college friend’s kid in the spring and M tried white pizza –which she hated.

One of the few things my small town college in Vermont gotright was pizza. I’d grab a bandof friends and we’d clomp into town and consume a Sicilian pie with everythingon it. After college, with firstjob money being tights, pizza was a sure bet for lunch at least twice aweek. My local town has terriblepizza. But around the corner fromwork, just behind Madison Square Garden, lies one of the finest pizzerias inManhattan. It’s worth stopping byfor the smell alone…literally mouth-watering.

Like most grade school parties, a row of chairs was setalong the wall of the gym. M andMi sat down. And each bit into thepizza. I tried not to registershock or glee. I snapped a pictureand sent it to her mother. We’renot supposed to make a big deal out of a new food, but frankly, thesignificance of pizza is not to be understated.

Pizza opens up a whole social avenue for M. It means she can try pizza bagels atcamp or day camp and actually consume a meal with her piers. Birthday parties, cram sessions in highschool and college, and her first job meals will be that much more pleasant andvaried thanks to a suddenly acquired taste. And think about her morning afters with cold pizza. Or how nice a beer and pizza will tasteto her. Okay don’t think aboutthose last two.

Mi would get up and M would have one hand on Mi’s chair –protecting it from anyone else’s tushie and munch of her slice. “M – how’s that pizza?”

“So good, dad. So good.”

“It’s from Tfly Pizzeria. We can go there for dinner whenever we want.”

“Great. I lovepizza.” Slowly but surely M atehalf the slice. Mi continued tocome and go, and M sat holding the chair and pizza. Eventually, she said she was full --- she did have a fulldinner of beans and cheese – before coming to the party. M and Mi went off to dance. A boy from their class came up to M andshe asked about his mask and sort of danced with him. Mi disappeared and I realized it was M’s bedtime.

The following Saturday M and I went to the actual TflyPizzeria. They have two sections –an adult side and a non-adult side. I didn’t realize this until we left. On the adult side they strongly discourage six year oldsfrom walking around and talking to the patrons. That’s because it makes the staff, which doesn’t walk aroundand see how things are – except to sit children down – look bad. They also don’t serve slices on the adultside and didn’t refer us to the family side. Despite this, M consumed a few slices of her personal pizzaand conferred, indeed, that it was good pizza.

I couldn’t convince my mother and her husband to have lunchwith us at the local pizzeria today. Nor would M eat the diner pizza. So for dinner, we hit the family side of the restaurant and M did justfine.

I guess I have the social butterfly Mi to thank for Mgravitating towards pizza. Or mykid is growing up. Perhaps, I canget her to eat some Thanksgiving turkey or Tofurkey. It may mean bringing Mi along…which is a journey I’m notwilling to make. Yet.

Bugged

2011-10-10T18:04:00.001-07:00

I’ve never been a fan of bugs, except spiders. I like spiders because they trap otherbugs. They have a usefulpurpose. Although, I don’t likewhen I walk into a spider’s web – especially at night with my mouth open. Like me, when M gets a bug bite sherubs it until it swells. On herpale skin, the welts look brutally painful. She milks it too.

People always want to go hiking or camping. While, I like the outdoors, I’m a runner,which means I run through the outdoors hopefully faster than bugs. I’ve only been stung by a beeonce. It hurt like hell.

Last week while driving to work, I got a strange sensationbehind my left knee. I felt it andthere were at least five bug bites. I was a driving, window open, stereo blasting, too fast for bugs. That night, I woke up in the middle ofthe night and there were five marks on my right inner arm.

The past few summers New York City has waged war withfrustrating, small parasitic insects also known as beg bugs. These adorable little creatures love tosnack on blood. They can live overa year without sucking but do prefer to drink your blood every few weeks. They love dark corridors of fabric andattach themselves to clothes and luggage. Stores, movie theaters, restaurants, and apartments have been attached.

I have no idea how I got the bedbugs. The few people I approached about apossible causation reacted as if I’d accused them of giving me a venerealdisease. I would have too. No one wants to be told they’d servedas host for critters like these.

A bit of Internet research led me to learn that dogs are thebest detectors of the creatures. So I called a service but they couldn’t come for another day. I found a service that could come rightaway, so I booked them. In themean time, I started doing loads of laundry in hot water with hot long dryercycles.

It skived me out to no end. Suddenly, everything itched. My home felt invaded. And, I’ve had houseguests who wouldn’t leave, slept naked, ate all myfood, and smelt up the bathroom – not all at the same time. But this was different. I’d come home and slip into otherclothes rushing what was worn into the shower.

The dog showed up with his female handler. As the first sighting was in my car, Ihad them check it out. The dogfound lots of old food, but no bugs. The downstairs was clean – which was good. Even better, M’s room was clean. My room however, the dog pawed at the bed which indicatedbugs. The handler gave him somefood as a reward. Now what shedidn’t do was put on gloves and help detect if I actually had them. Instead, she handed me an invoice for$325. As I leaped into the car togo get mattress and pillow covers – she flagged me down requesting anadditional $50. The entireinvestigation took under ten minutes. Her company did no remediation but could recommend someone. I should have driven away, but she knewwhere I lived.

Frantically, I purchasedstuff at the local hardware store like gloves and diatomaceous earth. A friend said it was a natural cure to killing thebugs. Of course, I had no ideawhere there actually were or even if they were truly there. Worse, I had M,which limited my ability to do much defense other than laundry.

The second dog team showed up in tandem withtwo south Jersey guys who looked like they spent a good deal of time in thegym, tanning, and doing laundry. Their dog spotted the bugs on the other side of the bed this time bysitting. He too was rewarded withfood. They at least inspected themattress, although found nothing. Their bill was $350 and they could remediate the situation by freezingthe bugs for a cool $1,500. Unfortunately, they couldn’t zap them for another week and a half.

Every aspect of my body itched. No matter how many showers, Iitched. I was barely sleepinganticipating something crawling and leaching my blood. I got a lot of laundry done and caughtup on a tremendous amount of horrendous television. So while I was killing brain cells, I was waiting for anattack.

At work a co-worker suggested calling Roscoethe bed bug beagle. He has beaglesand people thought he should train his dogs to detect them. Given that I was into the bugs for atleast $1,000 for defensive measures – including theoretical gas, electric, andbed covers – I was open to it.

I also called a national chain ofexterminators and a local one. Thelocal one used chemicals, which I didn’t want M exposed too. The national chain returned my call,took my address, and booked an appointment. Then they called back and asked if I would pay in advance orpay the handler. I said I’d paythe handler, they never called back.

Roscoe’s guy showed up with a big bag ofstuff. He whipped out a flashlightand started exploring the seams of fabric on my couch, chairs, andbedrooms. He seemed skeptical aboutthe bugs existence in my home, except for the dogs. I told him that I’d seen a bug on a pillow but hadn’t savedit. He performed an estimatestanding in my living room saying he could never sit on the job for fear ofgiving someone bugs who didn’t have him. Despite his company’s price, his integrity and offer to allow me to callhim anytime over the weekend with questions – won him the business.

I was given an extensive pre-remediationchecklist. Everything into thelaundry. Books had to be vacuumed. Clothes had to be placed in plasticbags. Drawers emptied. His team would come in and whip thefurniture with freezing carbon dioxide. I spent the weekend, atoning for whatever I’d done to attract the bugsand also going through my clutter. Lots of toys, books, and clothes were donated. Old papers were gone through. Despite the stress, some good came from the expulsion ofthese items.

I went to pick up M on Friday night and lockedus out of the house. Luckily, Iwas spending the evening with cousins and they got us back inside. Saturday, we prayed, hung out, and Idid more cleaning. Sunday, more ofthe same – with the prayer being please let this be a one and done treatmentand then never again.

I don’t wish bugs on anyone. I don’t even wish much ill will onanyone. You don’t want thesethings. You don’t want to discussthem. You don’t want to share thatyou have them. Even though anyonecould get them from sitting on the wrong chair or traveling, don’t get them.

The dudes showed up, set up their CO2 and gotto work blasting. I debatedgetting rid of the wooden bed because the bugs must have nested and matedturning it into a paradise for themselves. But the dudes said the CO2 and chemicals would eradicatethem. And I’d be protected by mymattress cover. They meticulouslyzapped and sprayed every exposed inch of the bed, mattress, couch, chairs, bookcases,and perimeter of the rooms.

Their car had a fine looking beagle – Roscoe –on the spare tire. The sides wereadorned with all matter of bugs and letters spelling out my malady. The neighbors stood agape in the schoolyard,avoiding eye contact or niceties. M, of course, was asked if we had bed bugs and told the truth.

The after school lady asked me a millionquestions – how’d I detect them? Whatdo I do? Her daughter lives inBrooklyn and works in publishing. The mother is storing all sorts of stuff and wonders if they have bugs. I told her to get mattress protectorsand if she’s bit to let me know. I’dgive her Roscoe’s number.

Tonight, as the chemicals saturate, I’mwriting from a spare bedroom away from my mattress and the bug corpses –breathing easier, feeling cleaner than I have in a week. M is asleep in the next bed, restinginnocently. And, you’ll never hearme say don’t let the bedbugs bite because honestly you don’t want theirchompers anywhere near you or your wallet.

Belly Up

2011-09-27T18:26:00.001-07:00

The first amusement park I remember going to was GreatAdventure. I’d just finishedfourth grade and my friend Sean and his mom invited me to go. They had a dark green sedan. Sean and I sat in the back seat bakingin the summer sun. Later thatsummer my family would move to Long Island and I’d never see Sean again. His mom drove us through thesafari. We had Baby Ruth bars forfood that had melted into a gelatinous mess, but we were hungry. The windows couldn’t be rolled down forfear of animals hitching a kid. Given how the pleather of the seats was rippling in the heat, meltingus, the animals could surely have a better ride elsewhere. I believe we also hit RoaringRapids…though that could easily have been another trip.

Maybe because my parents took my three older brothers toDisney without me I’ve always had a longing for amusements. This longing includes actively seekingout roadside carnivals with rickety barely functioning life threatening ridesrun by people who subside on some form of jerky, soda, chewing tobacco orcigarettes, and the grit of life in an RV deep breathing propane. I suppose they get the thrill of lifeon the road and the squeals and cries of children in thrilled in the full rangeof emotions within seconds.

M and I have done a few of these carnivals. The girl has my penchant for turning,swirling, and dizzying ourselves. This past Sunday we hit a carnival that had games. Most of the games are unwinnable. But we played the fishbowl toss. In the game, you are given ping-pongballs with the task of throwing them into fishbowls. The prize a real live fish. Those fish always die within a day – no matter what bowl orfood you place them in.

M was excited to throw and thrilled to have won. We waited on line for our fish. Here’s where our communication was non-existent. “What should we name our fish?”

“Teddy” she replied without pausing. The lady handed up a fish. M regarded it skeptically. Please note since her mom switchedcamps two summers ago, M begs me for a dog frequently. She also wants to see everyone’s dogdespite being fearfully afraid of any dog that leaps up and matches herperceived excitement. It’s a fineline her love for dogs. As part ofher learning to read program, the school has kids read to dogs. The dogs they choose are all(supposedly) very relaxed. Ithelps that one of them lives down the street and M has seen him – frequentlyconfusing him for our next-door neighbor’s golden retriever.

She beamed holding up Teddy the fish. “The bag is heavy, can you takeit?” This was the first sign thata real live fish was not the prize M wanted. “I thought we were going to get a stuffed fish.”

“We can go to Friendly’s for a stuffed animal. Teddy is a real live fish.”

“We should give him to someone.” M then began to sniffle and worry. I blamed tiredness from a weekend with her cousins at a BatMitzvah.

“Why?”

“I don’t want him to die. I don’t want to see him die.” A moral presented itself in the form of a carnival fish Iwas certain would be dead by the time you read this sentence. M was lucky enough to have a maternalgreat grandmother and father who lived until she was two and a half. They got to really meet M, talk to her,and hang out. That side of herfamily has longevity in their genes. Those photos are amazing and I’ll always remember the smiles that couldpower Times Square on everyone’s faces. Surely love like that could fuel those lights for a few years.

Since their passing, M frequently asks “what’s Bubby R doingin heaven now?” I answer. I don’t know that I believe in heavenbut there’s nothing wrong with a five year-old believing that her beloved greatgrandparents are eating all the food they want and walking around without ageor physical impediments. I couldhave easily said Teddy would be a great pet for Bubby R but I wasn’tcomfortable going there.

I transferred Teddy to a bowl. M got a drop of water on her and practically melted like thewitch in “Wizard of Oz.” He swamaround shocked at the green circle that enveloped him versus hanging with his brethrenawaiting capture into a plastic bag. M continued to have issues with the fish, so I told her he was mine.

“Can’t you throw him out dad?” Now a few days before Rosh Hashanah – Jewish new year andtime to consider one’s actions over the past year – there was no way I wasgoing to kill a fish…at least not on purpose.

“M you’re just going to have to deal with my fish.” I wondered if she was jealous oractually concerned with his impending death. “Look honey, no matter what, I love you. You always come first. Even if there’s other friends, family,or a girl who moves in here and we have kids – you will always come first. I love you.” This appeased her for a bit and we got through dinner.

I gave her some milk and searched for a pet store that wasopen. Two days in a fruit bowl andTeddy was still hanging out. Ikept expecting his expectancy to end. We needed a real bowl and additional food. Maybe our fish as kid’s died from over feeding or Long Islandwater, but Teddy was holding own like a true champion. I found a store that was open, gave Msome Hershey Kisses and we hit the road.

The car ride was quiet. I expected that M was concentrating on the consumption ofher new found love – chocolate. “UmmmAbba…” M went belly up. Threetimes. All over the car seat,herself, and the car floor. Weheaded home and I put her in a bath and to bed.

The thrill of the rides is that sensation of being out ofcontrol temporarily. You putyourself – not unlike driving to work or running on public streets – in otherpeople’s hands. But for a carnivalride the music throbs and your mind checks out. There’s only movement and wide brimmed smiles with anoccasional stomach throbbing from too much vibration or rotation. None of us know how many rotations inthe green bowl we’ll get. Enjoyingthe ride, challenging ourselves, trying new stuff is all part and parcel of thejourney.

Sure there’s lots of change in the kid’s life. New school with real expectations. Actual homework. Learning to read and write in arespectable way. Another set ofnew friends and activities. As Mhas been through so much her resilience is amazing. The hiccups like the past few days should be expected. She’s only human. Freaking out over a fish is not the funpart. And cleaning up after thefreak out is the worst part. Mycar will smell like Hershey Kiss, beans, and cheese for who knows howlong. If only, she’d hit thereally ugly blinged out sneakers her cousin gave her.

Back to School

2011-09-22T19:08:00.001-07:00

I never excelled in school. It just wasn’t my thing. Or maybe I just peaked in second grade, perked up again infifth, and checked out after that. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Just a total lack of interest in being in an institution with green oryellow tiled walls for a couple of hours a day with someone trying to motivateme to read, write, or do math.

That said, when it comes to M, I’m committed to her gettinga solid education. This commitmentincludes living in a solid school district. M’s asked for homework so I bought a couple of books and wesit and do homework. She writesher letters, determines how many of a select shape is on the page, and countsthe numbers of rabbits in a picture. Her enthusiasm for school is almost infectious.

Tomorrow she gets to read to a dog. She’s excitedly discussed which bookshe wants to read and how she won’t be nervous to be around this dog. It helps that the dog belongs to one ofour neighbor’s and she sees him fairly frequently as everyone socializes in theschoolyard at dusk.

Ima and I met early to plot the upcoming birthday party,calendar, and pick clubs (Karate, Yoga, and Fun with Chocolate) for afterschool. We walked over. The Home School Association is a prettypowerful fundraising and lobbying arm. They overtook the entrance hallway to pitch discount cards forneighborhood restaurants; car magnets; family portraits; umbrellas; and a wholerange of volunteering opportunities. The range of opportunities makes me wonder where my property taxes areactually going.

The principal took us through a Power Point talking aboutthe new bullying policy, technology initiatives, and taking us through thedistrict/school website. She alsointroduced the entire staff. TheHome School Association president got up and talked about her cabinet and alltheir efforts including liaisons for new parents (to the neighborhood andschool) and Israeli, Korean, Japanese, and Chinese constituents. You’ll be happy to know I had nocompulsion to ask if there was a liaison for balding, divorced dads.

M’s Kindergarten teacher welcomes us all. We were the only geeks to fill out ourname badges. I’ve never been aname badge person, especially because none of the other parents even got achance to introduce themselves. But then again, we’ve done enough introductions to the school nights toknow the teachers never leave any time for such shenanigans.

The teacher presented her curriculum and lobbied us to signup for mystery reader “of your child’s favorite book”, assistant chef for thecooking days; reading assistance (you come in and listen to the kids try toread to you so they can get individualized attention); parent-teacherconferences.

This year M will be the star of the week. We will get a large chart and have todraw and write her favorite food (odds are it will be beans and cheese); apicture of her family (all four of us – unless I wrangle a fifth just to fuckwith Kindergarten); and some other basic getting to know you stuff. Then Freda a stuffed animal frog willcome home for a week and we get to journal about all the wonderful stuff Friedaand M do together. We should takepictures but not let Frieda sleep with M.

If, through out the day, she’s a good listener M gets a staron a chart and if she fills in all 16 boxes she gets a hunk of made in Chinajunk.

Each night we need to log the books we read, who reads them,and provide comments about it in a journal. M will go on field trips to the post office and library aspart of a learning about our community social studies program. She’ll go to art and gym twice aweek. There’s also lunch, snack,and play-time.

The classroom is apparently over the boiler which means itis hot all year round. This mustmake for really fun lessons come May and June. The teacher advised dressing in layers.

She ended the presentation with an introduction of herstudent teacher (I was never introduced at Open School night when I taught!)and the classroom aide. Finally,she presented a photographic slide show of all our kids partaking in the almostthree weeks of school activities accompanies by that slow, drippy ukuleleversion of “Over the Rainbow.” Nowonder the kid is exhausted at the end of the day. Through in a few hours of playing on the playground in asomewhat supervised afterschool program and she mostly drops like a rock everynight.

At last I’m a kindergartener. I even learned that if you haven’t learned to hold a pencilby kindergarten, you probably never would because of muscle memory. I almost raised my hand and said as amarathon runner, you’d never believe what you can teach your body toaccomplish. I held my tongue. It’s too early in the school year to be“that parent” especially because I was “that student” all through school.

wrath of the soccer mom

2011-09-20T19:59:00.001-07:00

The one thing in divorce that goes with each person is friendship. There should never be any debate about whose friends align. You come into a relationship with your previous relationships and you should leave with them. All that stuff on television and the movies about people having to choose their friends in a divorce is bullshit. And honestly, if there’s any debate that person probably wasn’t your friend in the first place. While X had friends I would have liked to stay in contact with – I’m good with perhaps seeing them at M’s bat mitzvah or wedding. Although by the time her wedding rolls around, I might not remember who they were or why I liked them. Actually, that possibility is stronger for her bat mitzvah.

The move to suburbia was for me about one person – M. There was never any debate in my head about where to live. Sure, I’d love to be in the city in a nice two bedroom but I don’t have that kind of money and don’t want to commute to parent. Having solid schools for M was a key factor. And living across the street from a school is awfully convenient when your daughter (pray this is a trend) plays in her room and wakes you only by playing school aloud at 7:45 when she school starts at 8:30.

The big Kindergarten activity for weekends is soccer. There’s a six-week Saturday morning program with trainers from the Red Bulls soccer team who come and work with the kids. It should be an awesome activity for M. Signing up apparently means several emails a week about the league, especially in the past week with an urgent call for coaches.

I’m kind of a busy fellow. When I don’t have M, I like to go to the gym and pretend I might be ready for yet another marathon in the fall or hang out with friends and see movies. There’s an occasional date too. I’ve never coached in my life. In fact, for most sports unless the gym teacher chose me captain, I was picked pretty close to last every time.

The idea of coaching was appealing. It would give me a chance to hang with M and her friends; meet their parents for potential play dates for M and their single parent or not friends. But honestly, it would give me a chance to be outside on Saturday mornings watching and supervising my kid and her friends.

One of the league commissioners is a friend of X. I believe this means that she runs the team and deals with all the parents, while her husband is the coach. I would coach another team – because I’d still be able to watch M and her friend’s play. And, I certainly wouldn’t request a move for M to my team and away from her friend.

So I sent an email saying I’m interested in coaching and could come to the meeting about it, although I’d need to bring my kid because of a potential lack of child coverage. It was a simple message. And I think if you send someone enough emails indicating a need for coaches…it must be urgent.

I was excited about the possibility of coaching. In my career I’ve had a few bosses who were coach/mentors. They had strength, persistence, intelligence, humor, and grace that all leaders should maintain. Plus they were good people who invested themselves in me. I’ve always appreciated strong mentors and was happy to return the favor – even through guiding a bunch of kindergartners around a soccer field.

Eight hours later I got a terse email reply from one of the soccer moms. It said, “we have had an overwhelming response and your child’s team is covered. We also ask that children don’t come to the meeting. Thank you.” I believe this means my services aren’t needed other than cheering for my kid and her friends.

Rejection is never fun. There’s an art to being let down and let down easily. For most of my life, I can honestly say I’ve just been let down. I’m fully aware that I often put myself in these situations.

I’ve been a working parent for almost six years. I get the strain of the commute, the tension, guilt, and worry of never doing enough for my kid and not having enough quality time with her. While my days of school projects, plays, homework, and teams are just beginning, I’m fully cognizant of the needs and tensions of the not full-time working parent. Running a household is a full-time job. And the single working divorced male parent is apparently supposed to be seen and heard only through the writing of a check or sending electronic payment. Except that ain’t me, babe.

Given that I might be seeing these bright and smiling parental parents for the next 12 years on the soccer field and school yard, I’ll play nice. My parents did a decent job of instilling manners into me. But I’m not going to be pushed over or allow someone to be curt and rude to me or M. Oh yeah and the polite conversation – never been a strong suit of mine. So when I move on down the field to people I actually like – it’s on purpose. And when you wrong my child, or me you’ll hear it about it. That’s the creed of the single working divorced male parent. Bank on it!

Nailed

2011-09-04T20:17:00.001-07:00

Of all the parenthood chores I’ve taken to nail clipping has been an utter failure. Diapers with all sorts of goodies; colds, nausea, general illness; and bathing aren’t an issue. Nail clipping is a non-starter.

The standard issue baby clippers are brightly colored and come with a swollen body but regular sized handle and blade. For whatever reason, whenever I clip M’s nails I either go too deep or too shallow. It is probably my own fear of hurting her that has rendered my nail clipping ability laughably sad. I thought I solved the problem with an emery board. However, the sound of nails against emery board sends me up the wall followed only by nails on a blackboard. Yet another reason for my not to be a full-time teacher.

My general strategy has been to leave the nails for Ema. However, when I’ve had M for two straight weeks and she’s swimming everyday and bathing frequently, leaving the nails for Ema isn’t prudent. This summer, I realized my best bet was to hit the nail salon.

I’ve gotten pedicures a few times. As a runner, nails are the last thing I take care of. I don’t get foot creams to moisturize. I clip my nails as quickly and hopefully as short as possible and walk away. The timing of a pedicure is pretty important though. If you get a pedicure too closely to a race, as I have, one is apt to slip around their shoe because you’ve been so finely moisturized. This creates a hazard and I’ve actually bailed out of races because I my feet had no grip in the socks or shoes.

It’s kind of nice to sit for a few minutes and have someone rub and clip your toenails. They take a scraper and rub away all the dead skin. Then they just massage. Once they even wrapped hot wax and Saran wrapped my feet. It was kind of kinky. I’ll sit there with the newspaper and not look as they clip. I always felt tremendously guilty about my post-Athlete Foot infection, blistered, calloused, gnarly over grown toe nails getting treated by these nice young women.

Earlier this summer, I took M to get her nails done. She’d had a long day of swimming and playing. Her nails were long and there was no conceivable way I had the energy or temperance to listen to her wails. I’ll deal with them with her hair because I can sit her in front of me and turn on the television. With her nails, I have to calmly take a single finger and jam it into a guillotine. My hands aren’t steady enough to get a clean cut.

I told M we were going to the same salon as her cousins. She immediately asked the manicurist if they knew her cousins. M has a way with the room. She asks questions, smiles, listens, and responds to people. Not many people ask the manicurists if are having a good day or have ever been called a “stinky baby” by one of the kids at camp.

Today after almost two weeks away and with school starting shortly, I figured a trip to the salon would we a treat. We were on the playground at the elementary school and M started to get upset. She was talking about how A was going to be her only friend this year, which no matter what she wouldn’t make any other friends. I told her that was silly, there were plenty of new kids to get to know and everyone would be nervous and looking to make friends. It had to happen – the year and half the kid was psyched to attend this school – and two days before she has a freak out.

M screwed up her face and really cried. She started struggling and confusing herself. Conflicted about making friends, trying new things, and keeping her old friends all at once. She’s been in some sort of program since she was four months old with time off for good behavior, closure, or parents needing to be elsewhere. She’s got another thirteen years of mandated education and then at least four years of preferred education ahead of her. That’s twenty-one years of being shuttled around with combinations of letters, numbers, and human beings thrown at her. And let’s face it not every human being is nice, considerate, smart, or remotely entertaining. Faced with that, I opted to let her work the room at the nail salon.

I grabbed a Slurpee and sat in a pedicure chair while M picked her colors and waited her turn. A college aged girl sat next to her and they talked about camp, school, clothes, and nail colors. M asked if anyone knew her cousins. She talked about how school was starting and how excited she was that her friend A was in her class. I sat back and marveled. A guy in a nail salon is pretty much the odd fish. M had the ladies smiling and laughing. She owned the room.

I thought how easily I could have used the situation to pick up women. These women were eating out of M’s hands. With some preparation, she could have simply said, “you know my dad is divorced and he’s looking to meet a nice person like you.” Who could resist those blue eyes and the red hair? Or if she wanted to really amp it up a notch and go completely creepy, “I’d really like a younger brother or sister, would you consider mating with my father?”

I felt kind of cool, sitting there with the massaging chair kneading my back, thinking of ways to use this situation – my daughter getting her nails cared for – to my own advantage. At the very least there’s the beginnings of a sit-com in my head that has a manicurist, a divorced or widowed dad, and a five year-old.

In the three or four manicures I’ve treated M too – and by the way – it’s only $7.00 which is an absolute treat because she enjoys the experience, adores the pampering and the audience, and there’s no fighting, crying, or tantrums. The girl has tapped into the value of a spa treatment. There’s nothing wrong with a little pampering every once in awhile. At some point – probably in about five years – she’ll do her own nails, or at a sleep over A or whoever her latest friends are will do her nails. Or one of the ladies she’s picked up for me at the nail salon will do it. Then we’ll all know the true value of a spa treatment.

What I don't know from Kindergarten

2011-09-01T20:43:00.001-07:00

School starts the Tuesday after Labor Day. I never went to Kindergarten. My parents sent me to Montessori School where I was apparently so good at pushing in my chair and peeling carrots that I was advanced directly to first grade.

I’m excited for M and I being in Kindergarten. Finally I’ll learn what I missed. This evening after long delays from the weather, the kindergarten play date in the schoolyard was held. I walked by on it a business call tempted to bring over milk and cookies. I resisted said urge.

Parts of me was really tempted to head into the park and introduce myself as M’s dad. I could have asked A’s mom if they were in the same class. We’d talked about emailing the principal to ensure they would be – but of course – I didn’t. I’ve been so on top of everything M-related this summer, that I slacked. Whoever is in her class will be fine. I hope.

The M-related stuff has involved a lot of up and down the New York State Throughway and/or Taconic Parkway for camp. Once we took the train and were met – it was a welcome relief and allowed us to spend quality time watching videos, talking, reading, and annoying fellow passengers with too loud music. Forgive me for forgetting the headphones. I can’t remember everything.

Aside from the trips up and down, there were doctor’s visits and school evaluations to set up and a kind of a full-time job. This parenthood thing is harder than it looks. The people on television make it look so easy. I guess that’s what hair and make up does for glamorous people. Tonight someone told me I was much handsomer than my picture. Have to love when drunks buttering you up for another round. It is true; I am more handsome than my picture. Perils of being so astoundingly handsome.

The school supplies were bought via a service. Once school starts, I’ll augment the list. I already know I want the glue stick that goes on purple but dries clear. I hope there isn’t too much homework. I already have more than enough homework with lesson planning for my two classes. Not to mention the work from work I have to take home to compensate for parenting.

Don’t get me wrong I love parenting. I’ve had a great – albeit altogether too car-involved summer. I’m excited to be able to trot fifty feet from home to get M to school and then walk another half mile to my bus. It will mean a great savings on gas and car-time. I’m even more excited to install a new half bath in the house for all those play-dates. I’m really hopeful that Kindergarten play-dates mean I don’t have to wipe someone else’s kid’s bottom like I did last year.

The one draw back to all this excitement is what I’ve left behind. I don’t have a pre-schooler or a toddler anymore. I still have a kid experimenting with language and socializing. She’ll play soccer one morning a week on a team. She’ll start Hebrew school too. Suddenly, her life calendar will begin to look as full as mine on a hectic workweek.

My boss’ wife is pregnant with their ninth child. Nine. I’m one of four. As I get older the reality of a second child dims a bit. Realistically, it is a lot of work. More work and time than I think I’m willing to put in. I don’t want to change diapers or do weekly pediatrician appointments. I enjoy my sleep and days off from parenting. I don’t lament the failure of my marriage; I appreciate the experience of its joys and lows. Would I like M to have a sibling? Yes. There is nothing like sibling bonding. The shared jokes and experiences. When M has to make medical decisions about me – whom will she turn to? I guess I’ll have a living will and make my desires clear way in advance in print or video or holo-disk – whatever the technology of the moment.

She has cousins – some nearer than others. And while close, they aren’t sisterly bonds. Ultimately, for now she is an only child. Maybe I’ll adopt or re-marry someone who already has kids. Perhaps those bonds will be as fragile and ridiculous as those of my siblings. Thankfully, she’s never asked about another sibling. She’s more focused on a dog.

It might be nice to give her a sibling for a week. Maybe let her try out a three year-old or a nine year-old. Would she eat different foods as a result? Wear different clothes? Fight about television? Play fun games? I have no doubt she’d know what to do. She’s been around cousins and friends with siblings. She’s been to camp and playgrounds, classes and knows how to play with others. At the end of the week, would she turn to me, thank me, and then say, “I’m good with the two of us?” I’m sure my parents would love her to have a sibling but my mom is very good at not asking about my so-called social life. My dad gets dribbling of details and looks as me with askance each and every time.

What do they teach in Kindergarten? Reading. Writing. I want her to enjoy learning. To look at school as a place where she makes friends, creates interesting pieces of art, tries new things, and embraces ideas. Granted these ideas will be passed down via textbooks and projects beholden to state mandated and approved curriculum. But aren’t these ideas valued by other people who have encountered bullies, dating, broken hearts, politics, Slurpees, bike rides and all the wonderfully sticky life stuff out there? If not look out for me on the school board election. You’d vote for a non-Kindergarten attendee, I know you would.

Relay This (My one and only triathalon)

2011-08-08T18:38:00.000-07:00

An unexpected phone call a few weeks ago led me to the NY Triathalon. The caller was my cousin – an incredible cheerleader, fundraiser, and triathlete. He offered me a spot on his team – no fundraising required – to replace an injured athlete.

The idea of diving into the Hudson River didn’t really appeal to me. Honestly, I’m not the most graceful, lithe, or talented swimmer in the world. As for biking, I’ve got no speed. I own a hybrid bike which means thicker tires, way too many gears, and ample discomfort for any ride over 20 miles. As for running, yeah, I could handle it

So I dove in. Why not challenge myself? Here it was late summer, I’d been running and swimming somewhat regularly and hoping on the bike occasionally. My brother and sister-in-law have both triathaloned. They have a unique dedication to fitness that is both inspiring and frightening.

A turned ankle limited my running, but allowed me to focus on swimming. So I swam and swam. My strokes and speed didn’t get better or faster. Whenever M hit the pool, I’d race her or do laps. She’s turned into a confident enough swimmer that I don’t have to be on top of her in the training pool. I’d eek in laps while she played.

The NY Triathalon is organized in a completely different, confident way than the NY Marathon. Where the Marathon is a well oiled machine – slip on your shoes, grab your chip, run your nine races, volunteer for one, train, and head to Staten Island before dawn and body check 45,000 others while jockeying for a decent photo finish in Central Park. The Triathlon is more gentile. Show up at a hotel, attend a mandatory briefing, listen to lame jokes, grab you bag, and bring your gear to the transition area.

They overtook two ball fields on the Hudson and arranged several hundred bike racks for the almost 4,000 racers bikes and gear. I didn’t bother to read about nutrition or training preparation. I just didn’t have time and also didn’t want to get psyched out. I figured like with the marathons – this would be all mental.

Nevertheless, it rained the night before the race. A week before the race sewage spewed into the Hudson. All I could do was swim. My seventh podiatrist ever (and last) fitted me for an ankle brace and encouraged me to get a shot to make the ankle feel better. I decided to just rest and consume anti-inflammatory like candy.

At 4:30 am, I left my friend’s apartment and trotted down to the transition area. I passed a few revelers and felt instantly jealous for an inability to stay up all night drinking and having fun. I followed a fellow athlete down Broadway. At 79^th Street, I noticed an athlete on a training bike warming up. Unlike the NY Road Runner Races, no warm-ups were allowed. You couldn’t dive early into the Hudson and get your stroke together. You couldn’t whip out your bike for a quick mile or two. And, frankly, there really wasn’t room for more than stretching – let alone eecking out a mile or two. Our warm up was the mile walk to the swim start, plus my personal walk down to transition.

My mind was a complete blank. There was no nervousness. Just a silent will being written with everything left for M. As dawn leaned into day, the clouds didn’t break. The race was held up for a traffic accident. I was in a corral towards the back of the first wave of swimmers – lumped together with other relay racers, CNN’s Fit Pack team, and 24 and under women.

What I love about the triathlon is that every racer is marked on the left calf with their age. It’s really fun to check out someone’s age and body and instantly know something about them. It is an easy way to pick out people you might want to get to know better. If there were a tag for religion, I’d be in somewhat kosher hog heaven.

I got to know the Fit Packers and learned how they worked for CNN and were picked to get a full boat-training course including gear and travel. They’d been to Hawaii and had personal coaches who were jumping in and racing with them. I was jealous but instantly calmer knowing I’d be surrounded by pros who’d be encouraging and rookies like myself. We all posed for pictures and wished one another luck.

Soon enough the race was on. People were jumping and diving off a pier into the drink. Every ten seconds in went another wave. The line moved super fast. Too fast to get nervous. I put on my hot pink swim cap (gift for M) and sat on the pier. The pro-guides said spread your legs to limit how deep you go. So I did.

Salt. Smell. Fear. Waves. I just moved my ass once in the water. Crawl meant taking on water because the waves were higher than my head. Only a bastardized version of the breast and butterfly could keep my head and body above the water. Forget that wet suit makes you buoyant crap, I felt like a rock. Fear was definitely not propelling me forward. It was creepy to have other people’s hands bumping into my feet and head.

I took a deep breath and swam my race. This meant yelling at my cousin on the shoreline to say hi. And asking if anyone lost the flip-flop that floated past me. Talking also meant taking on water, which had the appeal of a sidewalk hot dog. So I shut up and transitioned that energy to my arms and legs. Up and down we went, with the only conversation yelling at a back stroker who was five feet from braining herself on the rocks of the shoreline.

I felt like I was in the water for an hour. Slowly, unsteadily, I breathed and propelled myself asynchronously downtown. On the deck, people yelled and outstretched a hand to pull us out. One of the Fit Packers was next to me. That felt good, unfortunately, so was the male racer who had a heart attack and later died. He was on a gurney before the shower, holding up the bikers who were ready for phase two.

My legs were jelly. Yet I felt boisterous. I felt as good as I did after my first marathon, dancing down the deck yelling I just swam the Hudson, dancing, and singing. It was quite an amazing feat and frankly, I just felt lucky to be alive.

Jay grabbed his bike and did his portion of the race. I changed into my running gear and read the paper while he biked. My stomach growled as I realized I had no food – foolish mortal – and no money or way out of transition.

I called P and asked for food and he navigated his way downtown and met me as I came out of the running shoot on 79^th street and gave me a banana. My iPod was on way too loud and I ran the first four miles with M’s swim teacher. We paced each other and I annoyed him with banter and encouragement. The adrenaline and hunger propelled me to too quick a pace for the humidity and sun. My ankle gave out and I had to slow down atop the northern most hill of Central Park. I alternated running, walking, and drinking. For once I had no sense of time. NY Road Runners has clocks every mile. All we had was Cytomax and water. I checked out a few calves and somehow kept pace.

I though the course was pretty straightforward finishing on the 72^nd street transverse. How wrong I was, they ran us around Bethesda fountain and then onto Dead road. I yelled to the crowd “where the fuck is the finish?” My music was way loud and I heard people yelling my name – odd given that I had no clue where any family/friends were – and wasn’t wearing a named shirt. Finally, I finished. We did it in 4:32. Faster than my last two marathons. I grabbed medals, banana, bagel, saw P and got the hell out of dodge.

I felt good. My ankle throbbed but everything else felt fine. Sure I was sweaty and probably smelled like the west side trash burning factory, but I’d done it. And had no desire to do it again. None. The medal is cool. I earned two-thirds of it. I still taste the salt and feel water logged. I fully expect to get some sort of strange illness. But I can say I participated in a triathalon – the third leg being the drive to camp to get M.

Eat My Shorts Dale Carnegie

2011-07-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks, M has been back at day camp. She’s been running around from between eight in the morning to 5:30 in the evening. And, I have to say, largely, she’s been a good sport. Camp was wedged around work, home appointments that I had to schedule around work, and a mean ol’ stomach bug that felled me for a day and a half.

I made the cardinal mistake of not asking other parents in her pre-k class if anyone was signing their kid up for camp. Had I done that, I’d have placed her with kids who actually wanted to be around her. The fact that the kids are run from indoor to outdoor activity over the course of eight hours with breaks only for water, lunch, and snack is pretty incredible.

M knew two of the kids in her group. Both were in before/after-care at school with her the past two years and in her camp group last year. She had a great relationship with the boy, referring to him as her boyfriend. The girl she’d done gymnastics with and a play-date that resulted in a joint bath. The play-date fooled and lulled me into thinking all would be copacetic between them. Especially as the other more responsible parents actually took the time to specific which kids they wanted their children to be in groups.

I guess age five is the breaking point where boys turn into boys and girls turn into pre-teens. Boys get loud, aggressive, fast. Girls get crafty and aggressive. M has honestly had a year of at least one kid annoying/being mean to her. It got to the point in the school year where she was crying before going to school because she was so tortured. And this is a child who loved her teachers and most of her classmates and is generally pretty darn happy. There were many talks with the teacher.

There were also many talks with M about what to do with a meanie. Put up a hand and say, “I have plenty of friends. I don’t play with mean people.” Walk away. Tell a teacher. Say stop it. Play with other people. But again the girl who was mean to M was in after-care with her. And on the good days, without meaness, M requested they be in swim class together.

However in her camp group there were two thick as thieves girls who ascended to meaness. She encountered the new mean girl at a birthday party in June. I wasn’t there. But Ima relayed to me how this girl came up to M and insisted the Ima was her nanny. She repeated it several times and her mother came over and ended up talking to her twice before removing her from the party – without apology – kicking and screaming. If the kid is anything like M, not only did she remember the encounter – she probably cemented the embarrassment and say M as a target for the rest of her days.

Her first week in camp went swimmingly. M leant her goggles to the second mean girl. She bonded with another girl and still had the boy from last year as her boyfriend as they played king and queen of the playground. By the end of the week, the boy wasn’t her boyfriend – just a good friend. But I could see the separation between boys and girls and the lack of bonding. The counselors even set up competition between which sex could change into swimsuits fastest.

Last week there were daily “X was mean to me” on the car ride home. I would sign, offer a snack, and listen to the five year old meaness. “She doesn’t like my shoes.” Well M had a brand new pair of black sneakers that light up. Technically, they were probably boy shoes – the lights give that away. But they are cool and she liked them in the store. Her purple shoes were with her mother and her Fancy Nancy sneakers looked like they were pretty much done for. I couldn’t find the other white and pink sneaker – not for lack of trying.

We’d prepped her that if there was any meaness, she should go to a counselor. One day there was poking; another scratching. I talked to the counselors. They said they were aware of it and had talked to the girl’s parents. In the mid-camp evaluation, I commented on it.

I understand that M is different. She’s not there for a full summer or even multiple weeks back to back like everyone else. She’s very precocious with people not her age. Her comfort level skews older because it’s where she spends a portion of her summer and has acquired a lot of the language of older kids without the emotional/intellectual backstop. Part of this is why she repeated pre-k. There’s no perfect solution. The kid needs to defend herself.

Tonight we walked around cleaning the house calling all the mean kids names like “Fart Head” and noting they smelled or wore diapers. It got a genuine smile and laughter and got the house somewhat cleaner.

All you can give your kid is the tools to stand up for herself. Maybe if she had a younger sibling, the defenses and physicality of defense would be more natural to her. At some point the going to the authority figure will turn M into a tattletale and be worse for her. I’m anti-violence but honestly, if someone were gunning for me everyday, I might not be.

I don’t know what M’s breaking point will be. Yesterday mean girl 2 followed her around. M told her to stop. I said, if she does it again, turn to her and say, “I already have a shadow. If I lose mine, and you’re nice to me for a few days, I’ll consider letting you be my shadow.” A complex thought. Too complex. Poopy head would have done the trick.

Are they jealous of her schedule? Do the other parents not say, “Love you” when they drop off or pick up? Are there no hugs and kisses at drop off and pick up? I rarely see the other parents at pick up or drop off. At car pool, we just suck each other’s exhaust fumes as the counselor come curbside.

I remember being bulled in third or fourth grade. Some older kids tried to steal my pants while I was sitting in the bathroom. In 9^th grade a couple of the wrestling/football team were mean to me in gym class. In those days, I didn’t say anything to anyone. I went to class and changed as fast as possible and stayed away from them. Sometimes, I’d cut class to avoid them.

At camp, there were definite cliques of kids who had been there a summer before me and bonded. I didn’t have a steady group of friends who came back summer after summer. So I spent five years trying to keep up with kids who didn’t like me. I was decent at sports and okay at the arts. And, I’d perfected being obnoxious and smart mouthed to anyone who was unfriendly. It was largely me against the entire bunk.

What can I say, high school was rough. I was the youngest of four. So teachers had all experienced the Cohen charm – smart mouth, obnoxious, somewhat intelligent, talkative and not a chance of applying oneself until absolutely necessary. I had friends of my brothers who weren’t overly impressed with me and didn’t have a large clique of my own – preferring to drift from the artsy to the A/V crowd to the alternative school/very liberal types. I didn’t spend a lot of time endearing myself to a whole lot of people in my grade or above grade, preferring younger people. Charming as I was, I survived. Having siblings and good friends helped. But it was a different age. I didn’t go running to my parents with my report card or my problems. I dealt with everything as it came.

With a five year old, you want them to come to you. I want to know what’s happening in her life and how her day is – especially when I eventually have to pay the bill for her day. We live in complicated times where people draft manifestos and arm themselves. Part of me wants to talk to the parents and see what’s up with them. Is my kid instigating in anyway? Chances are the parents are clueless.

This morning, over Fruity Pebbles, M sagaciously looked over her glasses and sighed, “I’m tired of all the meaness Aba.”

Last week, there was a family night at camp. Many parents and siblings showed up. Ostensibly it is a chance to smile at the counselors, watch your kids hug them and kids they like and hear a sales pitch for next year in a terrible sound system with the promise a movie. We brought a blanket and laid it out. The second bully showed up and M said hi. I asked M if she wanted to invite the girl and her mom to sit on our blanket. M sat a bit. The girl kept flicking a piece of paper at M in her face. I said to M to tell her to stop. She didn’t. Eventually, we ran into people we liked and talked to them and traded numbers for a future play-date. M was ready to go. The mean girl kept flicking the paper. Finally, I put my hand in her face to block the flick – a total no-no – and said, “Please stop.” Her mom was on her cell phone ignoring the child. I yanked the blanket from under the mom. I still know how not to make friends.

Game On

2011-07-17T18:59:00.001-07:00

Kindergarten can wait. We still have day camp. Three more weeks of it. The first week actually went really well. I was bracing for tears. Last year, M started two or three weeks into the session. This meant, she missed orientation and that initial week of bonding the kids and counselors had. In addition, I had no clue camp served meals, offered towels, and supplied a bag, t-shirts, and water bottle for each camper.

Our first day we showed up three weeks late with lunch. She recognized a few kids but there was a harsh break followed by tears. M begged to avoid early care and be dropped off at car pool. But car pool starts at 9, which means the earliest I could get to work, would be 10:30. With this particular camp you pay for four weeks, but our schedule only worked out three weeks. One week was donated to a needy camper – or just paid for – and unattended by any camper. M appears in a few photos on the end of camp DVD and seems happy. She enjoyed swimming, arts & crafts, and playground.

Tomorrow is her second week of camp – the camper’s fourth. We did the first week of camp three weeks ago. This meant, she went to the orientation of Sunday. I got to hear all about car pool, the ban on pool shoes, and nod at parents that frequently nod at me but don’t exchange words other than “hi.” She met her counselors, went through a week of activities, and had a good time.

Today at the pool, she saw her early care friend and they said “hi.” She’d met this girl at my cousin’s house where they Slip & Slid for a while back in June. Her group includes a few kids from after care the past few years – none of her close friend’s from Pre-K this year.

That first week of camp exhausted her. She’d been in Massachusetts for two weeks hanging out and being the queen bee with her mom’s partner and grandparents. I worried about the transition from focal point to one of the gang. But M did great. Each day she’d tell me how many points she scored in basketball or whom she rode in the kiddie cars with. She’d fall asleep until at least 8 each morning. I ended up getting up before her for once. By Thursday her throat was hoarse from screaming – or transitioning from an indoor activity with air conditioning to an outdoor one. The one big sass I got from her was “have fun in air conditioning at work, while I’m out here playing.” Other than that, she accepted the bathing in sunscreen and came home without any major sunburn but one insane bug bite that got scratched to ping pong ball size.

I chose day camp for her. The alternative was hanging out at the beach. I felt it was really important development-wise for her to do sports and be with kids her own age. Someday she might choose to go to overnight camp and sleep in a bunk (like she has a choice – her parents both did it and one of us works for a camp), so she needs the skills. By being in programs with kids who are learning the sports at the same time – with differing ability – and somewhat supportive college-ish age kids supervising – she’ll grow. I want her to think competitively and be able to stand her own on the kickball, baseball, basketball, and kiddie car field.

I’m not the type of parent to say “good job” if she hasn’t. I don’t applaud every missed shot or attempt at something. My father wasn’t that way and none of my brother’s are either. The kid has to try. She has to show up and be there, support her peers, and have her game face.

In the car home yesterday, M told me how she is learning volleyball at sleep-away camp. She explained the rules to me. Do I think I have an Olympic athlete on my hands? Probably not. But to have a kid who knows the rules and is willing to try in the game is all I want. She doesn’t have to like every activity, she just has to show up and play. Granted this is coming from a guy whose last team sport was kickball a few weeks ago with neighborhood kids – but still.

In a few weeks I’m tag teaming with someone on a triathlon. I get to swim and run. M wants to cheer me on but she’ll be at her mom’s. In the meantime, she’s got her trash talk down pat. Today in the pool she told me that she and her kid are doing “all three things in our race – running, biking, and swimming.” I felt duly schooled and loved it. At dinner she told me “no tears tomorrow.” I believe her. Other than Woody Allen and vastly wealthy people, most people like being around people their own age.

Have It Your Way

2011-07-17T18:27:00.001-07:00

There are few guaranteed things in my life. I will absolutely always miss a spot shaving. On any trip, I will bring too much of one thing and none of another. My haircut will always be too short and now takes way too long to grow back. Your birthday gift from me will be late and probably not worth the wait. And on any long car trip with M there’s a guaranteed stop for some portion of a meal at a fast food joint.

Our preferred fast food joint is Burger King. Or I should say was Burger King. Invariably their restaurants are always dirtier and skeevier than McDonalds or Wendy’s. However, unlike their competition, Burger King offered Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. They no longer sell it.

Kraft was one of M’s staple foods from the get go. The child would suck down reams of the stuff. One Passover, it was her food of choice at Seder. For a kid with distinct food preferences, Kraft Mac is a guaranteed meal. She’s since accepted organic brands of shells and macaroni. But for eating out at Friendly’s or Burger King – her definite meal was Mac and Cheese.

On any given road trip to my mom’s house or to and fro camp; a stop for Mac and Cheese is necessary. I’ll load up on snacks, fruit, water, and juice. But when it comes to lunch – fast food Mac and Cheese – with ten pieces guaranteed to be burnt was a definite. It being eliminated from their menu annoys me. However, it also ensures that I’ll never frequent their restaurants again.

When I was teaching at Baruch College, I’d lunch at Burger King on 23^rd street at least once a week. It was accessible and no one would chase me out during the two-hour break between classes. Granted, I drank way too much soda during that academic hiatus and ended up gaining an insane amount of weight, which slowed my marathon time down. When the job disappeared, I stopped checking in on the King.

Last year living on the Hudson, there was a King at the top of the hill and M and I would pop in infrequently. The floors and tables would be sticky with spilled soda or overly bleached from a just been cleaned. Their staff barely spoke English. The Apple Fries would be impossible to open. But, it was a place we could go for a quick meal.

And now, we can’t eat there. The Apple Fries can easily be cut from supermarket apples. The Mac and Cheese can be had either via the supermarket or the stock within my own pantry. It means fewer movie or cartoon character themed made in China pieces of plastic littering my car or a bag of stuff played with for ten minutes that merits donation. For me it means, a bit less carbonated beverage or overly sugared lemonade/fruit punch, and no more attempts at salad or veggie burgers. I’ll save money and calories. My carbon footprint won’t be lessened. We’ll still need to stop for a quick potty break and a “no you can’t have a toy” followed by whining.

I’m not sure why Burger King made this menu choice. Perhaps it was the longest prep item – slapped into a microwave for at least 90 seconds. An oil fryer burn is more intense pain-wise than touching a heated piece of cardboard so the lawsuit angle is out. Near as I can tell, some executive decided it was against brand – not a homegrown product and it was out. However, they still serve Hershey branded pies and milk; Icee attempts at Slurpees; and Starbuck’s sibling Seattle’s Best Coffee….not to mention media-based toys. Were we the only Americans occasionally ordering Mac and Cheese? Was Friendly’s and Applebee’s proving too much casual dining competition from Kraft?

McDonald’s if you want my incremental meal dollars – here’s your chance. We like your fries. Your toys are just as useless as Burger King’s, however; we’re open to migrate. Just please add a veggie burger or a tofu-based salad. In the meantime, I’m grateful for a few less trips to the King dollar, calorie, and parenting-wise.

This menu change offers me increased opportunities to push new foods upon M. Perhaps she’ll try a different colored pepper this summer, tofu, or let her cheese be grilled. Her lunches at day camp are always bagels. She doesn’t like their Mac and Cheese or their yogurt. She comes home and consumes a full can of beans and cheese, some yogurt, milk, and two Hershey Kisses. Rather than have her walk around a not particularly clean or interesting restaurant, we can sit, catch up on our days and read a few books together over another can of beans. So really Burger King, have it your way, we’ve got options.

The Old Man Near the Park

2011-06-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

As kids when we were done at the diner or someone’s basement, we’d head to the park. There we’d swing, hang out on the jungle gym, and just look at the stars. If we were a cooler group, there wouldn’t have been the need to hang in the park. The cooler kids were off with their girlfriends. Or maybe we really were the cool kids who knew there was fun to be had in the park. I’ll choose a happy medium uncooly cool.

Nowadays, I live across the street from an elementary school, complete with playground. On school mornings around 8:20 the street is cluttered with mini-vans, SVUs, and all means of people not quite rushing to drop their charges off to academia. Mothers linger at the gate in workout gear, sipping coffee, not quite making eye contact with one another.

At night, the park is a hub. Families flock to it to play. Dogs are walked. The neighborhood comes together. I meet people. I learn whose house was robbed and who’s putting up a new security gate. And, I wonder – why didn’t I stay in an apartment? In our last year together, Ema and I had a break-in. They came in the backdoor, broke the glass, but were scared off by the alarm. I am grateful my neighbors tell me these things. They also want to know when I’m away and will happily accept packages and the like. It is nice being part of a neighborhood momentarily each day.

Today M played kickball with the boy next door and his friend. I pitched and played the field. And out of the corner of my eye I spotted her monkey barring all by herself for the first time. Usually she requires her legs to be wrapped around me in a cobra vice grip.

The one rub of being across from a park is the wonderful teenagers who use it to hang out. I’m not one for sleeping with air conditioning. Maybe it was the years of marriage – falling asleep to a television or snoring – that conditioned me to require absolute silence. There’s too much competition within my own head for outside stimulus.

Recently the local youth converge on the park past midnight. They wisely parked just inside the gates between the lights, which made it difficult to spot their car should a police officer cruise the vicinity. I couldn’t make out specifics of their conversation. I just heard the tone – peels of laughter, annoying drone of teenage talk. The sound wafted across the street into my windows. There is no hospital coffee shop or diner for them to appreciate. They come to the park.

There’s a picnic table, which I move further from my house furtively each evening. My hope is to place it closer to the other tables on the far side of the playground. Passive aggressive? Yes but if it works – happy, happy, me.

I’m glad the youths chose the playground. Unless one breaks a neck, it is a fine choice to hang. I just wish they’d use the one on the other side – closer to the annoying neighbor kids who aren’t so nice to M.

I’d discussed the loudness with the neighbors and they embraced the idea of calling the people. I immediately envisioned myself as “that cranky old man Cohen” ratting out the kids. They said the cops would come and break up the party. My bud P backed me up and said it was well within my rights to call.

I’m sure the cops were called on us way back when. And we scrambled for the cars and headed home. But honestly, we weren’t up at 2 a.m. yakking away. Why weren’t they home texting or Facebooking or Tweeting their coolness? How dare they break the pattern of other teens and have actual face time! If I didn’t have a job to get to or a kid to parent, well, I wouldn’t be living in the ‘burbs across from a school. But given my so-called responsibility, be warned youth of Tenafly…wake me again – light, non a/c sleeper that I am – and I will call the cops.

My worry really stems, not from me and my desire to get a restful night sleep; but from not wanting M to wake up. She’s up enough needing to pee or having pee’d and needing new linen. Her waking up in the middle of the night only means less sleep for me. Yes, parents don’t really get a good night’s sleep until their kids are in college. Divorced parents only get good night’s sleep half the week. I’m not hearing your violins. If I did they’d keep me awake. And if you play them in my park, I will call the cops.

Frenemy of the State

2011-06-06T18:23:00.001-07:00

The irony of play dates is they allow the other kid’s parents time away from their kid. However, when you are a working parent – work is time away from your kid. And when you’re a working parent with a nanny – it’s time away from your kid while they play with another kid. Still we persevere and make dates.

I’m become fond of the impromptu ones. On a Sunday, after swimming, in the Tumble Room where the kids can just play. They sort out disagreements without parents and enjoy themselves. The parents can look up from reading the paper or playing on their phone to ensure no children have broken their necks from jumping off the top of the stacks of gymnastics mats. Twenty four hours and all the good will of an adventurous afternoon turns into children running out to tattle tale on one another to mom or dad.

You’d think five is too young for a frenemy, wouldn’t you? Turns out – it isn’t. Sometime this winter, young Ms. K entered M’s classroom. M’s most reliable school playmate this year has been R – a just turned four year old whom M could mother. They had one horrendous play date early in the year marred by bad temperament, intractability, excitement, and lack of sleep on M’s part. Yet, each and every day they’d play “Family” with M as mom or big sister and R as other big sister or baby.

K stepped in and usurped M’s exclusivity with R. We held M back so she could brush up both academics and social skills. My mandate was to get her play dates with every kid she liked and by and large that happened. Ima supplemented this activity with dates with boys. All told we probably had her regularly playing with half the class on the weekends or after school. We let her play with R at school and avoided K.

Yet day after day, M would complain about K. And then, the girl who loved going to school would start to hem, haw, and cry. K was bossy. She didn’t like select outfits of M and criticized her food. She was in after-care which meant whatever high M might have had from the actual school day was tarnished by being stuck together for an extra few hours. There were calls to the head teacher. There were discussions with M.

I taught M to hold up a hand and say “I don’t play with mean people” and walk away. She practiced at home. But I have a feeling the actual pressure of saying “I don’t want to play with you” in school, in front of other kids, was too much. So M’s misery grew…which meant my did too.

The solution turned out to be a lot more play dates with other kids so that M would want to play with a greater variety of people and get away from R who K monopolized and a lot more talks with the teacher and M. Once M’s comfort level with more kids materialized she gave herself options for more games and playmates. This neutralized the cruelty of K.

Somehow a discussion of swim lessons arose. M started with the strict teacher. I’d drag her to class on Tuesdays. Last year she had a friendly teacher who was fun but didn’t exactly challenge his six students with increasingly difficult skills. The strict teacher garnered attention by slapping a kickboard on the water. Factor in her trying to get the class into the Olympic sized pool which isn’t heated to the 105 degrees the kiddy pool is – and M was lost.

The teacher basically told me she was wrong for M. I didn’t heartedly disagree. I’m good with strict. She was going for actual skills. The real problem was they don’t swim test. So a group class ends up with kids in the right age range but with varying levels of skills. Throw in too many skill levels and nothing gets accomplished except kickboards slapping the water and draining the enthusiasm for swimming.

Turns out, K went to lessons with the nice teacher on Thursdays. So M ended up swimming with her a few times. They both wore “Hello Kitty” suits. Week in and week out – depending on when I could get her from work or how K and M played – swim lessons occurred. Most weeks, I got her early and we swam with K after both their classes.

Yesterday, K, her brother, and father came into the tumble room. M, K and the brother had a great time building a fort out of all the tumbling mats and a “booty” trap course. If you step on a “booty” than you can fall down. They meant bobbie but botty was a bit cuter. They played beautifully, working out disputes, chasing after me, fending off other kids. I couldn’t have asked for a better end to their relationship. Even the mother who’d been nothing but cold to me – even going so far as to walk away from a group conversation at a birthday party – but standing within ear shot – was happy to see the girl’s playing. I guess the mom got tired of hearing bad things from the teachers about her daughter’s so-called bossiness and petulance.

Today, M walked into the tumble room – K and M’s closest play date friend A were there. The girls emitted an ear piercing high-pitched scream as if Handy Manny were in the room. They jumped and hugged.

The game of choice was rocking one another on a “u” shaped mat and try to flip the other person over. K and her brother took lead. A watched and laughed and assisted when called upon. Somehow M and K didn’t take turns and K kept running out of the room saying “I’m going to tell my mother on you.” This happened at least five times. I kept telling M she had to take turns. She’s stamp her feet, furrow her brow, and mutter, “I am. She’s not.” Finally, seeing the meltdown was adversely affecting A who was left the room to tell her mom how un-fun M was.

I handed M a second “u” mat and told them to take turns. M gloated. Gloating is the one reaction that sets me off. It reeks of spoiled brat and goes against most parenting bones in my body. Too many times have I seen celebrities and rich people gloating over non-accomplishments. With both her playmates annoyed at her, I told M she had to apologize. Reluctantly, she did.

K and family skulked off frenemies again. A’s mom made a play-date with us for tomorrow. The lesson here isn’t keep your frenemies close and your friends closer. It’s you can’t turn a bad penny. Once a frenemy, always a frenemy. Now the girls will see each other on those random Sundays or after classes or even in a swim class. My days will be lighter having no longer to hear “Everyone can come to my birthday party except K.” That is until the next “K” comes into her life which will happen pretty much tomorrow.

A New Friend

2011-05-24T21:19:00.001-07:00

I’ve got M and her play-date in the car driving back to the JCC because the weather has turned on us and almost three hours with two five year olds has exhausted me. I was invited to actually participate in this play-date which meant me attempting to work while the girls talk to me and following them around from room to room, giving them food, moving toys, answering work calls, and ready to throw my laptop out the attic window because Excel keeps doing exactly what I don’t want it to do, all the while making sure I don’t utter any curse words. This was a hell of a play-date as I was invited to wipe the tushie of our guest after she used our throne room. Isn’t that out of play-date bounds?

My phone rings and it is Ema. “When you have some time – and no kids in the car – I’d like to talk about our private lives. I’m ready to talk about it with you.” Now when you look up the picture perfect divorce – that with relatively open, honest communication; little rancor and no threats of dragging the other back to court to settle things; or nickel and diming over every facet of M’s existence – you might see our grimaces. That’s not to say we’re happily divorced or happy-to-be-divorced or proud to be divorced. We’re just two divorced parents who by and large put the interests of our five year-old ahead of our own. Perhaps a bit too far ahead of our own. But the kid is by no means a horrible monster who needs constant supervision, direction, misdirection, threats, or too much parental sleight of hand. As this existence is what M knows – mom and dad in two separate houses, usually telling her the schedule of pick ups and drop offs and days with one of us – and has known for four years, we’re pretty much ahead of the curve. For now.

The reason I got divorced always comes up in conversation with potential mates. People salivate for salacious details like someone having an affair, spousal abuse, financial imperilment, or child endangerment. There’s a perverse sense of enjoyment people get from exploring someone else’s past. The first six months I dated I had no tale to tell. I fumbled with either too much detail or way too little. But frankly, I was out of dating practice, my photos stunk, and I was trying way too hard. Invariably as I got to know people, they’d want even more details. As if whatever tale I’d spun on the first or second date wasn’t factual enough given the plateau we’d reached. Those who were uninterested always looked with askance bordering on boredom when the details were as lively as “it just didn’t work out. We grew apart. We invested too much in our child and not enough in ourselves. I was immature and said a lot of stupid things.” People wanted the juice and I was delivering spittle. But frankly, there truly was no juice. And if I had to invent or invest in juice to spark a conversation with a date, then there was no potential relationship.

Once I got the patter down, I was able to embark on longer durations of attempts at relationships. But generally I’d find an excuse, say something foolish, or lose interest in the person. More over, while not a particularly detailed person, I found myself comparing where I was in a new relationship with wherever I was at the same point in my courtship of Ima.

I underwent a long course of picking over the details. As a kid I reveled in the “Choose your own Adventure” books. If you want to open the door of the old, creepy mansion, turn to page 16. If you want to go get a slurpee, turn to page 12. Wondering if you went left instead of right is a natural course of thought following any relationship. We’re built to over analyze our past in an attempt to learn from it and not repeat mistakes. However, let’s face it, if we’re good at something – sarcastic careless witlessness; neurotic about faces; insensitivity; looking for any excuse to get out of the room – why not stick with what works?

Time passed. I refined my patter, updated photos, altered course, kissed a few frogs, and even introduced M into the picture. M is a good kid who loves her parents. There’s no way she’s not going to tell the other parent what she thinks we want to hear. As dutiful parents, we’ve had a number of uncomfortable conversations around M’s introduction to whomever I introduced her to.

Now, before you think I’m an insensitive slut who brings M to every second date, let me clarify. She’s only met three people. Different relatives have only met three. In four years, that’s a good number? A big number? The right number? There are no right answers here and I’m comfortable with that because life is an evolving situation.

I guess in an effort to clarify her situation for me and make it easier for both of us to talk as adults who respect our child, Ima and I actually had an adult conversation regarding our private lives last week. It wasn’t quite what I expected. Our past attempts at exploring our present has always been an uncomfortable “if there’s anything you want to tell me…” Or me needing to alter the schedule which turns into “oh you’ve got a big date” with me having to update bashfully because let’s face it, doesn’t every ex want to know how their ex did on a date. It felt like an insurmountably uncomfortable yet easily avoided conversation/problem that could only be addressed with an honest discussion – particularly if M was going to be introduced to anyone either of us was serious about.

The repercussions of M meeting anyone are fairly immediate. Her behavior turns on a dime to shy, obstinate, and disappointed. The thrill of going to the circus, zoo, or museum with dinosaurs turns into an M-centric display of who can be wacky to amuse her or buy her something for a smile. And that’s just my behavior. The follow on conversations always entail terse questioning of whether that was the right thing to do and did M actually have a good time. Not to mention good old fashioned crippling guilt and the need for massive quantities of alcohol.

Knowing where you stand with someone is liberating. Truth really does almost set you free. It alters the course of conversation among adults, not always comfortably but respectfully. Dang see what I did there – called myself an adult. Idiot.

Truthfully, maneuvering through somewhat mature relationships as a 42 year old divorced dad with a mortgage in the suburbs isn’t exactly fun. There have been long conversations with friends about settling. But that’s not my nature. So instead I traverse a fine continual rapid-fire schizophrenic evolution and de-evolution from neurotic, asshole, slut, invertebrate louse, romantic single dude. There’s a sit-com in there somewhere – only I’m not quite sure who’d laughing. At least I can honestly say that while Ima and I were politely “friendly” now we’re actual friends. And you can’t have too many friends.

The Follicle Chronicle

2011-05-24T18:14:00.000-07:00

A year ago my lawn was lush like a golf course green. There were no dry patches. The hedges and trees were well maintained. Houses are supposed to look like that when they are for sale.

Now, there are patches of dry and dead grass. The lawn is balding in places.

Hair restoration is a multi-billion dollar industry. When the comb over just won’t do you can take a pill, apply a salve, shampoo, condition, and treat all in the name of new follicles. You can get hair removed from other body parts and have it glued anew to your skull. Or you can go for a toupee.

For eons Paul Simon dealt with his baldness with a cap. I’m of the James Taylor School – just go with it. I don’t have the energy for tonics, glue, toupees, or comb overs. Instead – when I shower – I towel off the hair and leave it as it lies. My grandfather was bald and someday I will probably be fully bald too.

In my last full-time teaching job, just as I’d turned 30, a kid turned to me and commented on my expanding bald spot. Once at work after a summer weekend without applying sunscreen up top, my father commented on how sun burnt the spot was and how risky that was for a balding man. Now nearly four years post-divorce I look in the mirror and marvel at just how gray and departed my hair has become.

While I won’t actively fight my departing follicles, as a good neighbor, I’m fighting the good fight against my lawn. I ignored it all last summer preferring to focus on the interior of the house. By August, after two months of ownership and M about to return home from camp, I broke down and bought a lawn mower. The neighbors eagerly told me to borrow any tool I wanted clearly hinting at my bringing down the hood.

Winter was rough on the lawn. A smarter man might hire a gardener and have them mount a battle. I’m taking it on patch by patch. There’s awesome new seed, fertilizer, dirt combinations that you can buy in a single package for $25 or less. So a few weeks ago, I grabbed a rake and took on the lawn.

As a kid, we took turns mowing the lawn. I used to love the smell of fresh cut grass. While I had no skills on the baseball field, I was a mowing savant. Upon everyone gone for college – the lawn was left to me. No allowance. Just a gas tank, mower and something to do. I’d strap on a Walkman, crank up the volume, and rock out.

When I first moved to the burbs, I decided to go with a non-power push mower. What better way to be green, then pushing a mower across our postage stamp lawn. I decided the front lawn was a goner and took Round Up to kill all the grass, apply tons of mulch and plant around the fifty year old tree roots that made grass an impossibility. I still run past that house and marvel at how well my plantings did.

When I got to my mom’s house, I’m called upon to weed wack or hedge trim. There’s always offers to take some hedge home, and this summer I probably will. I’m tired of the house’s foundation showing…it’s like a kid with really baggy jeans showing off their underwear.

After the first raking and application of the grass seed, I watered and planted a few plants with M. She’s a really good gardener. She’ll dig and throw the dirt anywhere and point the hose exactly where you don’t need it. Her enthusiasm is appreciated. Plus it’s really nice to see her race out of the car as we pull in and yell “Aba look at the new plant. We have a flower.” I know she takes pride in her contributions and why not. If it teaches her to take care of the planet, I’m all for it.

We did a class a few weeks ago with the Temple garden around compost. Two hours of compost education – who knew there was that much to learn? So I figured why not? I don’t have a ton of food waste but I do have grass clippings. Rather than invest in an expensive compost bin, I grabbed some Tupperware and dump in whatever I can. Someday, despite the rain and sun, I may have rich new soil to utilize in the garden. Right now it’s a pile of beans, grass, orange rind. The minute a raccoon takes to it – the green movement is gone.

Thanks to some well-timed rain, patches of new grass are growing in. I’ve even mowed it twice. The roots have taken. I still have to reapply and re-seed, but I have hope. Of course, the rest of the lawn seems to have turned into crab grass and scrub – so a well-timed call to a professional might be in order. I may not pay for hair, but I’m willing to pay for grass. I’ve got a lot invested in the house – grass actually will pay off when I sell this joint. Hair-wise, baldness hasn’t stunted my social life nearly as badly as my stunning personality.

Ta Ta Toothy

2011-04-07T21:15:00.000-07:00

As a kid we didn’t have much in the way of choice around oral hygiene. You were handed a toothbrush, some paste, and told to use them. In elementary school they reinforced the lessons occasionally by giving us all pink pills that revealed how well you were doing at brushing. Feeling no shame we’d chew the capsules and smile broadly showing off our pink teeth. I can’t say if they still do the tooth test.

But certainly back in the seventies we didn’t have electric toothbrushes and 8,500 types of toothpaste with all sorts of funky packaging, flavors, scents, whitening potential, fluoride, lack of cancer causing elements, plethora of cancer causing elements, and tartar fighting. I clearly remember the eighties and the rushing in of toothpaste and mouthwash in the same tube.

I don’t remember how often I brushed, certainly never flossed, and have a mouthful of cavities to show for it. Ten years ago I got the only two of my wisdom teeth out. It was a barbaric insane process that only yielded misery comforted by Vicodyn. Basically the surgeon took pliers and yanked the teeth out and then stitched me up. A couple of years later in an airport on the way to North Carolina a nut broke the tooth next to the gap from a wisdom tooth. The fake replacement tooth – porcelain – broke from another nut. You’d think I’d learn?

Between braces, night guards, and retainers as a teen my teeth didn’t see much brushing action. I was a dental nightmare. So what has all this taught me in terms of M’s teeth….brush twice a day. About two months ago, Ima sprang for it and got her a kid electric toothbrush. M loved it. No more cartoon character brushes for our girl. Now she got a brush with a stand and a plug! And no more baby toothpaste would be tolerated.

For M, anything that is too sweet is labeled “spicy.” Apparently, children’s toothpaste for all its cavity fighting power is spicy as all get out. Not the bland, initial teething paste, but the you’ve got all twenty teeth and go to the dentist twice a year paste. Blame the cartoon characters adorning the box. Or blame the flavoring potential inherent in the strawberry burst you’ve laid down three bucks for at Target.

Ima uses Dora brand with her. It’s Colgate to you adults. It’s strawberry – not a fruit the kid had ever liked. In our house, Dora is muy caliente or whatever the Spanish equivalent of spicy. Sesame Street is “too blue.” Getting the kid to brush was becoming a challenge.

The electric brush signals when it is time to change area of brushing. It’s timed so you brush for at least two minutes. I don’t know about you but two minutes is an eternity. I’m not even sure I brush my teeth for two minutes. I could turn on M’s brush and use it as a timer but that seems slightly over the top. In addition, M likes to spit and wipe. I don’t turn off the brush during this time so clearly she’s not getting her two minutes worth.

I’ve given her the teeth are very important lecture. I’ve also given her the it doesn’t matter toothpaste you use speech. However, given the expense of her toothbrush – I gave in and bought one about two months ago – I figure she should use it to full potential. And, I have to say the thing works. When used right – for the full two minutes consistently – your teeth actually get clean. In fact, dissatisfied with my own brush, I’ve used the age seven year-old and higher brush head and M’s brush. It feels awesome.

This week however, perhaps because her mother is away for the second time in three weeks leaving our precious child with me, tooth brushing has become a challenge. Pooh, Dora, and Sesame Street weren’t cutting it. There were excessive tears and resistance. And frankly, I can’t take tears over teeth.

I didn’t grow up with a lot of sugared substances in the house. Perhaps it was being the son of a home economist/dietician. Maybe from having a slightly overweight sibling – my folks limited our exposure to the cereals and snacks advertised all over afternoon and Saturday morning television. So actually, as a teen and college student – I let loose. Coke became it. That’s not to say I drank gallons of it…I saved that to the downtime between English as a second language classes I taught at Baruch College in the mid and late 90s. Who knew that sitting at an all you can drink fast food joint and drinking all I could for 90 minutes would pack fifteen pound onto my marathon thin running frame? Imagine what it did to my teeth – especially with my Coke Slurpee for long run reward system. My teeth didn’t love me but they hung in there, slowly rotting day by day.

Having just spent a day running around the Central Park Zoo and city with good friends, I did the sensible dad thing. I told M that I was getting her the toothpaste her friends used. The girl light up. I think she actually just likes the concept of presents or she’s got a competitive/jealous streak going.

Whatever the reason, tonight, overly tired from an active day of swimming, tumbling, and playing in a less structured parent-teacher conference day camp – the girl was all for the Whole Foods purchased grape paste. Grape is a flavor and fruit found in nature that M adores. The paste actually has the smell of real grapes. At first, it got a spicy. I ran water over the brush head and said “open up kid, please.” She complied – and for tonight at least – she brushed and enjoyed it. Tomorrow she can try the Tom’s Natural Orange/Mango for Kids. I see a steady stream of testing each brand, which means M, will be nine before I have to purchase her another tube of paste. I can live with that. Hopefully, her teeth can too.

One of my high school English teachers lived by the golden rule of “never give an adolescent a choice.” As a parent I believe firmly in extending that rule to five year olds. The joy of parenthood is knowing that no two days are going to be alike. If you can’t deal with the adventure and sense of unknown don’t commit yourself to 18 years of uncertainty and insanity. But also, never give a five year old a choice.

The A List

2011-03-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

People are loath to believe this but there is a pecking order to the pre/elementary school. Guess where divorced dads rank? Below pedophiles. Maybe on par with the morning security guard/parking attendant who yells at you and makes your kid cry when you live park because you have to get to work and can’t wait for the teacher pick up to begin.

Either way, unless your kids absolutely like each other, people aren’t calling the single dad for play dates. Why? The moms – rightfully so – are scared of getting hit on or worse being asked to set up the dad. And, also, it is pretty creepy to have to call a single dad to arrange a play date.

Now, we’ve over come this little bit of prejudice bit by bit. The rallies haven’t worked so well. It was just embarrassing to have a single picket and a whiny kid with a runny nose wondering why we were walking around the JCC yelling “Play date anyone?” Actually, just by attending birthday parties and running people in the hallways, we scored points with families.

It is a million times worse to call a family and arrange a play date than it is going on a blind date with a woman. You’d think it wouldn’t be so. As parents there’s way more to talk about – the kids, teachers, school, sports. But more than likely it is the dad (me) calling the mom (another guy’s wife).

For the play disaster in October – it was dad-to-dad doing the arranging. I was actually impressed. I thought heck if the kids work out we could ride bikes together, grab a beer, and go to a game. Didn’t work out for us. The kids played badly. With M’s pressing we called to try again, but soon realized the girls were better as school friends.

In December, I called a set of twins and M went over there. The parents were cool. The dad hung out with me while the kids played. We talked vacations and real estate. When the mom came home, she was pretty cool too. Nice people. Since then, we haven’t done a date but I’ve run into the mom and her kids before M’s swimming class and the kids have all played in the pool together twice. That totally counts. If she didn’t want to hang with us, she’d have pulled the kids right after their lesson. She knows we’re coming.

Last week, M and I were playing in the tumble room and we ran into the one kid I really craved a play-date with – A. I’d run into A’s dad at the kindergarten registration last month. I recognized him from the one birthday party we’d gone to this year. Having the two girls in the same class next year would be awesome.

M and A ran around the tumble room chasing A’s little sister. After about a half hour, A’s father came in. I introduced myself, we made small talk, and he told me we lived around the corner from each other. In fact, our houses are diagonally opposite. So he said “we should make a play date.” Bingo. His idea! We called the next day.

I went off to the bathroom M and A chatted. After a few minutes, M came in and said A’s mom wants to talk to you. A dense Israeli accent greeted me. We made a date. I would pick the girls up from school and bring them to my house. I’ve never hosted a play date in my entire life. Sure women have come over to my various abodes over the years – but it’s way different with five year olds. There has to be food in the house beyond booze. So I spent the evening arranging stuff, clearing clutter and polled people on potential snacks.

I loaded up the extra car seat and off we went. The little Civic felt very crowded with two tots in the back. I thought I’d up the cool ante by playing M’s uncle’s CD and made a point of mentioning who the musician was. A didn’t care. The girls played with the windows and A said “my baby sitter doesn’t allow us to open her car windows. She says it’s too noisy.”

The girls came into the house, dropped their bags and coats, and M proceeded to give A the grand tour. After a brief potty break, they closed M’s bedroom door and said “No daddy. Just girls.” A bit of my heart broke and then relief flooded in. I would only have to listen to house. I could play music – so as not to over hear too closely – and do work. And, I got a lot done. But then I wondered how long on a Friday afternoon I’d be stuck entertaining someone else’s kid. M had a gymnastics class and I wanted her to get to it.

The girls decided they wanted to play outside, but they also wanted snacks. So I armed myself with Pirate Booty and Rice Krispy treats. I pushed them in swings until they were hungry. A didn’t love the Pirate Booty but ate a whole Rice Krispy treat.

They trekked back into the house and proceeded to play school and house. There was a lot more time in the bathroom as mom/teacher M constantly prodded her daughter/student to take care of business. My room became Hebrew school, which made me nervous because it was the one room I hadn’t really straightened up.

A also ate a whole Fruit Crisp while M steadily finished the Pirate Booty. They had some water and carrots too. M wanted milk so I gave her a cup. Then more school/house with A being the big sister instead of the baby.

At 4 A’s mom called because she was sending over the babysitter. The play date came to an end. No tears. Huge sigh of relief. M wondered if A liked her. She wanted to call and make another date. I told her to wait until Sunday. The first thing she wanted to do on Saturday was ride her bike over to A’s house. So we did. She wanted to do it in the afternoon too but I told her it wasn’t nice to stalk people.

Today, after lunch as promised, M called. She left a short message saying hi and that she loved A. It was sweet. Later she told me that A told her during the play date that M was one of her best friends. Tonight, A’s mom called to thank us for the message. My heart dropped. I figured we were being dumped for lack of chemistry. Instead she wanted to know if it would be okay to request that the girls be in the same kindergarten class. I said sure. She also wanted another play date. M jumped out of her skin with excitement. Me, I played it cool and said we had to check out schedule.

Just kidding. I made the date for a day when M is with her mom. I’ll have to change it. But it gives the girls another reason to talk. Those single dads, they’re so wily.

baked

2011-03-05T18:31:00.001-08:00

The apple truly doesn’t fall far from the tree. I like other people’s deserts, not my own. M’s the same way.

Late this afternoon, we attempted to bake Hamentashen – a cookie/pastry tied into the holiday of Purim. Basically, triangular pastries that supposedly resemble the villain of the story. When they are good – they are really good.

I downloaded a recipe from the web and we went to the store and bought what we needed. I’ve never used my oven before today for anything other than storage. In my last apartment we used the oven once to bake cupcakes for Thanksgiving – and those were basically from a box. I don’t mind cooking or baking. I mind shopping and cleaning.

As M is also now into cheese sandwiches, we had to go to the supermarket in the next town. Despite having an Eruv (a protective shield that allows religious Jews to carry things like car keys on the Sabbath), our Stop & Shop doesn’t carry challah – M’s bread of choice. If I had the energy I’d write a letter of protest, instead I drive a mile in the other direction. Besides, there’s a 7-11 in the next town.

I actually hate shopping in the next town. Once after a business trip, I needed a meal. The store is open 24-7. If you don’t mind security rushing out to break up a parking lot fight, you can get a fine late night snack. The store, however, is always crowded and the people are pretty rude. They don’t actually say things like “excuse me” they just force their carts through the aisle and move on.

In any event, M was so excited for baking she was singing. She peppered me with questions and told me all about the Purim talk in her classroom. We talked about her costume…she wants to be the King this year. When she was two, she was the villain. Last year, she was the beheaded Queen – although she kept her head on.

M pushed over a chair, washed her hands, and got the eggs from the refrigerator. “How many dad?” She had a gleeful look in her eye. Four eggs later she was mixing. She’s a good mixer. I taught her how to measure and level a cup – just as my mother did. Two cups of flour later, she needed some assistance.

The dough got really dense. It was moist but laden with flour. You know those dry cookies with the chocolate chips barely baked on top – that’s what we were heading for. The cookies no one buys.

Once mixed, M grabbed a bit of dough and tasted it. “Not bad, but mushy,” she remarked. This was definitely the stuff of Play Doh all we lacked was food coloring. While she loved making triangles with her fingers, she made excellent diamonds. I rejiggered them, we dipped in the fillings (grape and peach jelly), and baked.

The kid sat in front of the oven and watched. When that thrill wore off, she played. They took about twenty-five minutes to bake. These were thick cookies. We only made six – two for twin cousins for their birthday; one for Ima’s friend; one for M; one for me. The rest of the dough will be baked tomorrow by a bunch of fifth graders.

When the cookies cooled, M took a bite. “It’s too hard.” I broke off a softer piece of mine. “I don’t like it.” Frankly, they were dense, baked too long, and had no taste. But we had a good time shopping and mixing.

I told M, other people’s hamentashen will taste much better, but our’s were made with love and enthusiasm. She requested some Pirate Booty and an episode of Dora while I did the dishes. Some folks have all the fun.

Survivors

2011-03-03T17:58:00.001-08:00

I’ve met one other holocaust survivor in my life. He was the father of a girl I dated. She introduced us at a brunch. A first meeting with a potential father-in-law didn’t seem like a good time to bring up how he’d survived. She, in turn, didn’t offer much details. In any event, we broke up shortly thereafter.

This fall I started teaching again after a hiatus. Honestly, it’s had some ups and downs but mostly has been really exciting. I enjoy using that portion of my brain again – the thinking on my feet, active listening, and attempting to engage a room full of fifth and seventh graders.

The seventh graders are using the year to study the holocaust. I’ve toured Yad Vashem – the Israeli memorial and the DC Museum. Both are incredibly moving. I even saw “Schindler’s List” when it came out. This summer I re-read “Night.” Nothing could honestly prepare me for meeting survivors.

I picked up M and told her we were meeting a Grandmother in Fort Lee and then I was dropping her off for dinner with her mom. She was somewhat grumpy from a long day capped by a swim lesson. The word charisma is thrown around easily. But I have to use it to describe Marta. She’s over 70, well dressed and coiffed. She’s got a hint of European accent. She has an easy charm, openness, and such a positive attitude that she could actually summon sunshine to break throw a hurricane.

She and M chit chatted about swimming and what M liked to do while we waited for Ima. The two of them became fast friends. On the rest of the ride we talked politics and unions. Marta worked for years at Columbia University in the registrar’s office. They wanted her to join the union but she refused. “Why should I pay them for the work I do?” she said. As thanks, upon her retirement, Columbia rewarded her with the union’s benefits.

We stopped in Fair Lawn and picked up Olga. Turns out Olga and Marta were in a displaced persons camp together after the war. Olga had photos of the two women, hair done up, make up, smiling, and showing off a little leg. Marta’s copies of the photos had disappeared – procured by a niece needing a school project. But it wasn’t as if she missed them. “I lived it,” she said, “I remember.”

Ten survivors spoke to the students. The kids were broken into groups of three or four. We gave them some questions as guidance, as well as recorders and pens and paper. Teaching history – making the past come alive – can be stifling. We explored the Nuremberg laws, how Hitler came to power, what it was like under him, the camps, rescuers. But until they met survivors – it was just history. Something they understood was important to the Jewish people and the world. But it always seemed just a bit out of reach. Intangible. Obscurred by regular school work, B’nei Mitzvah and sports practice, life. History has a way of being obstinate, repeating portions of itself, with less awareness due to the multitude of media, news, and entertainment options. Meeting a survivor erases all that clutter.

I went out to greet our speaker. Celina walked slowly, awkwardly. She expressed some form of reservation about speaking. She sat at the head of the table. The boys turned on the tape recorders and asked her to spell her name.

Slowly, in a Polish/German accent, she weaved through her story. Her father was a businessman; an entrepreneur who’d built a house with retail on the bottom and an apartment for her brother, self, and parents on top. He’d placed gold coins in the doorknobs – to hide them. She showed us a picture of the house. Her town was on the border of Poland and Hungary. The Germans came quickly. They had to wear Jewish stars and many families were forced into a ghetto. Her father was able to keep them together, in their own home for a while. But quickly, they had to leave their house. They went to a farm and through the good graces of a family stayed together for a few nights hiding. Eventually her father, brother, and mother were separated. Celina was placed with a Christian family, given a bible, and cross and allowed to portray herself as a non-Jew. But she lived in constant fear and the family eventually sold their property and she had to move. They found an attic for her and for three years, she lived in the attic with lice and mice and her bible. One time she caught her reflection and saw her covered white with lice. She’d go out surreptiously at night to relieve herself. The conditions were terrible. She contracted rheumatism. As the Russians approached her town, she was reunited with her entire family. However, her father was shot and she and her mother identified him by his toes. Her brother stayed in hiding. By posing as orphans she and her brother were able to immigrate to New Jersey and stayed with relatives. Her mother joined them later. Celina worked as a sales girl and seamstress, slowly learning English. Upon reuniting, her brother pointed out that she was still wearing a cross. Her father said he’d talk to her and she’d remove it when she was ready.

Her brother became an architect and moved to Puerto Rico. He visited their town in Poland and took some pictures, which she showed the students. She survived by the grace of other people’s goodness. People’s ability to recognize the wrong of the holocaust saved the lives of her family. Put in the same position, how many of us would return the favor?

The kids asked a few questions but they were rapt, captivated by her reality.

I drove Celina and her husband home. Turns out he was a survivor too. I asked how they’d met. She explained her friend was supposed to be set up with him, but Celina fell for him. I asked if it was love at first sight. She shrugged and asked Jack if it was. “Of course, “ he said. Celina cooed. They’ve been together over sixty years. Life goes on, day by day.

The Thrill of Theme Park

2011-02-23T19:38:00.001-08:00

Control

There are two kinds of theme park fans: those who go for the thrill and take what what comes no matter what and those who need to control their destiny. I’m way more of the thrill seeker. Get on a roller coaster, have my stomach bottom out or head rattled six ways to Sunday. The kid – she’s a controller.

The rides she preferred best – besides those with her favorite characters (Pooh) – were all the ones she could control. Dumbo, Aladdin, Tea Cups, Buzz Lightyear – all give you the rider the ability to tilt, twirl, ascend/descend. For a five year old, that’s power.

Imagine having a day or longer with an adult only guiding you towards the ride, keeping you from touching everyone on line, and providing food, sunscreen, liquids. The rest of the day – you manipulate the height, speed, rotation of your father. Pretty heady stuff for a little adult.

We started on the carousel. Simple stuff. M absolutely wanted a horse that wouldn’t go up and down. There were some benches, but honestly for $250 bucks for three people and one day in the park – she was going to get motion. And she got it. She loved having a horse go up and down.

Walt’s team has a system called “Fast Pass.” Each aspect of Magic Kingdom has a ride or two – the “hot” ride – that allows Fast Pass holders to avoid most of the line by entering a special entrance in their designated hour. The trick is you can only have one Fast Pass per hour/ride. In other words, if you have a pass for “Jungle Cruise” at 2:30 and ride it at 1:45 than you have to wait until 2:30 to get a new Fast Pass for Buzz Lightyear. Great system. Awesome, mind-boggling business intelligence software. I bow down to you system engineers. And it ain’t my product. Wish it were. Did I mention it cost us $250 for a single day; three people…and they took away the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse park that she really wanted to go on.

After the carousel we took in a 3D Philharmagic movie. 3D and M are a bad idea. Glasses over glasses don’t work. 3D glasses alone – not comfortable. Plus some aspect of the movie – scary – even though it’s Donald Duck chasing after the Sorcerer’s Apprentice hat through several Disney flicks like “Little Mermaid,” “Lion King,” and “Beauty and the Beast.”

If you lose an adult in Disney World, you’re fucked. So if you send an adult off to get a Fast Pass and they don’t turn on your cell phone, you can expect to have a heart/panic attack and wander through where you think the person might be. If you lose a kid, I imagine it’s all hands on deck and Mickey might bear arms to prevent a lost child from leaving the premises with a stranger. We found the adult sitting outside the Pooh ride waiting for us as if nothing was wrong.

Pooh’s ride and habitat got a huge thumbs up. M wanted to go on it again and again. Instead, we did Dumbo’s ride. She did okay on line. It’s hard to wait. The line is under a thin covering with fans that don’t move. There’s no entertainment, per se. Even seeing Pooh and Tigger in costume off in the distance had no impact. I got her some water with a fancy straw with Mickey and the Sorcerer’s hat. She liked that. Loved the Dumbo ride. We soared above the park taking in new construction from the Toon Town area and by Cinderella’s castle.

M really wanted to see Mickey. She got to see Donald and Goofy. We saw Buzz and his gal pal but the line was around the block. After Goofy hugged and high fived her, they posed for photos and we went onto Pirates of the Caribbean. The line wait sign said 15 minutes. It didn’t matter. M fell asleep in my arms and slept through the entire line. She only woke up when we navigated towards a restaurant for lunch. Four rides in half a day. I don’t know who says the economy sucks because that park was packed. Every nook and cranny was filled with people of all shapes, sizes, religious accoutrement, food preferences, age, and attitude.

At least the beaniterrian got to eat beans and cheese. My veggie burrito was basically rice and beans. We lose one table for a bathroom run. The cleaning woman from Australia was nice enough to keep our $3 Mickey straw. A nice family from Germany shared their table with us.

We did Aladdin. Rave review. But the kid couldn’t stop touching other people. Unzipping zippers on purses, touching backpacks, strollers…she’s tactile but it’s sort of freaky. Jungle Cruise was a total snore. Not worth Fast Passing. The humor was lame. The animatronic beasts barely move.

We took the railroad back to Main Street and got some sunscreen ($14) and Princess Gelt ($3). M really wanted a balloon. She didn’t get one. We had to wait for our Jungle Cruise Fast Pass to expire before we could get one for Buzz. M wanted to drive at Tomorrow Land Speedway but the wait time was 100 minutes. So we tea cupped it instead. We got pretty dizzy. She played in Pooh’s corner.

I spotted Tigger and Pooh for photos, so off we went. A little girl behind us – age four – got right in M’s face and matched her sass for sass. They compared shoes, hair ties, who could get in trouble by sitting on the rope first. They almost befriended one another by sharing a Pop Tart. Hey, at least the kid ate a new food. And we got photos with Tigger and Pooh. They even autographed M’s hat. We’d met Donald Duck and Goofy – but Tigger and Pooh made her day.

We buzzed through Buzz Lightyear, suffered through Monsters Inc. Laugh Factory and left the park. M spied the entertainment in front of Cinderella’s castle, waved to the princesses and Mickey and then focused – like any smart kid – on the balloon she wanted. I ignored her. A balloon was unrealistic. It would pop quickly, deflate fast, and not make it to a plane later in the week.

Thankfully, Disney was handing out Mickey stickers. M was happy. I was relieved. We boarded the monorail and headed to the parking lot.

On the monorail, a couple of 20 somethings got up from their seats while I snapped pictures. They offered to pose all three of us. I demurred. I asked what attractions they saw. Turns out, he was a costume character. He couldn’t say who – code of secrecy/cone of silence descended among us. He was just an aeronautics student from the south taking time off. So we chatted a bit. He works a few days a week. Have to be a certain height/build to be a character. Can work as much or as little as he wants. Great job. Loves it. Circumspect was the operative term.

The dude makes his temporary living embodying a cartoon character. I couldn’t be more jealous. Dude was totally a thrill seeker. Just like me trapped in the body of a parental control freak for at least the rest of my life. Or at least M’s life.

A Thousand Second Winds

2011-02-21T18:50:00.001-08:00

It’s genetic. Somehow through out the day, as my energy lags, I find a way to muster through. The offspring does the same. Today, fueled by 80 degree weather and being in Florida the girl powered through like a marathoner.

I didn’t think people realized they needed a vacation until they actually worked. Apparently, five year olds can tire of snow and cold just like adults. The ancient souled red head turned and ran off the plane shouting “Florida. Florida!” It wasn’t the mythic allure of Disney; it was sunshine and palm trees.

We’ve had an actual winter. The kind not seen since I was a lad with snows you can trudge through and miss school/work. My friends with a home in the Berkshires justify winter as their ski season. They invested in season passes and lessons for the whole family. A February break to them means skiing. To Red, and me it means escape.

I booked the trip quickly. The thought of actually going through Disney and attempting rides and spectacles with a kid not amazingly fond of the dark, noise, and crowds is foolhardy and best and outright moronic at worse. The original plan was an overnight on each end to give us two days in the parks with a few days poolside to recover. I amended it to a single full day in a park and the rest recovering. This hunch was validated whilst during dinner the quasi-realistic thunderstorm threw the overly tired gal into a fit of tears.

To be truthful, she work around five in the morning. I reminded her of the 7 am wake up call and she tantrumed until she wet her bed. This is not a tantraumatic kid. She does stubborn and petulant well but mostly; she’s easy going and listens to reason. The thrill of the trip got the best of her. Packing was almost a ceremony as she brought my clothes and with her eyes batted and sweetest voice trilled, “please Aba can we bring this?” I was overjoyed at going through her closet and finding clothes to pass onward.

I went to shovel; she hung out and watched television. Ironically, I’d just turned to my dad the day before and remarked that surely winter had past. “You never know, but it probably isn’t,” he advised. There were no flight delays, so we packed up the car and headed to Queens.

A quick visit with the new cousin interested M for all of five seconds. The new cousin doesn’t do much, wasn’t impressed by us, and didn’t appreciate the hub bub of four extras people in his space. Couldn’t actually blame the kid.

I had a momentary lapse of sanity when I realized M’s birth certificate was safely at home. This news and the worry of not being able to get her on the plane – elicited painful shrieks from the gal who just wanted to get out of the cold. The airline confirmed it was unnecessary for a five year old to have papers whilst a lap baby would. That logic escaped me, but then again, I got a room with a view of fireworks and the kid was asleep two minutes before the show.

The flight was easy. We read our first chapter book – Junie B. Jones and the Stupid Smelly Bus. I edited for consumption – eliminating words like “hate” and “stupid” which M refers to as bad words. She almost fell asleep once but I removed her glasses and blew the moment. Food Channel provided a few minutes of entertainment, as did the iPad. Mostly, the chapter book did the trick.

Descent I could tell her ears were freaking out. Mine definitely do when I’m congested. M grabbed her ears and sat hunched over with a sippy cup held up by her elbows guzzling water. After a potty break she took a catnap as we navigated to the hotel. We parked badly – New Yorkers! – and trudged through an Eli Lily sales meeting to get room keys.

“Pool. Florida,” M chanted as we dashed to the pool. This complex seems to have acres of pools. All I see are running trails. It’s been weeks since I’ve actually trained outside and I need a good, long run to establish my equilibrium. That and I’m certain I’ve gained ten pounds since those early February runs. As it was after five when we got outside, the temperature and sun had begun to drop. The water was temperate but I realized the kid hadn’t eaten an actual meal since breakfast and that another five am wake up call was possible.

We changed clothes and headed to Downtown Disney for a meal. We should have just stayed in the hotel and eaten decent food. Instead M was quelled by a carousel ride – on an unmoving horse – and ten pieces of mac and cheese from the Rainforest Café. Seriously, bad food, animatronic animals that have seen better decades. The crayons interested her for the time it took to get food but the second simulated thunderstorm threw the overly tired kid into the end zone.

Tomorrow we hit the Magic Kingdom. Some nice people on the bus explained the Fast Pass system. We’ll tell the ticket hawker Eli Lilly sent us and see what sort of discount we can haggle. Otherwise, we’ll use the old AAA discount. All told, I’ll take the weather and leave the theme park adventure for some other parent. My second winds ran out two thunderstorms ago.

it's a small world

2011-01-26T21:12:00.000-08:00

Vacation planning is far more stressful than an actual job. I can’t say I’ve actually had a fantasy to schlep M to Florida and wait around on lines at a theme park. However, given the weekly dumping of snow the area has experienced this winter – I require warmth. And I think the kid does too.

Ironically, I just returned from a trip to Florida for work and I’m off to the west coast next week. The warmth was intoxicating. All I could think about while slowly withering from PowerPoint was the sun. I took every break outside. My skin quickly turned a bright pink and felt amazing. It craved natural, unabated heat.

Whilst in Florida, I was easily able to research a return trip. The hotel had a store devoted to Disney. Scamming a Florida ID to save on admission was thwarted, as Disney actually requires residence confirmation. Craigslist seemed sketchy and I didn’t want to waste hours in a timeshare presentation. While I could beg the people I know to beg the people they know for passes – I’ll cough up the cash.

As a points whore, I was ready to pay for the whole thing with points. Only the hotels were actually possible but then I realized I could only tolerate one full day of processed amusement. And while M could be wound up for multiple days – I’m confident a single day hanging with Pooh, high fiving a princess, and spinning around in the air or magic tea cups will leave her wanting more.

My Disney Mom friend said a day would be fine. She advised staying at the park so we could get the extra hour, be close to our room in case of meltdown, and be whisked to the park in a bus while our bags were taken directly to our room. It works in theory. Pricing for such a package – at least one walking distance to the Magic Kingdom – is borderline insanity.

The rest of our week will be further north on the Atlantic Ocean and in a pool – so long as the weather holds. If it doesn’t there’s kiddy camp for M or an indoor pool. There are movie theaters, local libraries, bookstores, fast food, and all the other requisite five-year-old vacation requirements. Not to mention a spa, gym, amazing bartender, and kitchen in our apartment for everyone over the age of five.

This afternoon I figured out if we returned from a different airport, we could actually save driving time and money. Wish I’d thought of it before I actually booked the tickets but who doesn’t love a change fee and credit – I can check a bag and not pay a dime.

I’m a decent planner. Not so much over-thinking as tinkering like Gipetto trying to get the thing right. Honestly, it’s silly. M will be happy in the pool and park. I didn’t get to hit Disney until I was ten. I was left with an aunt when the rest of the family went – which was cruel and unreasonable. You know those “my parents when to Florida and all I got was a lousy t-shirt” – I lived that phrase.

Work has spoiled me. We’ve had enough customer events in theme parks – dedicated evenings with just me and 1,000 of my closest friends/customers/partners/co-workers. No lines. Just every ride you want. Last summer we went on a roller coaster six times in a row – no wait. Those are the best parties. You can avoid everyone you don’t want to see simply because you’re buzzed not from booze but adrenaline. No one makes sense after six consecutive roller coaster rides.

Having run a couple of Disney marathons I’ve been behind the scenes, threw the castle, around the Grand Prix track, and up and down the highways between parks. There’s definite magic and I’m excited to take M through it. However, it’s been a long time since I’ve tolerated “It’s a Small World,” blaring at top volume with other people’s rug rats sneezing or chattering in their native tongue. And, I can’t stomach having to wait on a line for it.

M is excited. Everyday at pick up she asks if we should start packing or when we’re going. The child has no sense of time so every day is the day. It’s just like the lust she has for the elementary school across the street. Her face reaches new crestfallen expressions as she watches neighbor kids go and she can’t. Maybe “Thunder Mountain Railroad” will make up for it. I know a new picture of me and Tigger will help me. My last one disappeared behind a dresser at Ima’s last camp.

There’s always that catch in the throat feeling of shouldn’t her mother be on this trip too. That was always my fantasy. Reality always gets in the way of romantic wanderlust. That feeling will dissipate with the first smiling photo of us and Pooh or a Princess. If not a Tipsy Turtle or two will get me there too. Either way, life goes on. This vacation is living proof…if it doesn’t kill me first.

Dancing Revolution

2011-01-25T20:53:00.001-08:00

As parents we operate under the old Life cereal mentality – “try it you may like it.” That Mikey bastard liked it, so you might too kid. Guess what? The kid was wrong.

M just finished her dance/gymnastics class. She hated it. She’s been going to this studio for about a year, even having a birthday party there. The head gymnastics teacher is awesome. He doesn’t take guff from the kid and pushes her as hard as he can – within reason. The class was thirty minutes of gymnastics and fifteen minutes of ballet and tap with time out for shoe changing.

We’d dropped in on the class a few times last spring and M seemed to like it. So much so that she wanted to be enrolled. Now I’d flounced through a couple of shows in high school showing as much dance ability as a fish out of water. I have my own rhythm that defies description. Suffice to say, the body parts move through air – somewhat spastically, barely gracefully, and awfully entertainingly.

M loves the gymnastics. She’s been doing it since she was two and has a great somersault on a sloped mat or even without one. Her enthusiasm and energy are good and it reinforces gross motor skills.

Dance was another story. Initially she liked it but she quickly complained that the taps were too loud, even though there were only three other kids in her group. On good days she’d model and practice the moves from class. On bad days, she’d ask to go to the bathroom.

Today, fourteen weeks after starting the class was “show day.” We entered the gym – which smells like moldy socks and sat against the wall as our kids ran in, leaped onto a springboard and landed on a mat.

An older Asian girl nailed all her moves. She confidentially pulled herself up on the high bars and did turned herself over, straddled the bar and flipped off – with the teacher’s aid. Two other girls did their moves – assisted but happily. M was more interested in free-play.

She approached the bars and told the teacher – Mr. J – that she wasn’t going to do the high bar, preferring the lower one. I usually watch the class from the waiting room, glass walls separating us. Honestly, I’m playing on the phone, answering emails, reading the paper or a book, looking up to make sure there are no tears, bathroom runs, or broken limbs. From a distance, M looks like she’s having fun. The teacher works with each child individually in stations – mat; bars; tumbles; beam. The other kids run around other parts of the station, doing tricks, while a student gets solo time. The class encourages skill building while also allowing kids to be kids. I’ve seen M shake off challenges from J and his cohorts before. Eventually, on her own, or with aid – she’ll get to them. My flower blossoms on her own spring.

Today, she did all right in gymnastics. She flipped over on the bars; refused to do a somersault on the beam – even though she did one at age two. While not Olympic bound, the girl did just fine, even smiling through.

Dance was another story. I’d opened the gym door on her foot, which resulted in tears. She didn’t have the costume that two other girls had which resulted in frustration. Ima and I told her she looked beautiful in her dress. Frankly, I was too cheap to buy a leotard and frilly tutu that would be worn once hocked by the school. The dress went over the back of her head.

M took her place for tap and the nice Asian girl pushed her off her mark – even though M was there first. “Push her back,” I told M. Ima glared at me. “She’s supposed to stand up for herself,” I thought. I wanted to push the Asian girl. Her parents said nothing, oblivious only to their daughter standing center stage.

M spaced out. Tired, said her mom. Bored, I thought – or trying to block out the taps. They weren’t exactly taps, so much as elephantine stomps. The teacher stood behind the girls and each strained to watch her do the steps. We clapped at routine end like seals. I can’t say pride wafted over me, so much as relief. Then the teacher suggested they do the same routine over. M was off to Mars – tapping, stretching to do moves, beats behind everyone else. Sure, she’s five. She’s only had sixteen classes – but she moved like a partially squished bug. Spastic, like there was a turd slowly moving down her leg and she didn’t want to show anyone. Ballet was the same.

The teacher explained the other teacher had returned to school. Likely she was fired. This teacher had been the co-teacher – turning on the CD player upon request, following along, and occasionally correcting the girl’s moves. She handed out medals and let each student bow and have a picture taken. I’m not sure what the achievement was that was celebrated. Unenthusiastic dance moves? Completion of the class? Trying to learn new skills?

We applaud attempts. Someday M maybe a skilled gymnast or dancer on a reality show or Broadway stage. Perhaps she’ll thank me and Mr. J and the unknown teachers of Little Gym for pushing her through. We celebrate mediocrity. These are the roles of parents. Kids are pushed to try new skills; we clap and encourage their attempts.

My parents used to drop us off at Little League or make us ride bikes to the games. Maybe they’d watch. More likely there were playing tennis or running errands. There was no witness to my one Little League hit – a foul ball that I ran out like Alberto Salazar. They’ve each seen one marathon – usually from the finish line/family meeting area. High school productions were occasionally witnessed or avoided.

Me – I watch, from behind a newspaper or phone. I glance up and witness. I like watching my kid attempt something new. She doesn’t have to be great at it. She doesn’t even have to like it. Will this make America great? Return it to manufacturing and financial superiority? Probably not. Will it encourage her to go on and enthusiastically request similar classes? Possibly. Whatever she ends up doing – short of crack whore or Republican lobbyist – I’ll be glancing up, smiling, proudly. So long as she tries hard.

2011-01-08T13:34:00.000-08:00

Gift Me With Your Best Shot

2011-01-03T19:40:00.000-08:00

I am a notoriously bad gift giver. Maybe it’s the post-divorce knowledge of an expensive diamond ring sitting in a drawer to be turned into a pendant in however many years for M. Or it really is that when you care enough to send the very best, I make wacky choices.

For our second Hanukkah together, I thought it would be brilliant to give Ima a Chia Pet. Who wouldn’t like the as seen on television miracle grow plant? This was augmented with tickets to see “Selected Shorts” live with Cynthia Nixon (she was a huge “Sex and the City” fan). Both were just wrong gifts. Not necessarily thoughtless but misdirected. The days of giving a mix tape (CD) and having it almost be enough are long gone.

To compensate for lack of gifts from others – I have started to go all out for myself. For my 40th, I splurged on a new kitchen in an apartment I sold six months later and never used more than two burners on the stove. Last year, I took a weeklong vacation with a friend that included a Bahamian cruise and also bought myself a fancy Mac (refurb but still a 24” screen).

This year, to save money, I went with credit card points on a new HD television. To be fair, I’m not a huge television watcher. M has her shows while drinking milk upon wake up and before bed. I’ll sit down and watch a show or two – but a lot of times it’s just back up noise. There’s a few things I actually pay attention to.

Despite working for a software company, I’m not very technical. I can read and sort of follow directions but these new devices can be somewhat complex. Even as the electronics companies have made efforts to simply the instructions – they can be totally baffling.

HD was something that never interested me. To be honest, the 27” television I bought in 2002 was the first I’d ever bought. I did no research, took the subway down to Best Buy on 23rd and took a cab home with the television. I had to take it out of the box to get it into the cab. I honestly can’t recall if the box came home or was left curbside – which would have made a return near impossible. You can’t take advantage of an open box return policy if there’s no box, can you? That television works fine (knock wood) and sits downstairs.

The neighbors all have big honking flat screens. You can tell from the sidewalk who’s irradiating their families. That and the recycling reveals quite a bit about a home. Despite having an alarm system, I didn’t want to invite crime with a big screen downstairs. Also, that set up – despite the addition of a dvd player – all works and has the appropriate remotes. When it comes to electronics, if it works, I hate to rock the boat.

A frenemy at work knows a lot about electronics. So does my best friend. One day a few weeks ago, there was a deal on Woot.com for a 27” television with a dvd player. I thought it would be a great deal – one less component/remote. Both thought the television wasn’t that great and the distance from the bed would make the picture aspect ratio too small to be valued. M isn’t that large a kid but she does fine on the 20” television my best friend gave me post-divorce.

Rather than spend time researching or even discussing something as silly as what television to buy, I just went to the credit card’s rewards site and purchased something that seemed large enough. It came today. The UPS man rang the bell because the box was ripped. He might have also been worried about leaving a clearly marked on the stoop. I admired his sense of responsibility and a more caring person might actually contact UPS and praise him.

As I’m still recovering from either my egg allergy or stomach bug, I worked from home. The house was in total disarray from a week of parenting and sudden on set exhaustion/illness. So I opened the windows in my bedroom, bathroom, and M’s room to ferret out the illness. Then I commuted from my office to the bathroom and actually had a reasonably productive day – until the cleaning woman showed up and I had to convince her today was a terrible day to clean. It was. And the UPS man delivered a total distraction.

One reason I resisted HD was I didn’t want to pay more for television. As it turns out, for now, there’s no up-charge. You even get a smaller box. But you need different cables. And the manufacturers make you pay at least $25 for one of these fancy cables.

Just getting the television base put together was a feat. Ignoring the directions, I screwed the wrong part into the television first. Then I had to find the right screwdriver – no easy feat when there are eight possible places for it to be.

The rationale for this gift to myself was simple. It’s cold. I’ve been watching dvds on my Mac. It isn’t a terrible way to see a movie but it isn’t particularly comfortable. Despite having a dvd player downstairs now, heating the upstairs at night in winter – particularly when I have M – makes way more sense to me.

It isn’t the television that is important to me – it is the Tivo. Whoever invented Tivo should get a Nobel Peace Prize. This awesome hard drive and operating system saves so much time. M never needs to know what a commercial is until she goes to a movie theater. We watch what we want, when we want. Technology in my lifetime has moved ephemerally. We went from a single color television house and one line phone to 100 channels on cable, VCR to DVD to Tivo, audio LP (45 or 33) to CD to MP3 to streaming media, wireless phones, internet…who’d imagine such advances so quickly? What’s next for our kids?

So the evening was devoted to straightening the upstairs and establishing the location of the overly large honking television, Tivo, cable box, and myself.

Every morning M comes in and accuses me of moving the television towards my side. Honestly, the television hasn’t moved an inch. The mass of cables and wires hooking up the Tivo, cable box, television, modem, router, and phone are frightening. Adding a dvd player will be challenging, but possible. I just have to schlep 100 miles to pick it up from it’s current location.

It is always the thought that counts around gifts. As lovely and charming, as Chia Pet seemed to me; jewelry, vacation, or theater tickets might have been a better choice. As much as we work out, dis-connect temporally from the office on weekends (almost ignoring the Blackberry), I don’t think people take care of themselves as much as they should. So why not expend our energy on gifting ourselves? Surely our happiness should be enough for our loved ones.

But then again, I have major self-gift angst – I wanted to sell the big honking Mac a month after I got it. I’m sort of done with the iPad. And when I told M that, she rightly chirped, “Don’t return it daddy – give it to me.” The new tv – why get a big television when so much of the HD programming is letter-boxed and wastes a lot of screen space? You call that innovation?! I’ll take pixilation and full screen.

Kinetic Distractions of Love & Parenting

2011-01-02T18:45:00.000-08:00

As a kid the last day of vacation is Shakespearean tragedy. For parents, it’s heaven-sent. I’m sure teachers who are parents feel along the lines of Shakespearean comedy – someone may die but laughter might ensue. I can’t say this in plainer English – thank G-d vacation ended.

We basically sat around the house most of the past two days. I parented from the bathroom with some sort of stomach bug. Legos and an iPad served as parent. And having, had the device of the moment for three days, I’m ready to send it back…until the next time one of us is ill.

The early part of the week was kinetic energy. The minute I got M we were out the door to swim. The next morning more swimming and throwing ourselves around the tumble room. Every house should come with a padded room, mats, and a rock climbing wall…if only to have a room to mute the therapeutic shrieks of “how many more days without school?”

Wednesday brought skiing. A three o’clock lesson was perfect timing because the snow had loosened and made for a soft, powder-filled landing. M took to the slopes like a pro. Well, she took to the slopes like a professional wealthy person who has someone waiting hand and foot on them. Her lesson was oriented towards getting her ski feet back. It was filled with a lot of grabbing the teacher’s poles and moving as he moved across the slope. There wasn’t a whole lot of effort required on her part other than going along for the ride. She loved it. For her it was a private roller coaster. I stood on the sidelines taking a lot of pictures and looking jealously at the other vacationers taking part in the sport.

Thursday, I was spent. Two days and I was done. Where was the marathon stamina? The week off had dulled my parenting senses and instincts. We sled in the morning. Totally fun! Thankfully, I booked her into a Little Gym camp and she could throw herself around for three hours. I ran at the gym and felt amazing. We spent the afternoon swimming and tumbling. Three days in highly chlorinated water had turned me into a stale prune, not to mention aromatic. Desperate in the evening for alternative entertainment we started calling classmates. M spoke to her best friend (R of the horrible play-date) for about an hour until her father said she had to go to bed. Then, I made a play-date with a set of twins for Sunday. And that was Fourth of July fireworks from the 41st floor of a building on the West Side Highway directly across from the barges on the Hudson amazing.

Friday was more swimming and tumbling. I’m so grateful to live near a facility that has the two things M loves more than her parents, books, music, and the “cookie” game on the iPad. Though I dressed to swim, I watched her splash about. I couldn’t bring myself to get back into the water. The “Jaws” theme reverberated in my head. I also thought I’d timed our entrance to when the vacation camp kids her age would show up. No kids so I had to swim. Then, of course, forty minutes into our adventure – a pack of kindergartens showed up and we were forced into the shallow pool. The shallow pool was over-run with grandma’s in shower caps and babies in floating devices. As the decibel level rose to nails on a blackboard torture, we fled and didn’t look back.

M worked on her snowman in the afternoon. He’s honestly more of a snow fort. For whatever reason – melt, too much moisture, the snow couldn’t be shaped into anything but a clump. She named the fort and talked to it, even made a snow angle next to it.

We headed for 7-11 for New Year’s treats and then to Border’s for a bathroom and book break. Finally, we headed into the city for dinner with friends. A cross-town bus ride was excitement personified. M loved the circles embedded into the sidewalk outside the Guggenheim and loved getting a balloon from the New York Road Runner’s Club. The return cross-town bus ride was less fun as revelers were starting to come out and crowd us.

Dinner with friends was a catch up/iPad app review lesson. The kids spent the time not eating staring at devices learning games. I’d call it lazy parenting except we were all relieved it was only two more days until school. If I were solo or with another person, M would have crayons, a dreidle, or play sugar hockey. There has to be some educational content to all those devices besides giving parents breathing room, right? Probably not, but hell, my vacation is back to work, so fuck it – let’s hear it for the creators of all those apps/games/devices.

We parted with one set of friends and drove over the bridge to another get together. M got to see her boy W and his toys including a funky car you drive just by turning the steering wheel and a Wii. Yet another interactive parenting diversion! I don’t have a Wii but I did plug in my dvd player – even unpacked a box and found the correct remotes. I call that a huge breakthrough after six months in the house. Now we don’t have to cram in front of the computer to watch movies.

Saturday brought a new year and a return trip to Campgaw for skiing. M had a 9 am lesson and in the first of many humongous offenses I said to the lesson wrangler – “I’ll take your best girl.” Yes, I realized the minute I said it – how downright crazy and offensive it was. But you know what, that 17 year-old took it right out on M and we’re all better skiers for it.

My funky red-head got a down deep technical lesson in skiing. They went off to the side of the hill and reviewed “French Fries (parallel)” and “Pizza Pie (snow plow).” The kid had to carry her own skis. She didn’t get onto the magic carpet and the hill until later in the lesson. Meanwhile, I got my ass onto the slope. It felt great. Little icy, but honestly warm and fun. Before last December, it had been at least 19 years since I’d ski’d….and that was at MTV and my job’s expense.

M and her stern teacher worked their way up and down the bunny hill. Every time I looked over M was on the ground. Rather than being dragged down the hill, the girl was working on technique. I knew I’d have a tired, frustrated kid. Even worse, I hadn’t booked tubing time and I could see the desperate longing in her face as she watched the tubes move up the adjacent hill. I’d promised her tubing following skiing.

By ten the lesson was over, I thanked the teacher profusely and tipped her nicely. M and I did a run together. She fell. I handed her poles having her lead, she fell. I handed her poles to run parallel to me, she fell. Basically, she slid on her ass all the way down the bunny hill. We were both done. Mentally and physically fried. The kid was a raw boiling mass ready to get ticked off at the slightest variation from her own desire. Over-tired, whiny, and annoying. We grabbed breakfast at a diner. Although I serve M eggs frequently, it was my first eggs in a couple of years. And my stomach hated the experience.

We spent the afternoon watching “Toy Story 3”, playing on the iPad and Legos, and basically haunting our own house. The weather outside was incredible and we were lumps. I yearned for a nap.

Sunday – the finish line of vacation in sight. My stomach was ready for a bagel. The JCC was packed. M was a whiny, annoying mess. A basketball hit her in the head. A boy was mean to her in the tumble room. I got her the hell out of there by saying we had to buy her a snow shovel. There are vague laws about removal of snow on sidewalks and not wanting a ticket, we had to shovel. Living across from a school means we are plowed quickly and often – but sidewalk clearance is apparently de rigeur in my hood. M happily got snow where I didn’t want it.

We whiled away the hours before the play-date with lunch, games, and, of course, the iPad. I forcibly removed it from her hands to get directions. Asking to play at another’s house is a delicate task. I’ve seen a few of the classmate parents at birthday parties and in-school meetings. We’re not friends, in any stretch of the imagination. The Israelis tend to clique up together. But the nice thing about having a five year-old who loves to talk is I can put her on the phone to break the ice. She asks for the kid and if the kid isn’t home, the parent’s ask to talk to me to negotiate the play-date. It’s terrible technique, but so what?

We drove to their house and I was more excited than M. Our last play-date was terrible. It was me watching the kids while the mom was on the phone or in the kitchen with her younger daughter. The kids were served kiwi. This time, we followed the dad to the basement, which was like a toy store. The girls had a tea party. The twin boy played with his video game. The dad and I got to know each other.

The kids had fun. There was a bit of “house”, coloring, and a group game of “Zingo.” The kids disappeared for a bit…well their daughter disappeared to either pretend to sleep. Maybe she wasn’t having fun with M. But damn, I was happy to be free – not on the potty and not having to entertain a five year-old.

The mom said, “you have to be so creative” as a single parent. I don’t know if it’s creative, resourceful, desperate, or just aware of all the options. Before we left our house, I scanned movie times. Should the play-date implode, I was prepared to take M to “Yogi Bear.” But honestly, they were nice people who offered to pick M up and take her to their house. They asked when we were taking swimming lessons. They asked if we wanted to stay for dinner. Who cares if they were being polite, I wanted to move in.

Let Me Entertain You

2010-12-20T19:15:00.001-08:00

Edison has no idea the power of his invention or it’s impact on me. I don’t know quite when I realized my love for movies. Maybe, because it was like reading, one of those things my parents encouraged. We’d go off to Princeton and check out a revival house, which at an impressionable age introduced me to The Marx Brothers and Chaplin.

I distinctly remember my first trip to Florida, which included a visit to the Magic Kingdom, Cape Canaveral, and the drive in. We took in a double feature of “Mary Poppins” and “Star Wars.” My next oldest brother and I hung out in the theater bathroom to catch the second Saturday showing of “Superman.” I’ve since snuck into other features with my mother and ex-mother-in-law. Many a day has been whiled away in front of whatever the multiplex offers. I’d clip the schedule, compare feature lengths, and navigate the best way to catch as much as possible on a single admission.

One of my first resolutions following the tears and frustration of our separation was figuring out how to get my movie night back. For me, there’s no better way to escape.

When “Toy Story” was re-released last year, in 3-D, as part of the run up to “Toy Story 3,” I took M. I knew there was no way she’d sit through both features. What I didn’t realize was once the popcorn was empty; there was no way she’d sit through the whole first movie. She needed to take care of business. And when you gotta go, you gotta go. So we went.

Her mother took her to the “Alvin and the Chipmunks” flick and she loved it. Ate the popcorn, sat through the commercials, and tolerated (somehow) the flick. Even the 3-D glasses.

So when “Tangled” – the latest Disney version of Rapunzel was released – I figured the time was right to see if M would learn to love the pictures. In preparation, I bought the picture book version of the film. We read it several times. It quickly jumped to the top of the request list. M made sure we weren’t going 3-D. “Why don’t you want to watch 3-D?” “I already wear glasses. Why wear a second pair?” And yesterday, we went to the movie.

I could have taken her to the local theater in town. But their popcorn is too salty and their frequent movie attendee program is lame. So we went to my preferred chain. Along the way, M asked, “what Rapunzel was doing now?” I explained the movie was a pretty constant loop that played over and over for anyone who paid to see it. I’d also mentioned that we’d seen the guy who wrote the music play at a concert last year. “Will he be there today, dad?”

M has been to any number of concerts and live shows from the age of three. I schlepped her into the city to check out a musical version of “Adventures of Frog and Toad” a beloved book. Then over the past two years, she’s since “Dear Edwina” at least six times. Add in a few Dan Zanes, Laurie Berkner concerts and the girl has culture. Movies should just be another link on the chain. I should add that I don’t have a dvd player hooked up. Just computers that she can watch on. Home theater is a viable alternative that I need to actually explore.

M’s eyes widened as we walked into the theater. I let her hit a couple of buttons on the automatic ticket machine but really she was craving theater popcorn. Armed with a bottle of water and popcorn, we found seats. I picked up a booster and placed M on the aisle. She settled in quickly, taking in the commercials, and chomping away. It was exciting. As much as I can teach M, her discovery of likes, loves, hates, and dislikes, it really up to her. All a parent can do is expose the child over and over and see what they take to in. And even then, today’s passion is tomorrow’s fish wrap. Everything is cyclical, though, especially with kids.

The whole princess craze – so far has passed us by. Sure she dressed as Esther for Purim, but other than that, there’s been no princess desire. All her dolls and stuffed animals remain largely unanimated, occupying space. I wasn’t sure if love of Rapunzel would open up a door. But it was a risk worth taking.

The flick opened and M was into it. She liked the glowing lanterns launched for the birth of Rapunzel and the opening number didn’t seem too heinous. The action scenes with the male lead were met with discussion about whether I liked yellow or white popcorn and request to open the water bottle. Scenes with the villain launched a request to sit on my lap. Then she got hot and itchy so her sweater needed to come off. Along the way, there were questions of “how much longer.” The musical scenes were definitely more appreciated than the action or talking. As it went on there were more inquiries as to length.

In the end, there was left over popcorn, which M appreciated. Was a whole new world opened to her? Probably not. Her review of the movie was simple “I didn’t like the blood or Mother Gothel (the villain).”

Was she too young? Too exhausted from her cold? Annoyed at being coughed on by me? Distracted by the other kids in the theater? Hard to say. Truth be told, the characters weren’t embedded into the literature she experiences most days – Clifford, Curious George, Frog & Toad, anything by Mo Willems. The leap from the page to screen or stage – of any size or location – is a big one. Who among us hasn’t preferred the book to the film or show? Save for maybe “Get Shorty” which plays better on screen than page.

I’ve definitely bred a reader. She looks at letters and sounds out the words. She’ll play school and read to her class. And yet, given the opportunity to drink milk and munch on pancakes, ice cream, or popcorn, the kid is most content to do it at home with something on the tv. Perhaps it’s a function of her very mobile life – shuttling from home to school to mom/dad, gymnastics, camp, grandparents/relatives or school with dad and a sitter. Or the warm comfort of snuggling next to a loved one in a familiar space. There will be other films, theater, concerts, and entertainment. Options abound. For now, I’ll continue my decadent journey of celluloid without M. There are plenty of other activities we do and enjoy together. She’ll find her bliss.

Green

2010-12-19T21:11:00.001-08:00

Whenever someone tells me they want a kid, I definitely chuckle to myself. It’s not that I don’t love parenthood. Honestly, those moments when your kid wraps their arms around you and say “I love love love you daddy” are amazing. But then there are the body function moments - puke, phlegm, coughs, poopy and pee'd pants. Let me tell you burped or puked milk doesn't come out of dress shirts so easily!

At long last, I have someone else to blame all burps, farts, and strange noises on. I’ll take the eye roll and accompanying “daddy” stretched to its last five-going-on-fifteen teenage embarrassment syllabic denouncement anytime. These are the moments a single dad lives for.

As opposed to the dark of night cries – bad dreams of little people that wake you to wonder go or will it pass? Last week, we had a blood curling fright of falling out of bed and nearly braining herself on the step stool. One bed rail – bad idea. This led to can I sleep with you? I settle her in my bed and then sneak off to her’s. Only to have her wake and determinedly summon my return only to toss and turn accompanying her coughs and sneezes. Her phlegm returneth.

Last year, I got really lucky health-wise. Living downstairs from a Duane Reade drugstore and Whole Foods market meant fresh fruit and cold medicines were readily available. There was no excuse for any fruit not to be in the house, ever. Not to mention cough medicine (for both of us) and pain relief – including sleep-inducing Benadryl.

Any working parent will tell you as long as the snot isn’t prevalent, green, and fever inducing – the kid is the teacher’s problem. There were and will be many a day M will return the germ favor of her close friends and classmates. This absolutely sounds mean and unfair to teachers and students…not to mention the sick(ish) child. However, her going to school, means I can go to work.

Who’s the one handing out the tissues, encouraging blows, reminding mouth covering for coughing? Who’s the one not washing their hands after every single nose blow and coughing jag? Who’s the one hugging and cuddling to get through the moments? And, who’s the one most likely to get whatever she’s got? Her illness means my illness.

Head colds make me feel as if my brains are leaking out through my nose. With M sharing a bed with me last week, laziness kicking in to not changing the bedding, coupled with a few late nights lead to me getting sick. Phlegm is everywhere, her’s, mine, and everyone else’s on Jersey Transit and in my own classroom. Oh yeah babe – don’t be fooled – other parent’s play the same game with their kids too. Phlegm it forward.

In the middle of these sick fits, no amount of liquids, vitamins, or all out drugs ever seems to lead to a cure. Everything should be wiped down; windows opened; linen changed. If only there were someone well and smart enough to do it or at least remind me to do it. Oh yes, I’m whining. In a few days, this too, shall pass. Until them, please let me revel in my vicious viscous phlegm.

Call me phlegmatic. I will take it as my new horoscopic sign. We tend to be self-content and kind. They can be very accepting and affectionate. They may be very receptive and shy and often prefer stability to uncertainty and change. They are very consistent, relaxed, rational, curious, and observant, making them good administrators. However they can also be very passive aggressive. Just so long as there are the tissues with the lotion, they are really easy on the nose

7 Uh Oh

2010-12-11T19:33:00.001-08:00

Sleep, who doesn’t love it? Who doesn’t need more of it? What parent doesn’t crave taking a nap when their kid does?

After we sold our house, I took an apartment in Englewood. On the first night there, M cried massively in the middle of the night. I took her into bed with me and she cried about wanting to go home. I rubbed her back and reassured her that this was home now. Despite the constant flow of buses, she slept pretty well in that apartment.

It was once we moved to Great Neck the following fall that her sleep got wacky. Her mother started a program where M couldn’t get out of her room until 7 am. There was a light set on a timer that went off at 7 am. This system seemed cruel to me. I tried it a few times but parental guilt got the better of me. This was a kid who knew I was easy prey. She could say she was hungry, awake, lonely and I’d let her crawl into bed with me. Very quick a set and a half of rules emerged. At mom’s house, M had to be in her room until 7. At mine, she could rule the roost. We often ended up switching bedrooms. M would come into mine in the middle of the night/early morning. I’d rub her back and then go sleep in her bed. One morning, I was so tired, she played in her room for an hour or longer and actually let me sleep – after we were both dressed for school/work.

When we moved back to Tenafly, I put M in a back bedroom. This placed her away from street traffic but in line for morning sun. My last apartment was fifteen stories about an always-busy street and the noise carried. Quiet was essential for both of us. She mostly slept until 6 or later, even pushed 7 a number of mornings.

This week – she was wide-awake at 5. Bright eyed, bushy tailed, raring to go. I’d get some milk and plop her in my bed and sleep through her cartoons. But, frankly, the kid needs at least ten hours to function properly. And, honestly, I need at least eight to function somewhat normally.

So Ima and I had a frank discussion about how she does things in her house. Every evening they go through a ritual talk about what M can do by herself:
- get up in the middle of the night, go to the bathroom, wash her hands, and go back to bed
- play in her room until the clock reads 7:00 or later
- not ask for water or anything until the clock reads 7:00 or later
- not leave her room, unless it is for the bathroom until 7:00 or later

I decided to bite the bullet, plug in the alarm clock, discuss a sticker chart, and reward system and try to sleep past 7. Now, my older bladder will result in a trip or two during the night, which could foster waking M. We have one bathroom and the plumbing zips along her wall. It isn’t a quiet flush. So I opted to let the water sit until morning.
This morning, around five, M was up and calling for me. “Daddy, come sleep in my room.” Her floor isn’t too comfortable. And frankly, I was pretty snuggly wrapped up in my comforter. On those cold mornings, the last thing I want to do is get out of bed. “M, you’re fine. I’m one room away.”

“I’m all alone.”

“I’m right here. You have all your toys. You know the rules. Aim for 7:00. Get the sticker.”

“Why?”

“M – we have such a fun day. Go to sleep so you can enjoy it.”

At 6, she complained about something. But she stuck to it and made it to 7:00. I definitely felt guilt. But frankly, it being a Saturday, I actually got to lie around in bed until 8:00 while she watched television. I can get over the guilt. The kid won’t starve. Her mind can be lulled by the somewhat educational offerings of “Clifford: The Big Red Dog” and “Curious George.” I’m lulled by John Ritter’s voice as Clifford to sleep. She’ll even let me cuddle her, once she’s consumed her milk and some pancakes.

Soon enough, she’ll be after me for the latest electronics and a television of her own. I can only imagine her getting up at all hours to watch whatever will pass for entertainment. Or she’ll try to sneak out of the house to hang with friends. We’re reading a bunch of variations of Rapunzel so that when she earns enough stickers we can go see “Tangled.” I’m willing to trap my kid in her room until 7:00. At least until she finds some way to guilt me out of it. And, believe me, she will.

Windows

2010-12-03T19:27:00.001-08:00

My house, in theory, could use new windows. Or at least better caulking. Now I’ve made major financial decisions for myself a couple of times over the course of my life between work, real estate, transportation, and once even a time-share.

The worst financial decision I made was attempting to get my first house waterproofed while Ima was away at camp. Our home had a leaky basement that during consistently torrential downpours would flood. Landscaping didn’t help. Basically, the contractor wooed me with financial incentives and the ability to start the job the next day. His people showed up. They left after an hour’s work to go get a part. It took two hours for them to return. In that time, I freaked out at the solo decision, and fired the contractor. Non-Forth of July fireworks followed.

We did replace the windows in our old house. The windows sales pitch takes about 90 minutes. It involves a detailed explanation of the materials used, why these materials are the best, government regulations about competitor’s materials, measurement, showing of their product, and pricing. If you’ve ever bought a car and been subjected to the dealership going to the backroom and not having the exact car you want – you can imagine the fun of window salespeople – except it is in your own home.

So on the first day of Hanukah, I called some window replacement vendors and made appointments. And on the second night of Hanukah, M and I went to dinner at a cousin’s. We read books, played Legos and dreidle (separately), M sang and danced a bit of “One Little Latke” (she’s an excellent sizzler). Then we went home for our window appointment.

“Will your wife be joining us?” asked the salesperson. What he doesn’t run into haggard single fathers who own their home everyday? “I mean will Mrs. Cohen be joining us to make this important decision.”

“You mean my sister-in-laws? Nah, they’re home with their own kids. It’s just me.” Sarcasm! An auspicious start to any relationship. I plopped M down on the couch with some milk and let the pitch begin. “I’ve bought windows before and I’ve got to get the kid to bed. So if you can do this quickly, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh” he said as he dragged in two full briefcases and the sample window, “can’t rush perfection.” M gulped her milk in record time and then decided to join us at the meeting. She spent her time painting a music box received as a birthday gift. “Look” she told the salesman, “blue and yellow make green.” She laughed hysterically.
As he began to discuss his history and his company’s roots, I looked for a way to move the pitch forward. When he got to his own home and how many square footage and windows by his company he used, I said, “let’s get to the measurement portion of the evening, please.” At that point, M said her stomach hurt. So I brought her upstairs to the potty and she puked all over my shoes and her’s. “Sir,” I gasped, “my daughter’s sick. I’m sorry can we reschedule this.”

“Well, I have a busy schedule and quite a long drive. This won’t take much time.”

“I really have to insist that we reschedule. I mean my daughter just threw up on me.”

“I’ll be quick.” World’s dumbest salesperson. Sure, he was in the door but couldn’t he hear how swiftly it closed in my mind.

I changed M, begged her to be patient, and plopped her into my bed. She had a bit of water and looked pretty weak but happy to have Curious George all to herself. I ran up and down the stairs as M requested things and the salesperson sold. He bashed his competition, explained how they make their composite material of wood and plastic, and showed me slickly produced marketing material from a made up home owners group that bashed pure vinyl windows.

It was getting late. M was still up and watching record amounts of television. I kept pushing the guy to get to pricing. He showed me the window. The product was a window. It opened, had a screen, and could be cleaned pretty easily from a strange catch/release thing. He told me that my windows had the old rope and pulley system, which would be an extra charge to remove and replace with insulation. “What if the ropes are out? Will you remove the charge?”

“No one’s ever asked that before. But I guarantee they are in there.”

He got to pricing. I nearly puked myself. Suffice to say what it cost me to replace over 20 windows in the old place would only purchase nine of the current home’s. “That’s for just nine?” He nodded as if he were giving me pure gold bars as a gift. “Well,” I said, seeing the exit, “excellent. Thank you but I need to think about it.”

“It’s a great price.” He went over it again, making sure that I understood the quality and incentives attached. I went upstairs and put M in bed. I rubbed her back and told her I’d get rid of the sales person and come back up in a minute. She began to cry.

“Yes, well, I have two other vendors I need to meet with and other options to explore. Thank you for your time. Now I really need to get my sick daughter to bed.”

The salesperson reached into his bag of tricks. They all have a back pocket price they can offer you. Some discount or incentive like heated leather seats, fuzzy dice, they think can woo you. “Look, I didn’t exactly love your window. But I appreciate your time. Thank you. Please leave.”

“I can discount the windows each by $75.00 and give you $1,500 off. That takes the price down to…”

Wails from upstairs, plaintive, guilt inducing. “I’m not paying a thousand dollars a window, sir. Thank you for your time.”

“If I leave then the price will go up. This is only good on the first sales visit.”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate that. I must insist that I have other options to explore and will call when I make a decision.”

“No one ever pays more. You realize this price is only good until I leave.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“Can I use your bathroom? I do have a long ride home.” I’m not a nice person. Really. Ask anyone. I’m only truly nice to my very best friends and child. Everyone else gets the time of day. At that point, I wanted to throw his sales materials onto the lawn and lock him out, but I let him do his business.

I rubbed M’s back some more, promised her it would be two more minutes, and said I’d read whatever book she wanted once he left.

“I just need to call my boss and let them know you aren’t taking my incredible offer.”

“As long as it isn’t another back pocket deal and you’re out of here in two minutes you can call.”

“People do that? Deals to bring down the price.”

“You just did it when I said I wasn’t ready to purchase. Haven’t you ever bought a car? Everyone does it. Let me help you pack!” I carried his sample window out the front door. An eternity passed as he made the call and packed his materials. We shook hands, I locked the door, and zipped my sweater up to my neck, and turned up the heat as I went to put my daughter to sleep.

Not sure what the moral of the story is…don’t make sales appointments close to the kid’s bedtime or even when the kid is present? Blue and yellow make green? Just because your foot is in the door, doesn’t mean you should keep it there to get slammed on? Caulk and heavy material curtains could solve my draft. That’s it…a trip to Home Depot will do the trick. At least they won’t ask if my wife will be joining us – you can never find a sales person in Home Depot to question you.

Back and Forth

2010-12-01T21:05:00.001-08:00

As I head towards my room, I notice M sitting up in her bed. She’s awoken from a dream or nightmare and mumbles something along the lines of “we have to protect the menorah.” I brush the hair away from her eyes, kiss her check, tuck her back in and rub her back.

But she’s right. We do have to protect the menorah. It’s the first night of Hanukah. Her pre-K class made menorahs. They blow away last year’s hunk of clay that was molded for all of two seconds into a mush, poked with nine holes for candles, baked, glazed orange, and then re-baked. Neither her mom nor I could remember who has it. This year’s model (and honestly, unless she ends up in Jewish day school [a remote possibility – though highly unlikely given my real estate purchase] the last of any year’s model) is awesome. It’s an oval of wood, spot painted, with some doodle of possibly a candle in the center with ten bolts (two for the Shamash) glued around the Shamash. It’s brilliant. Practical. Well designed. Functional and it comes with a candle drip mat.

I love the menorah so much – and this is not a metaphor – it can’t go back and forth. As a divorced parent, everything goes back and forth: the kid, clothes, books, backpack, thermos, shoes, toys, me. It’s enough already. Usually, I operate under finder’s keeper’s rules. The Hanukah dress which miraculously I found in the closet today and sadly though still miraculously fits her was worn once again (three year’s running). Somehow I ended up with it and there’s another young Cohen who can get at least another year out of it. Although rightly so, it should be passed along to M’s cousin on her mom’s side.

Art that comes home I keep. Tonight, as the candles dripped, I actually posted a few things in an effort to make the house a home. Of course, by the time M was asleep the tape had already given out and the art was decorating the floor. In a homestead that needs new windows, kitchen cabinets, and any sort of window treatments – her art is perfect for hominess.

In theory, the calendar works out that Hanukah ends in our house. So yes, I could let the item drift back and forth; risk having it venture to Worcester for the weekend. But it isn’t worth it. I’d like a legal document decreeing, the menorah must return to me.

You are probably scratching your head wondering if I’ve lost it. Perhaps I have. I could make my own model. But between the bees wax candles and riotous singing of “One Little Latke” and the blessings, I’m not giving it up. Maybe this will be my miracle for the holiday. Probably not.

I’m waxing, overtired, simply because it was a day. The weather – wet and windy. The ride to Long Island was perilous. I have a new nephew from my oldest brother. We ventured due east to pick up furniture and baby items from another brother. This was the most time we two have spent together in God knows how long. It isn’t that we don’t get along. We work together. We grew up together. We’re family.

We listened to Howard Stern via his GPS before I remembered that my satellite radio could actually play the show via the FM radio. We talked over the show because there was nothing interesting about Stern interviewing his personal trainer. There was general catch up stuff.

My oldest brother is a talker. His words can fill any void and time space continuum. Often one doesn’t get a word in edgewise. Perhaps tired from parenting an autistic spectrum son and worrying about a new born in an ICU or wary about a long journey with me – there was more give and take than expected. We discussed other brothers, co-workers, parents, past and present.

Once, before I was married or even dating my ex, we were much closer. There was always a give and take of movies, television, music, and people. We’d hang out with one another’s friends, take in a professional wrestling show, or just grab lunch. It was in fact this brother who alerted me to the availability of my first position at the current company where we work. There was always a sense of lightness and fun. He wrote, I read. I attempted to agent his work to sell it.

Over time, my engagement/marriage, our back and forth because a one-way conversation. There’s no one at fault. We grew. He had a child. I got married, moved a state away, had a kid, got divorced, moved back into state, and then moved away again. Yo-yoing madly, sadly, badly.

In relationships, there are always things. Moments, conversations, fault that can be found. Left festering growing awkwardly creating distance. I’ve seen, firsthand, those distances become insurmountable and it is truly sad.

What can be done? Taking a day, driving 150 miles in torrential down pours, and catching up. It’s a start.

As I ventured west on my own, the weather broke. Clouds parted letting the sun streak through. M asked, when I picked her, if I’d seen the rainbow. I did, but not the one she saw.

Still, miraculous, as the day was, the menorah is mine. All mine. I’ll give up days, dresses, books, toys, money, but this last pre-K version 2 menorah ain’t leaving my house. Until, M looks up at me with wide eyes and reminds me. Or her mother texts me. Honestly, the house windows can easily be popped open and the thing will be on the table for easy taking. Will be a nice test of the new alarm system. Some things aren’t going back and forth anymore.

impromptu

2010-11-21T19:35:00.000-08:00

I’d planned to call one of the parents of M’s classmates and organize a play-date for this weekend. The week slipped away and that didn’t happen. Last Sunday, we went to a birthday party.

The birthday girl was one of M’s regular “House” playmates – L. L is the daughter of two Israelis who own an Israeli restaurant at town over from our’s. At the party, I scoped out all the girls. I even found a boy who regards M as his boyfriend. There’s a sweet blond girl named after a Disney mermaid and a twin girl who’s already really nice. They were my prime targets for play-dates.

I didn’t target the Israeli birthday girl. She was running around the party and I honestly didn’t get a sense of her. Relatives surrounded her. The other kids buzzed around her. She had the cake glazed, presents are coming, deer in headlights look that all birthday celebrants under five get.

M spent the morning playing inside while I taught. After lunch we hit the playground for a bit. When the sun stopped warming us, we redirected ourselves to the JCC tumble room. The local JCC has a room with tons of mats for kids to throw themselves around while parents read the paper, attempt to text message (there’s no cell service), or ensure other kids don’t land on their’s. They used to have a teenager ignore the kids but now no one manages the room and it has liability written all over it.

M and I have been coming to the tumble room since she was almost two year’s old. I don’t remember how we discovered it. Maybe it was after a work out and I stumbled across it. Possibility someone mentioned it to me. Prior to my teaching on Sundays, we could predictably be found in the pool and leave just as the swim lesson kids entered for the tumble room.

The room gives M a chance to practice her somersaults and burn off a crazy amount of time and energy. She’ll set up obstacle courses, lead classes of imaginary friends, and laugh as I throw myself around – certain to be in pain later that night. As she’s gotten older, she’s ventured out and talked to other kids and allows me to sit on the sidelines. And I couldn’t be happier.

When we arrived, there were about five kids in the room. Three brothers – including a two-year-old boy with bright red hair, and a few others. The two red heads clashed over a round piece but they soon found another item to occupy themselves.

Moments later, L showed up with her friend. Heaven sent impromptu play-date. M was excited. L and her friend looked like their ice cream hit the sidewalk. There are four semi-circle pieces that can be independent and kids like to rock in them or join them into full circles. I put M on one piece and rocked her steadily. Peels of giggles lured in the other two and play date began. They took turns, giddily rocking and happily being pushed off.

There’s always negotiation that goes on between kids in the initial moments of a play-date…even more so in an impromptu one. The expectations of M are pretty fluid – it is one of her more noble aspects picked up from her dad. M was definitely over-tired and I knew a nap was out of the question – but a good hour in the tumble room would definitely yield an early to bed evening. M, L, and her friend navigated one another warily – each yearning to take lead in activities. With a little guidance they got into a groove. But every groove has some ruts like M accidentally pulling out some of L’s hair. These are the hazards of the tumble room. L kept trying to run away, but her persistent friend was on her heels and eventually gave in.

The girls somersaulted like a circus act. I suggested trying it with their legs spread and they followed. They migrated to one of the circles and took turns walking a mat that would sink them into the circle. They each pretended they were sinking and worked to pull one another free.

The hour quickly passed. Eventually though, it was clearly time to go. It was snack time and I had no snacks. The girls said goodbye and each went off into the late afternoon. I love watching M play, largely without direction, navigating other kids, and enjoying herself. She’s always been a natural with older and younger kids. But with kids her own age or pretty close – who aren’t family - she’s gaining in confidence. One of these days, I’ll be able to leave the room or house entirely and let it happen. It’s a negotiation.

OMG

2010-11-10T19:21:00.001-08:00

Raising a kid in this day and age isn’t so easy. Cost aside; there are practical issues about the state of the world that would give me pause about having another child. And no, as far as I know, there’s no next kid on the way. (Sorry mom and dad. Huge sigh of relief for all those fans who were rooting for me and so and so to get it on and procreate.)

Practically speaking, as a divorced parent, there really aren’t a lot of questions about what’s going on rule or behavior-wise at Ima’s place. We’re basically on the same page in terms of values and beliefs.

Yesterday, post-marathon, I basically took the day off from work so I could limp around and recover. I went to my podiatrist to get the feet examined because they were brutalized in Sunday’s race. Then, I did some work, and relaxed.

I never go shopping but there were things I needed to get done that couldn’t with M around. I walked through a local mall and heard an ear-piercing scream. Children’s screams are pretty recognizable – high pitched, steadfast, totally annoying. Amplify the scream against the ambient noise of a mall – shopper conversation, each store’s music plus the general mall music – and you’ve got a colossal headache. The child threw herself on the floor face down and let loose “mom!” The mom would pause and the child would run around five feet from her, plop down, and scream again. I did my usual thing – make sure no one was bleeding – and walked in the other direction. Unfortunately, I ended up in the same store as this wonder family, and the child did the same exact thing – this time with a pacifier in her hand. As M is generally an undersized child, I can’t really tell a kid’s real age. Maybe she was three – so this could be appropriate behavior. I felt for the mom. It was damn embarrassing. I felt for her brother and the other shoppers and store workers. But honestly, what on earth could have led to that sort of behavior?

Today, on our way out of the JCC, I told M we were headed home for dinner. She started to cry about wanting to go to Friendly’s. Real tears. I picked her up, put her on a bench, and told her to cry it out because there was no way in the world tears and whining were going to get her what she wanted.

Last night at school, I got into my first (and hopefully only) post-class parent/teacher/principal thing. The Tuesday after a B’nei Mitzvah we all walk down to the sanctuary to talk to the student about their particular experience – the Torah portion; what they anticipated; advice; and questions from the audience. As we settled in one student said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go to the bathroom. The Assistant Education Director was there. We told the kid, there was fifteen minutes left. The kid said she was nauseous. We said either go to the bathroom or sit down. The kid sat.

As I made my way to the door to leave, the kid’s parent, kid, and Assistant Education Director were there. “How come you didn’t let me kid leave? She’s sick.”

We proceeded to discuss – in front of the student – what happened. No, the student didn’t tell me she was on all sorts of sinus infection drugs and had been out of school the previous day. How could the mother trust us to educate her kid if we didn’t listen when she said she was sick? There were fifteen minutes left, we argued. You were probably on your way here. “No,” the mom said, “I was here. She should have called me.” The Director signaled for me to back off.

I don’t mind confrontation or discussing of right and wrong. It’s actually a key part of my curriculum this year what with Ethics and Holocaust being my core subjects. And I can mostly do this with my particular schemer of sarcasm and sincerity.

The day will come when M will complain about a teacher and I’ll feel so strongly about it, I’ll walk in and discuss it with the teacher/principal too. But I wouldn’t do it in front of M – that’s just wrong. Frankly, I don’t yet know enough about the particular community or students I teach in to judge them.

On the way out the Director was telling me about a bar mitzvah date conflict between two popular students. One family UPS’d save the date cards to everyone thus ensuring the other family would want to move their date. But these things are so logistically entwined with synagogue, family, and parties that it’s not as simple as move your date.

So I talk to my kid in a normal non-condescending voice. We discuss stuff. Yes, she comes out with teenagerly “duhs” either not realizing what she’s saying or just testing language. She’s probably bored by my questions – but really I just want to know how her day was and what she did. Nothing totally unreasonable.

I don’t bribe with food. I threaten lack of television when behavior is out of bounds. I encourage her to play with everyone and keep trying new things. And there are always plenty of hugs to go around. Will she become president or a mass murderer, drug addicted entertainer, teacher, renowned doctor, or a stay at home mom? Who knows? Right now, she’s a generally happy five year old and I’m totally down with that. It’s all I have the energy or vision to deal with.

I'm sure the day she throws herself on the floor in a fit in public is coming. I got lucky today, the hallway in school was empty. No parent is immune from a tantrum of magnitude in public. All the world is a stage and every child recognizes it. It's human nature.

Run

2010-11-05T18:51:00.000-07:00

The verb “run” is a funny word. One can run to something or away from it. You can run to/from a goal, person, place, thing. We all run to/from aspects of our lives. I’m sure there’s a rationale and synergy to it, but maybe not.

People ask me why I run, especially marathons. This Sunday, if all goes well I’ll complete my ninth marathon. Totally crazy. I started in 1996 because I wanted a challenge. I’d seen plenty of marathons living in New York and cheered for plenty of runners. My next older brother is a runner/biker/swimmer, marathoner/triathlete. In high school he got up insanely early to swim. He’d run a few races and I figured I could too.

For years I saw Fred Lebow drive by the race in the lead car. When he got cancer and will ill, his run with Greta Weitz was inspirational. So I started to train and ran with my brother’s friend Tommy. My goal was to beat Oprah. I did it in 4:35 or so and felt great.

So I kept at it. Feeling good that January, I tackled Disney and then with my best friend ran New York in 1997. We took 1998 off for a wedding/injury and came back strong in 1999.

Running marathons felt great. It wasn’t about the time, it was about the times. Making friends, urging the crowd to cheer. It was as close to celebrity as I’d possibly come. Each year my name and time would appear in the New York Times. My Russian students at Baruch College in 1997 were impressed with a teacher whose name was in the Times.

For 2001, I ran to impress my fiancé. I called her a bunch of times during the race while she was at a conference. Her brother and sister-in-law-to-be cheered me on. It felt great to have an expanding community. There were a few years where I didn’t get into the race or kept putting it off.

I returned to the course in 2007 – a week after Ima told me she wanted a divorce. P and I ran the whole way, stride for stride. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I urged myself along – completely out of shape – mentally and physically with “if life is going to kick me in the teeth; I’ll kick back harder.” Sure there was puking in the Bronx, but we finished. Amazingly, M met me at the finish. I have an amazing picture of her running to me. Astonishingly enough, yesterday she asked if she’d be at the finish “like last time.” Tears came to my eyes.

Today at the race expo, I picked out a stuffed animal to give her. I run to inspire her. Exercise is important. Having a goal and seeing it through is important. No, she probably has no conception of 26.2 miles or the five hours it will take. But she knows she loves her dad and wants to see him enjoy his moment.

This year, I’m also raising money for holocaust survivors. I didn’t think I was going to run this year. P got injured over the summer. I didn’t get in via the lottery and hadn’t run enough qualifying races. The idea of raising money was daunting.

In September, I was feeling pretty good, settled into the house, teaching, and life. I figured I’d some a modicum of training and was interested in re-embracing my challenge. 26.2 is a distance. It takes mental and physical strength. The completion of the race though – as much as it physically hurts – is a once in a lifetime experience. The pain is worth it. The people you meet at the start and during the journey are amazing. The pictures and connections, memories, collectively whittle away the pain and lost toenails. Plus people are impressed, until they hear my time.

In any event, this Sunday, with the inspiration of a friend who a year ago decided she could/would train and is going to finish the race; next to P and my cousin who is raising money for Autism and will defy the race convention by pushing his daughter in a jogging stroller; and the power of the Holocaust victims and survivors; I’ll do the race. It won’t be fast; might be kind of ugly; but there will be the same joke P and I have shared since 1996 as we cross the Verrazano. A joke, by the way, I always mess up. I’ll hoot and holler at the crowds to get them to psych me up. My name will be cheered. My charity will be noticed. And a little five-year-old red head will come up to me and give me a hug. Perhaps someday, we’ll start the race together – raising money and hope for some organization – making memories.

Run is a funny verb. Marathons remind of my Jewish high holiday promises to be a better person. It’s like G-d is telling me – if you can do this race – you can actually be the person you want to be. Maybe this year, I’ll run a little closer to whoever that guy is.

House

2010-10-25T06:49:00.001-07:00

As a child, I played lots of games. Baseball, football, soccer, basketball, tag, superheroes, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians – not once with a did I play “house.” As the youngest of four boys, I didn’t know a lot of people who played “house.” There were girls in the neighborhood but they ran around like we did.

“House” is a simple concept. Each child assumes a role in the household – mother, father, child, pain killer addicted brilliant diagnostician – and plays the role until someone gets bored, shot, or leaves in a huff. Except without the sarcasm. Of course, a girl is going to want to play “house.” I’m sure some boys are into it, as well.

M and I play many games – like “Clifford” where we take turns being the big red dog. Lately, she’s been into actual board games like “Chutes and Ladders” or “Candyland.” Uno and War have become big favorites, as has Connect 4. Once she gets the rules, she plays her hands pretty well. Although there are occasional times when she’ll drop a card in Uno that she shouldn’t. She revels in wins and doggedly determined to strike revenge in losses. Outside, she’ll swing or kick around a soccer ball or swing at baseball.

With her schoolmate and best friend, R – it’s all about “House.” I had to drop off money for the book fair this week and I found them outside in the playground in a plastic house, chatting. Inside, another girl will join them. M, apparently, is always the mother. R is usually the baby.

M doesn’t like being any role but the mother. I get this. She’s been in some school-based program since four months old. So mom and dad leaving to go to the office, a business trip, or a meeting is second nature. The “mom” role is all about power. Once a kid is dropped at school – the power shifts depending on the caretaker or other kids in the classroom.

M is deliberately repeating pre-k so she can be one of the oldest children in her class. The theory was to give her extra room to grow socially and more assured in academics. So far, it means a lot of games of “house.” More and more parents are leaving their kids for a gap year – to gain extra ground on the rigors of advanced grades. We pay off our guilt in no small amount with the cost of this year financially and with reassurances of it’s the right thing in the so-called progress report meetings held twice a year. Will I see much change in M’s artwork? Probably not. It will show more in her ability to read, write, and rule the roost in games like “house.”

When she began calling R last week, talk of a play date arose. I’ve been nervous and excited about play dates for a year. Last year we had a few with a heavyset girl and her parents. This led to dinner at a diner after a performance of Chinese Acrobats at a community college and waiting for them to show up at an indoor playground. The conversation between the father and I was stilted. I was looking for a friend.
R and M chat pretty much every night. It’s cute. Friday evening, her father called to move the play date from Sunday to Saturday. We agreed and the girls chatted. I schlepped M from school to home so I could grab a quick shower before going into the city for a surprise birthday party. Between traffic and errands – we had about two hours of car time. M sat through some adult conversation, Indian food, and picked at her beans and yogurt. We played a few hands of Uno while I gamely tried to follow the adult conversation. Sure, you say, get a sitter. I tried. In any event, the kid fell asleep in the car and I let her sleep in her clothes. She was awake at 5:30 am ready for the play-date.

We spent the morning swinging in the park by our house, running errands, and going to gymnastics/dance class. I was desperate to get M to nap. She under-ate lunch and we cuddled on the couch but sleep didn’t come to her.

This was to be my first in someone’s house, schoolmate play date. We brought a Barbie doll and Jeep because R made it seem like she too had a Barbie. R’s house is two towns over from us. M was excited on the way over. I should have gone over ground rules, but honestly, I had no idea what they would be. I expected the strength of their relationship to carry the date – boy was I wrong.

We were about to hit the doorbell, when R’s mother opened the door. She held a one-year-old baby. M clung to my leg, nervous. When the mother walked away, M ran to R and gave her a bear hug. We took off our shoes. R’s mother went to prepare a snack. I looked around their house. They had either just moved or were keeping it minimalist. The living room was empty save for a few scattered toys. There was an l-shaped couch and wall unit with television, books, and family photos. The dining room had a few toys and undersized table.

The girls figured out how to get Barbie to sit in the jeep and acted pretty bored upstairs. The mother showed us downstairs and while she cared and fed the baby, I watched the girls. R ran around and jumped on a mat. M tried to chase her. R picked at a puzzle. M kept calling her “baby” and tried to get her to lie down on the mat so she could rub her back. It was a beautiful late fall day but no one suggested we go outside – because there wasn’t anything to do in the backyard.

Eventually, they retired to R’s bedroom – also Spartan – closet, dresser, and toddler bed and chair. We picked at two puzzles. The two lay down in R’s bed and M tried to rub her back. “House” seemed pretty fucking boring. I could have pretended to be the dad but I didn’t want to over reach into their date. R’s mom was downstairs with the baby and her father was off somewhere.

When her father did arrive from a bike ride, he came into the room. The girls decided to draw letters on R’s chalkboard. M kept trying to steer things back to “house” but R was adamant about playing it. There were no board or card games. M grew visibly and loudly upset over the lack of “house.” They tried to play school. But M’s heart was set on rubbing R’s back and being the mother.

I pulled her into the bathroom, let her pee, and washed her face. “You have to play a different game, M. R doesn’t want to play ‘house.’”

M curled her lip and grew more upset. She clung to me. And eventually, when we couldn’t coax another game, I picked her up and we left. Barbie and the jeep stayed behind.

“Why dad why?” Tears, snot. “Why do we have to go?”

I chose my words carefully. Seen through the prism of someone who has walked away from friendships and intimate relationships for both amazing and foolish reasons – I felt I was on safe ground. “M – you didn’t play very nicely. You have to listen and be flexible. R said she didn’t want to play ‘house.’ You didn’t listen.”

Humongous tears. Some of it was tiredness, some sensitivity. The sun dipped behind the trees. It was five o’clock. The kid needed a snack. She needed outdoor time. Trapped in a house with limited resources a blow up was inevitable.

We talked about rules for a play-date. Taking turns, listening, being flexible, try new things. M cried. I reassured her as best I could. M insisted on calling R. I’m no master of inter-personal relationships but I let her.

R’s dad answered. “Hi, it’s M. I just wanted to say sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. I imagined he told his wife never to let that child and man into our house again.

“Will R still be my friend?” she asked plaintively. My heart broke.

“Of course,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said and hung up. Today, I wanted to call and apologize, but I didn’t. I figured both kids would forget about the experience and go back to being best friends on Monday, once again playing “house.”

I took M to a playground, she ran around – demanding I be the monster who chased her. I relayed the play date results to her mom, who wanted to set up a follow up for when the girls don’t have school. Be careful, I cautioned. They have a nanny who doesn’t drive, so you might end up with both girls.

On the playground, M was her lovable, fun, happy, creative self. And I wondered if the choice of a just turned four year-old was a strategic choice. M could be the dominant player – older, more verbal, bossy.

M shuttles around relatively silently from household to household. Clothes, thermoses, and backpacks are exchanged. She hears us talk about schedules and care. She questions it – wondering how many days before she sees the other parent – but for the most part, she goes with it.

For as much as a privilege and work as parenthood is, it’s also a gift. I can’t imagine my life without M. I’m a somewhat different person that I was five years ago…still manic at times but somewhat more responsible. I know plenty of people who have entwined their lives in work, travel, hobbies, relationships – all without a child of their own. A child remains a dream deferred or unrealized. I fully acknowledge how lucky I am.

Today in the car, M remarked, “Did you want a girl?”

“I wanted an amazing child and that’s what I got.”

“What about a girl with blue eyes?”

“I was happy to have you. You have your mother’s eyes which is very special.”

“What about another kid? Did you want just one?”

I bit my lip. Here we were changing clothes after swimming at the JCC, cold and wet. My mind was a million miles away on the things I knew I’d forget for my business trip or figuring out a response to an awkward moment with a fifth grader at school. “M…I love you. You’re my girl. Maybe you’ll have another sibling, but right now – it’s you and me kid and I couldn’t be happier.” It’s true. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the kid…within reason.

And it dawned on me; “house” isn’t about being the mother for M. It’s about temporarily not being an only child and pretending to be a big sister.

Hanging on the Telephone

2010-10-16T17:57:00.001-07:00

Nowadays, we take phones for granted. There’s a temporal social status to having the latest edition of whatever electronic device is put out. We shorthand relationships with quick messages. Texts are ubiquitous. Running late, send a text. And yet, I always wonder – if the phone is in your hand – why not call? What has happened to us that the art of conversation has given way to a quick note? Lost is tone. Emotions, seriousness, can all be called into question – making it harder to navigate relationships. We use the phone for pretty much anything other than speaking to one another. After all, those calls – when they do go through – are awfully hard to hear…except on public transportation. And look, I’m as guilty as the next person. But I really would prefer making most calls versus texting.

Growing up we had two phones in the house. One was for every one; the second was for my father’s business. Eventually the second line weaved its way upstairs for the boys to use. Until I got interested in girls, I didn’t have much interest in the phone.

My first memory of using it is in fifth grade. I’d had a crush on a single girl all year long. My parents were away and somehow a friend decided we should go up the hill (a few miles away) and hang out with these two girls at one of their houses. Good plan – except we didn’t have a car or taxi fare. And there wasn’t a driver between us. I did eventually call and ask that girl out. But she told me her parents wouldn’t let her date until eighth grade.

Parents didn’t arrange play dates. We just went out into the street with bat and ball and games happened spontaneously. As a parent, life must have been easier. You could just open the door and let your kids out. Now, you have to hold their hands to cross the street and put a helmet on them for biking or scootering. And, of course, the kids themselves have all the latest phones perpetuating coolness based simply on having the latest handset.

Through the magic of school and her natural charm, M has made a friend. Her name is R and she’s four. They love each other. And a few days ago, they started calling each other. Their first conversations – via cell-phone featured a lot of “R?” “What?” This was over M trying to eat dinner. Of course, the meal took a backseat as she climbed onto a couch and tried to get R to adjust her living room shades – just as M was doing. I was uncertain how much guidance to give for the conversation. Sensing that M climbed as far away from me as she could have. Towards the end of the conversation they told each other they loved one another. M made sure to say in her authoritative five-year-old manner, “R…I’m telling you I love you now.”

Last night, on the way to dinner, R rang us. I kept quiet this time and let them chat. They talked about nothing. I don’t mean “Seinfeld” nothing. I mean, literally, nothing. But, man did it make M happy to talk to her. And frankly it meant I could listen to the news or whatever I wanted to hear.

This morning, pre-crack of dawn, M was ready to call her girlfriend. The wow factor of the phone, the conversation, the closeness of their relationship, and being unable to wait to see each other until Monday – meant the phone was their tool. Unfortunately, I only had a home phone number in my phone – which meant – a call back was going to take some time, because how many of us actually pay attention to our home answering machine. Or even have one anymore?

Off we went to Tot Shabbat, M was duly occupied. And didn’t ask if R called her back. I hid looking at the device. I knew what M was feeling. How many times had I called, emailed, or texted someone and was waiting for that certain response? Whether it is picking a fight, making a date, or conducting business – the immediacy of all our means of sending messages and communicating intent – is only as fast and complete as one chooses to respond. We’re left hanging on the line, putting ourselves out there…waiting.

Five year olds aren’t particularly noted for their so-called patience. M darted out of gymnastics to ask if there was a call back. I knew, eventually there would be, but when was out of my purview of experience. Their relationship makes M so happy. It’s nice to see. And sure, it’s nice to know that other people’s kids each sandwiches but don’t remember what’s on it.

What’s jarring is M backing away and seeking privacy to have her conversation. The kid will watch me shower and do other bathroom things, but now – she wants to be left alone. She wants to pursue her relationship, converse, privately. I fear the day she learns how to take the phone off speaker. Sure, I could let them chat in another room without speaker…but I’m the responsible party. What if they have a fight? Or there’s some bullying? These relationships are tenuous. If R decides she doesn’t want to always be the baby when they play house, all hell will break loose. As fast friends as they are now, a couple of play dates outside school, and who knows?

For now, they have the phone and can sit next to each other on the bus for field trips, eat lunch together and play Monday through Friday in pre-k. I asked R to put her dad on today. He seems amiable enough. They live a town over. We’ve got a tentative play date for next Sunday. Wonder what I’ll wear and what I’ll say. I guess I’ll pretend to be a Yankees fan. And I’m sure I’ll bring my phone and text/email/message all sorts of friends and update them, secrertly, of course – don’t want to be rude on a first meeting.

Welcome Home Barbie

2010-10-04T19:44:00.000-07:00

We divided the presents fairly evenly. Less presents means less thank you cards. It’s only a week into school so it is really hard to know whom the kid actually likes or not. But there were some fairly obvious re-gifts and returns – like a stuffed animal rabbit and some clothes.

M was hyped up on an hour and fifteen minutes of perpetual motion, cake, and the emotional turning of four becoming five. Either that or the feet smell of the playroom and the gaseous (fart) smell of the cake room. All she wanted to do was open presents.

The family descended. Mom, brothers, Dad, brother’s friend, and Dad’s wife toured the house. None of them had been here before. Someone put cake and fruit salad remnants away. M crept up to her bed and lie down in it. She couldn’t nap; there was a dinner to get through. So I told her she could open a few presents.

Books and DVDs didn’t interest her much. There was the aforementioned gun and a Barbie doll. Last year, we got a two Barbie related gifts – a car which I ended up with and a doll which I passed onto her mother. One of my cousins gave us a wealth of dolls she grew up with. They are all American Doll types in clothes on stands – somewhat creepy, not particularly moveable. They line horizontal surfaces in her room. One looks like her friend from two-year old class and pre-k last year. M doesn’t touch or look at them.

This evening, she was all about Barbie. As a kid, I had a “Big Jim” doll with karate chop action. You hit a big button and his right arm would chop. As boys there were no girl dolls around – just blocks, cars, and Big Jim.

Barbie came in a box made up to look like her fancy changing room, make up table, mirror, perfume, and hand bag. She was lashed to the box like Gulliver. I told M to go upstairs and get the car. “Where is it?” she yelled. “In one of the toy baskets,” I replied. While she was upstairs, I admired Barbie’s figure and short cocktail dress. She was my perfect role model for my five-year old.

Barbie went for a short spin in her Malibu jeep, Hello Kitty walkie-talkies in the back seat. Each was safely strapped in with the seat belts. Her drive was short. The play-date ended with Barbie splayed in the front seat, looking like she’d suffered from an overly drunken evening and passed out at the wheel.

I was dispatched to set up the Hello Kitty walkie-talkies. M and I dashed about the house – in hearing distance of one another – occasionally her thumb actually applied enough pressure to get the toy to squawk. She discovered the easel a brother set up in the basement and asked if she could paint.

We headed upstairs for dinner, poured through several of the birthday books and retired upstairs for the evening. She found one of the goodie bag items – a squishy ball on a string that she wouldn’t let go up. We read all three Knuffle Bunny books, brushed teeth, and sang good night – all with ball in hand.

I wonder if the lack of interest in Barbie stemmed from it being a single doll. No Ken. No girlfriends to play with. Maybe Barbie should try to fire the Nerf gun. The accessories weren’t very playful. The car is fun to push around for a bit, but Barbie’s hands can’t actually grab the wheel – they don’t bend at the elbow.

This is a literal kid who likes reality. A statuesque blonde amazon doll that in real life could only be found on wrestling shows, porn, or television shows she can’t watch – isn’t M’s reality. For now, whether it is lack of accessories, mobility, or fun – Barbie may sit on the sidelines. The imaginary friends, apparently, have all gone to live with their father. When I move her into a basket to be forgotten about for a year, Barbie will live with M’s father too. Although, there is the possibility to car and doll end up at Eema’s. Maybe we’ll work out a trade for the stuffed rabbit.

Gun Totting Toddler

2010-10-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

“Abba, for my birthday can I get a gun?” No other words could make a father prouder, especially in this day and age of no tolerance and bullying for every little thing because self esteem is a nice to have as opposed to a necessity for most parent’s children.

The request from M wasn’t a bit shocking. We were walking around Target and she spied a Nerf Smith & Wesson and its cousin the Bazooka. We’d seen the Machine Gun version at a play-date and M actually liked it. It’s a bright yellowish orange with triggers and you fire suction cup tipped darts. M fired it a few times, laughed her tushie off, and harbored the idea of owning a gun since last spring.

As kids we all had cap guns with actual gunpowder caps. Remember the little strips of paper and you’d have to feed them into the gun? Those gave way to plastic caps – also red – that slipped into the trigger. We’d run through the streets and backyards, playing cops & robbers or cowboys & Indians or Jews & Palestinians throwing ourselves all over the place, firing willy-nilly. In those days, as long as the windows were open and you were in shouting distance you could play pretty much anything anywhere

Post-college in LA, a potential roommate and I met a guy with a lot of guns. We walked into his living room and marveled at the collection. Historic ones out of the old west were in glass cases. Posters and hunting kill adorned the wall and mantel. It was a serious place. For probably the only time in my life – including the birth of M, job interviews, marriage and divorce proceedings, I couldn’t think of a wiseass thing to say.

Then the guy asked if I wanted to hold one. “Sure,” I said. It was heavier than it looked. Maybe it was the weight of possibility and past. Maybe it was the nausea coursing through me. I didn’t feel manlier. Didn’t feel like firing or hearing it.

My potential roommate picked it up and made to fire it. She held it like a pro, eyeing it. Maybe he was a co-worker or something. The circumstances of the meeting are cloudy. But she actually looked like it made sense of a gun to be in her hand. As opposed to mine where it looked as natural as a triple mocha espresso. For the record, I don’t drink coffee or any of it’s off shoots.

Once after a trade show a co-worker asked if I wanted to go shoot skeet. He’s a card carrying NRA member who lives in North Carolina and sells a lot of our police solutions. Knowing guns is probably a job requirement for him. He’s part of a gun club and loves to talk about his kids and their shooting abilities. While I really did want to see him in action – he’s a big talker – the kind of talker that believes his own myths, I actually demurred. Most of it was after four days together, standing on our feet in a trade show booth, I was done. Part of it was, I didn’t want to either get good at shooting or hurt from it – and with my luck I’d the later was most likely. So I told him I was off to Vegas to gamble the night away.

With M’s birthday, people have been asking about present preferences. She’s not a big toy kid. She has a few – play kitchen and cash register. But in the new place they are largely ignored. As is the drum kit and piano. She plays with them when others are around or she’s feeling playful – but mostly – we’re not really home to use them. And when we are home, she’d rather play Hello Kitty Bingo, Candy Land, or Chutes and Ladders. Books are her big thing.

Her mom and I talked about the gun. There was definite discomfort. I don’t think M gets the connection between guns and pain. For her it’s a toy. For us, it’s more. I suggested a book to a friend as a gift. She bought the gun. M bee-lined to it, demanding after cake-induced and massive playing stupor to open it. Showing the house off to assorted relatives or playing outside or with other toys was an unrealistic option. We’ve all been five, we know this – presents take precedence over everything.

So a brother un-did all the plastic ties and paper, while I got a screwdriver. Batteries were inserted – for the target light. The box said it was a toy for six and up. A cousin showed her how to load it. The five-year-old boy next door ran over and asked to play. Then he ran into his house and got his gun and loaded it up with our ammunition. Darts flew across the yard.

When my the two year old son of my friend from middle school asked to play with it, he got his shot and away it went. Yes, it’s bright orange – clearly a toy. You have to pull a tab to get the trigger in place. While it will be fun to fire at annoying and liked co-workers on a day where we need some fun – it doesn’t really have a place in the hands of a two year old. A few presents later and M – hopefully will forget about the gun. Maybe we’ll whip it out in the back yard or the playground across the street. It was after all just another toy she wanted. A plaything she desired. There was no blood lust. Just whining about wanting to fire her gun.

My neighbor who’s running for town council came over to join his son. I asked where he stood on guns. He stood behind the second amendment. I do too. I have to vote for him so I can look him in the eye and be happy whether he wins or loses. And M and his son can run around the neighborhood firing their guns. As long as there’s no whining, I’m good with it.

The Written Word

2010-09-26T19:15:00.001-07:00

As a kid I loved to read. My parents used to come into the room I shared with the next brother up and read to us from chapter books. There was nothing more amazing then snuggling under warm covers listening to loving parental tones convey some tale as I fought off sleep. The study of our house was lines with books of every shape and size. And now most meals and certainly every evening M grabs books and we read.

Amelia Bedilia still misinterprets comically. Though it goes over M's head, she likes the stories. Green Eggs and Ham - one of Seuss' finest - offers a moral of trying something new, being adventurous. And anything Mo Willems writes and draws - from the pigeon and Knuffle Bunny to City Dog - amazes and captivates. Not to mention Curious George, the cat in the hat, and sometimes Winnie the Pooh.

Books bond us. M has learned to love the written word and discusses which book to read and how many. Our trips to library are adventures. She'll do several puzzles and explore the shelves carefully like a scientist picking here and there, experimenting until finding a satisfactory solution. The librarians know her. They greet her, smile, watch as she dabbles on a computer, complementing her on the latest art creation, and occasionally cooing about our selections.

There was a series of American historical figure biographies that I consumed as maybe a second grader. I can still see the 16 point font and line drawings. Once during a blackout we lit a fire and I made my way through Ben Franklin's or Abe Lincoln's.

Over the years I’ve shed books by virtue of constant moves. College and grad school texts were sold and donated when my mom sold her house. I lost my Harry Potter hard covers in the divorce. Of late, I’ve stopped buying books – unless I absolutely have to have it. The Girl Who series was like that. I picked up the first one on a whim – everyone was reading it – and consumed it on a trip back from the west coast. I read the second just as quickly and ordered the third – from overseas – so I could have a paperback version.

By virtue of living in a community where every town has a library, I don’t think I’ll need to buy anything unless I have a gift card. And, I do have a few of those. This spring, a friend gave me a Kindle. M uses it in the car. She plunks on the buttons and says it’s her’s. I’ve never turned it on. The idea of holding an electronic device instead of a book doesn’t appeal to me. I have friends who swear by Kindles but still…I like to turn pages, underline, dog ear, and look at it on a shelf.

Now my house - particularly the bathroom is consumed with two bins of magazines that have followed me around for several years. Unread issues of a deceased parenting magazine, plus the New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly and Business Week. Time Out gets read in a timely manner. All else hits the bin. The piles grow until I travel. I hate the Business Week redesign and will let that expire. Runners World too...they publish the same articles every year just with new gear, exercises, models, and whole grain suggestions.

As for books - there's been an Ikea bookshelf to be assembled in my car for two weeks. Today, it got transported to the living room. In time for family and friends seeing the house shortly – can’t put it off after two months – the last book boxes will get put away. The cds will be downloaded to a computer and then transported to the attic.

And my little bookworm, she’s turning into an actual reader. Watching M dish out words has always been fun. She’s a talker to everyone, about anything. If she has a question, she’ll ask.

The other morning, I dumped her into a bath at her mother’s request. She has a ritual of tossing the foam letters into the tub while the water runs and cools. I put a few letters together – A and T and told her they sound “at.” Then I put other letters in front of it – and she read. Cat. Mat. Sat. I got chills. It was so exciting.

On the last day of day camp this summer, we had an impromptu play date with one of M’s friends. Both kids dashed into the pools and I talked with the mom. She runs one of the JCC daycare programs and I asked her about reading and when it would start. I told her about M consuming books and from memorization reading whole pages. “That’s reading,” she said. “The first step.” At the time, I didn’t believe it. Now though – she’s got the letters down and is memorizing their sounds in groups. If that’s not reading, I don’t know what is.

Her first smile will always be imprinted in my head. As will her every milestone – walking, words (“wow” “whoa” “Elmo”), when she started pulling herself up to a standing position at Eema’s camp (eight and a half months), her first hospitalization. Now, words that she reads.

She picked a book this evening – a Sendack pop-up called Mommy. It has two words in the whole book “Mommy” and “baby.” I had her sound out “mommy.” Every page she searched and read the word – hesitantly, uncertain that what was coming out of her mouth was printed on the page. The excitement built in me, as did the tension. Soon we won’t be able to spell in secret conversation. I’ll have to hide old journals so my formative years remain mystiqued.

The next book – a Mo Willem pigeon book – we worked out the word “puppy.” And she read it every time it showed up on the page. I’m not used to the uncertainty in her voice as she works out the words. It doesn’t sound like my confident, curious child. But the one thing I know about this kid – when she wants to know and learn and improve some skill – she works and works. A brave new world of words and texts is opening. I’m so excited to have someone else read to me when my eyes go from too much computers and Blackberry and I forget where my eventual glasses are.

Whipped

2010-09-18T21:23:00.000-07:00

To all those knowledgeable stay-at-home mom’s here’s my response: “Fuck you!” Today, someone called me “whipped.” And went on to say that “if I didn’t do something about it, it would only get worse.” Perhaps.

I am not a perfect parent. I don’t have all the answers. I only know what works for me either in the moment or in the short run. As for the long run, who the hell knows? No one. I do know, life’s too short to worry about the long run.

Here’s the scoop – M and I are at my mom’s for Yom Kippur – Jewish Day of Atonement. It’s not a small day in the Jewish calendar. Basically, we withhold food and refrain from other work/entertainment to navel gaze, apologize to ourselves, others, and G-d for our transgressions. There’s a thriving Orthodox community in my mom’s town and they have a pretty sweet kid set up for high holidays including lunch, magician, toys, and a bouncy castle.

We show up. My nephew and nieces are sitting around eating candy looking pretty happy. They’ve answered some Jewish trivia questions and been rewarded. No service for kids. The bouncy castle opens and M runs over. My brother and mother wander over to services. I’m thinking about checking it out. My mom is always off to an event, speakers with massive deserts, at this congregation but I’ve never been. From their calendar it is an impressive array of political types and authors.

They serve lunch and the magician shows up to set up. M isn’t hungry and wants to run around with the other kids. I tell her I’m going to services. She starts to cry and begs me not to go. Now, I have absolute working parental guilt. School has begun and she’s getting used to new kids and teachers – so every drop off is tearful. It is draining. However, in order to pay for her so-called education, her mom and I need to work. Neither of us expects an almost five year old to get this.

The idea of leaving her be on a Saturday to go attend an Orthodox service – even on a high holiday – kind of bothersome to me. Especially when she’s already had one babysitter this week, so I could go off and stretch my brain at school. However, her cousins and a bouncy castle are there. She can deal. Someone comes over and whispers the whipped comment. Perhaps they are right and if I don’t nip it in the bud, it won’t get better.

Yes, I give M choices. Eggs or beans for meals. This book or that book. This show or that show. Swim or playground. She’s got words she can express them. She’s got opinions, I welcome hearing them. She’s always had a lot to say and has never been shy with words.

When need be – I’m authoritative. We’ve been in the playground or swimming pool and it’s dinner time...we go. She asks to go to a diner and I say “no.” Bedtime, generally no issues. Same with bath. Food, yes – she gets a choice. She tells me when she’s hungry and expresses a preference on what to consume, and sometimes where to consume it.

However, if you don’t know the forced drop off – fuck you. I don’t mean the “gosh I’m running late for a hair or doctor appointment, a work out.” I mean the “I have a conference call and am completely late and will get my ass reamed” forced drop off, where you send the kid on the way, bite your lip and run to an area with decent cell service.

Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against stay at home parents. If I could do it, I…no, fuck that, that’s not true…I could never do it. Doesn’t interest me. I love my kid but she needs her space and I need mine. Stay at home parents do it their way and have their own reasons for it. It’s a skill I lack. I need to be elsewhere using my brain, talking to adults, earning a living, working.

My mother worked when my two oldest brothers were young as a schoolteacher. By the time, I was in school she ensconced herself in a retail position. As I finished college and made my way into the world, she went back to grad school and got a Masters in Nutrition. She did some private counseling and now works for a government program. Her days were always filled with activities and work – as were my dad’s.

I know plenty of parents who work part or full time and those who don’t. Whatever works for them – yahoo. Parenthood is work. It really is. Am I whipped? Sometimes. I don’t know a parent who doesn’t give in. When the kid is up pre-crack of dawn and you’re just so tired, so you let them crawl into bed with you or play their television shows so you can sleep a bit longer. I don’t like the term whipped – so much as compromise.

Navigation is a valuable life skill. Navigation – knowing which way to go – is equal parts rational discussion and negotiation. We all navigate and negotiate moments in our life. Yes, M cried her butt off while I went to services. I watched and listened to a few moments of an amazing harmonious religious moment. Had no idea what they were singing about or why, but it was amazing. I came back, she stopped crying. The magician set up and started his act. I walked back over to services. Came back she was playing with her cousin – not even sure if she knew I was gone. If that person hadn’t commented to me, would I have gone to services? Absolutely. It’s all in the timing.

Whipped? Probably. But again who knows what’s going to happen in the long run – so to save a kid from tears and me the guilt – I’m willing to wait just a few minutes more. It’s an all day service at an Orthodox shul, they aren’t going anywhere.

Welcome Back Howard, er Andy. I mean Andrew...whatever your name is...

2010-09-14T19:03:00.000-07:00

M was happy at pick up but was a total whiner afterwards. She knew the sitter was coming. She wasn’t impressed with the new booster seat, hardly drank her milk shake, and got humongously teary when I went upstairs to get some books for her and the sitter to read over dinner. I chalk it up to her being exhausted – first full day of school; lots of playground time; dance/gymnastics class; lack of food; and no nap. But I had a job to do and off I went.

The traffic was slow and frustrating giving me ample time to listen to Howard Stern and call a former teaching colleague and leave a message. Figured talking to an old colleague would psych me up. Suddenly nerves wracked me. The last time I was before a group of seventh graders it was summer school on Long Island – and well, it was a disaster.

Tonight was different. The principal called me the wrong name to the students and then asked if I “preferred Andy or Andrew.” I said, “Adam.” We had a pizza and salad dinner, which ate up a half hour of teaching time and were off to the races.

Working with students who have a full day of school and a wealth of after school sports and classes, tutors, and homework is challenging. Pretty much the last thing they want to do is sit and talk about Torah, ethics, and the holocaust. Talking about themselves – easy. They admitted what sports they liked and didn’t; some preferred Math; several already knew that after their B’nei Mitzvah they were done with religious school. And, of course, one goes to Eema’s camp and knows M. It’s a small world.

The first task was assigned by the rabbi. She wanted all the students to write down a sin on an index card and put it in an enveloped marked “read” or “don’t read.” The read ones would be consumed by the rabbi and perhaps used in a future sermon. The don’t reads would be recycled. At task’s end, I had two students seal the envelopes

Then we discussed what age group would be appropriate to study the holocaust. Camp girl said she knew a lot about it, had read Anne Frank’s diary, and was basically raring to go. Others thought they were ready. One or two laughed. I told them that people often don’t know how to react to something emotional and laugher naturally comes up.

An hour and a half straight was just too darn long for them. They got incredibly punchy. They are so well trained to raise their hands and ask to go to the bathroom that I had to tell them – just go. Look around the room, see who’s there, and use your judgment – just don’t lollygag for an hour. They seemed to dig that – and it spared breaking the conversational flow with a suddenly enthusiastic hand thrust upwards like Horshack in “Welcome Back Kotter.”

I found myself gritting my teeth as the time wore on. It didn’t help that my Blackberry was freaking out and I couldn’t look at it because the principal had asked them to turn off all cell phones.

In the past, I never had enough material. Here between the bathroom questions, shushing the kids, and wanting to test their knowledge – there was a slower pace. Aside from making the mistake of mentioning the word “sex” among the things that people have to refrain from on Yom Kippur it went well. There were titters and “you can’t say that.” And I shouldn’t have. My heart skipped a beat, thinking I’d be on my ass faster that I thought.

At 8:58 the kids asked if we were done. I glanced at my phone. Confirmed the time, and wished them an easy fast. I turned to the assistant director and mentioned how punchy they were. She nodded in agreement.

At home, M asked if she could help set up my classroom – place all the toys where they need to go. She asked if they raised their hands. She wanted to know if all the kids were nice to me. Of course, the full time student in the house would have a real understand of what it was like to be in the classroom and just be starting the year. I gave her a huge hug, read some books and put her to bed.

The adrenaline from a job almost done well flushed out quickly and exhaustion lashed me. I paced myself like the experienced runner I am – it’s a long school year. G-d willing I won’t get invited to too many B’nei Mitzvah.

grey matter

2010-09-13T19:25:00.001-07:00

Why did I buy a house again? The world seems to use the playground across the street as a park everyday of the week – which can mean early morning basketball or teenagers at dusk. I did get to whip out the wok and actually cook my first real meal for myself that didn’t involve the microwave in three and a half years. However that moment was daunted as M’s bath apparently drained into the kitchen sink and perhaps leaked a bit from the ceiling. We’ve been here a month and this is her second bath. I suspected there was a problem after her first bath when some grey matter appeared in the kitchen sink. But – lack of baths at this location – and other priorities took precedence. Of course, it leaked over the sink onto the floor. Sweeping water into a dustpan - not a great solution. As I placed sopping wet towels into the washing machine - I noticed my contractor's wet vac and got to work...not before stepping into a basement puddle. This wasn't water though -- it was Finlay the floor guy's gift -- hardwood polish which had eaten through it's plastic bottle and bag and leaked onto the floor.

I did ask M rhethorically “why I bought a house” as we cruised past our old building two days in a row to get to the city for activities. She said “I love our house daddy.” What does she love about our house? “It’s our’s, Aba.”

That said, tomorrow I’ll be back in front of a class for the first time in three years. Yup, I’m strapping on the Master’s in Education and heading back to the blackboard jungle. The reasoning is both financial and mental. It’s time to use the grey matter for something more. As if parenting, owning/organizing a home/my day job weren’t enough of a challenge – I’m taking on more. And there will be a marathon or two and a fifth birthday party in the next few weeks to boot.

I don’t know that I’ve missed teaching. My last year of it was rough. We lost the educational director who hired me in a mysterious manner. Two teachers took over at various points whilst my divorce proceeded and I took the wrong side of several issues with a contentious school board. So when my contract wasn’t renewed/I didn’t pursue a new contract – no one seemed to mind. I’d actually had a few really sharp and amazing classes. You know the ones like an amazing point in tennis – there’s back and forth, the audience on the edge of their seats, cheering for both players as they thrust, parries, and return shots. The conversation just gelled and the students grasped the ideas and ran with them.

A friend suggested I look into it again. Perhaps she saw a longing for something more intellectual. Perhaps not. Serendipitously there was an ad in the local paper that I happened to glance at that week (M was home and I picked it up at her school); applied; interviewed; and negotiated. We renegotiated and there I was offered seventh grade holocaust and fifth grade ethics.

I’ve ordered posters that might be appropriate for a college dorm – Seinfeld cast; Marx Brothers; Albert Einstein “Imagination is more important than knowledge” quote; John Lennon “Give Peace a Chance”; and a Warhol print. This puts me $60 in the hole before I even teach a class. Plus there’s a babysitting fee for tomorrow night and it will take the second session of work before I actually earn money. But hey, it’s worth it if only to distract me from the unopened boxes at home; bizarre drainage issue; and need to jump-start my brain again. When the classes are good – I find I fire on all cylinders in other aspects of my life. Save for sleep.

Choose Your Own Adventure

2010-09-06T19:19:00.001-07:00

As a kid the night before returning to school was always a mix of trepidation, excitement, and annoyance. Middle school brought on the most nerves. The combination of sixth through eighth grade in one building a year after moving to a new town, starting at a new overnight camp, and a foreign language was rough. All the friends I’d made in fifth grade were dispersed to other classes. I was left with a camp friend who I didn’t even like that much – he quickly found his way to the back of the school and smoker/tough kids.

My favorite books – best escape – at the time was the “Choose Your Own Adventure” series. Very simply the reader would be a cave explorer, spelunking around, and at the bottom of the page have to decide – do you follow the strange signs that point to gold in the dark passage of the cave or try to find the mysterious stranger with the million dollar bounty on their head. Page after page you’d be left to make a choice and skip ahead or back depending on your choice. They were good books, easy reads, but way more exciting than studying French.

As a parent school is a mixed bag. The summer schedule is pretty easy to get used to. A kid for a week or two – then no kid for a week or two. Sure there’s lots of car time but still there’s nothing better than dedicated kid/parent time. The non-summer schedule is crazy – day here, few days off, days on, days off. It’s like a US Open match with neck snapping frenzy and excessively uncomfortable facial hair. When I have her, I tend to forgo shaving.

However, it really is nice to have M settled into the house and looking at it as her home. We have a choice of parks – the one across the street from our house, or the one two blocks away that she biked to today. Everyday brings a new skill – the fire pole or the monkey bars with little to no help.

Eventually school will begin. We explored the JCC today to find the classroom with her name on it. Upstairs in an un-numbered door we saw her name. The door opened and there were the games, brand new crayons, cubbies, and chore board. M will be a door holder the first week of school – versus line leader, snack helper, or something else. I didn’t recognize any of the other student names. But it’s nice that the music of Mattisyahu is inspiring parents to inspire kid's names. Assuredly there’s a Queen Latifah or Eminem in some elementary school either down the block or in a town near you.

It was strange walking by M’s old class and not seeing her name on the door. Tomorrow we have a meet the teacher and other parent’s night. We’ve been through several of them. They’ll pitch us on the parent committees like Yearbook, being a class parent (hitting other parents up for money), and explain how amazing the pre-K program is. It is. We did it last year. I feel like I’m being left back – even though I know it’s the right thing for M. Living right across the street from an elementary school will flaunt that decision in my face everyday – especially on days when I don’t have M and have to navigate the idling SUVs and mini-vans or the no turns onto my street between 8 and 4.

Being part of a JCC school means we have a really long adjustment period – especially with early Jewish holidays. From parent’s night, she goes to school for an hour on Wednesday and then half a day on Monday. It makes for a very tedious adjustment period – especially for a kid who’s been in some sort of program since four months old.

Still she has new shoes, clothes – just as I did as a kid. I’m sure there’s some trepidation on her part. Although she did tell me she didn’t like her best friend last year (they had a wealth of play dates) because she followed M. I explained that it meant her friend liked her and wanted to spend time with her at school, that it was a good thing. I imagined every woman I’ve ever told I didn’t want to make a commitment laughing her ass off at my parent/child predicament. You reap what you sow, old boy.

There’s nothing like new shoes and clothes. The kid is growing. Her Little Mermaid swimsuit actually fits her now…no more sag in the private part area. She’s a bit of a sassafras. Telling me after driving back from the pool that her car seat was wet – due to a not making it to the bathroom in time accident – and that she had to sit in the brand new booster seat that I’m not sure I want to keep. Hell, the girl sees an opportunity – she’s going to take it. Good for her. She’s choosing her own adventure – within the appropriate limitations.

Musical Chairs

2010-09-02T16:59:00.001-07:00

Strange as this sounds – the new house didn’t feel like mine until I saw the address on a freshly minted driver’s license. Getting the license, not so easy but then again who doesn’t love a day at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Armed with my six points of ID (passport, social security card, utility bill, and NY license) off I trod.

Crippled by the economic downturn, the NJ DMV is only open four days a week. This makes for longer lines, surlier people, and ample time to participate in work conference calls. I wouldn’t have even bothered getting a license – except for the inconvenience of being pulled over recently and being told by the nice officer that I was clearly lying when I said I didn’t have a NJ license. Silly me thought with all this modern technology that when you turn in a license from one state – your “account” in the old state is cancelled. At least in NJ it isn’t. And of course, the only reason I got a NY license was because the gatekeeper at my co-op forced me in order to get a parking pass. Don’t you love bureaucracy? Especially the kind where the logic makes sense to no one.

An elderly man was standing in front of the DMV directing traffic. This was the same location I came to some eight years ago to initially get a NJ license. Then we also had to show an array of personal identification and take a test to prove we knew how to operate a vehicle. The questions ranged from what a stop sign looks like to how many feet in advance one must signal for a turn. I paused today wondering if I was going to have to re-take the test. I didn’t. I just had to wait on line behind an incredibly aromatic gentleman and fill out two forms. No pen. A neighbor lent me one.

We were shuffled in four at a time and told to follow the green line. At the end of the line was someone who looked at my forms and checked my identification. He then placed my documentation into a dog-eared envelope and put me in a second line to also look at the forms, check additional items, and verify the documentation. From there I was ordered into a row of chairs and told to move along the row as the people in front of me advanced – also on chairs.

The line marshals made sure we proceeded orderly up the row and down another, envelopes in hand, and mindful of the no cell phone signage. I haven’t played musical chairs since I was a kid. But there we were moving from chair to chair, warily keeping an eye on our place in line, advancing to another room with fewer chairs. Eventually when the chairs ran out – we were closer to another set of windows and authorities.

They summoned me forth, reviewed my documentation, and kindly informed me that I could only get a license valid for three years because I had a pre-existing NJ license. “Fine,” I replied, and verified that I was an organ donor and registered to vote. For the first time in my life, I didn’t declare a political affiliation. This means I’ll be on everyone’s mailing lists and receive a barrage of never to be read marketing materials vouching for this candidate or that issue.

“Do you have to take a photo?” I asked mindful of my t-shirt, shorts, and four days of facial hair – not to mention a wonderful little eye issue.

“Not at all. You can use your old one.”

“Excellent,” I replied. “I had way more hair back then.”

“We’ll call your name.” I forked over my $11 and my old license plates. Momentarily, they called my name and there it was…my official documentation of actually living in New Jersey, replete with two fuzzy photos of a chubby cheeked dude. To think, I only have to wait three more years until I get to experience this all over again.

The irony of the traffic tickets was the defense lawyers got my address right – even though the state had me living at my original NJ address. Maybe I’ll actually hire one to fight the next ticket off. Knock wood I won’t actually get one for a while.

red moon rising

2010-08-26T18:16:00.001-07:00

A red moon means there is a high concentration of particles in the air, such as dust and smoke. These particles “scatter” away the short and intermediate wavelengths of light (violet, blue and yellow), leaving only the longer wavelengths (orange and red) to reach our eyes. A red moon does not mean there is a change coming in the weather.

Today was a unique day. A perfect beach day. No humidity. Unnoticeable wind. My first run in almost three weeks – due to moving and injury recovery. Four kids (age six and under) playing somewhat unsupervised for almost ninety minutes. And two four year olds having the time of their life playing Pre-K Swimming Class and Princess Swimming for several hours in a pool. Then the piled into the bath with their almost two year old sister/cousin alternating with their six year old brother/cousin.

My brothers and I didn’t play that nicely. We’d battle pretty well with words or arms. There were factions that formed and waged war together – temporarily. In the end as long as achieved our individual aim – life was good. To that degree, nothing has changed.

It’s taken several years for these particular kids to play well. That and lots of time together. Like any relationships the chemistry and astrology has to be aligned. Today is was. And honestly it was insanely nice.

While they played – supervised at first by Grandma – their mother could study for her professional tests and I could cruise the web and then leave the house altogether to get my favorite beach sandwich. I’ve left before under similar supervision (or lack thereof) and had a cousin taunt M – “your daddy left” leaving her in tears.

Of course, once my family went to Disney World and left me with my cousins in Teaneck. Apparently this is how my potty training was finalized, as my aunt wouldn’t take me in diapers. I don’t believe there was any associated taunting with my diapers or not going to Disney until years later. But seriously what family goes to Disney and leaves a kid at home? F*ckers! M’s generation (her cousins) have said to one another they won’t go to Disney until their almost two-year-old sister is old enough to appreciate it.

M’s turned into a water kid. Much as I can figure she spent at least everyday this summer in a pool, lake, or ocean. That’s pretty amazing. While her cousins had their swim lessons this morning, we wandered over to the ocean and played our “don’t cross the line” game. We draw a line in the sand and tell the ocean not to cross it. Invariable the ocean doesn’t listen and our toes and ankles – get sopping wet. M will giggle into hysterics and increasingly get more daring and go deeper. I’ve learned to only play the game with no electronic devices on hand.

We turned around and swam together in the pool. Afterwards she abandoned me to supervise and play with her cousins. I felt no inclination to run upstairs and attend to any shrieks or disturbances. The kid is four. She’s been in school with other kids since four months. She can handle herself.

After lunch the kids retired to the television room and figured out to manipulate the DVR so they could watch whatever show they wanted. And then they snuck on another episode. One of my brothers always dominates group television time. Thank god for the internet, laptops, books, and other rooms so we aren’t subjected to his latest bad movie downloaded from the web or 60 Minutes segment only he cares about. It’s been this way my entire life. There are 200 or so VHS videotapes stored in a cabinet in the house filled with episodes of television and movies from the decades of his life. Never watched but collecting dust. When we first got cable – he picked the shows. When we got a VCR – it was his shows taping. We know where all those tapes are. At least today there was no fighting for the remote or choice of show.

This evening at 8:03 or so, a red moon rose to the east. An astrological event of astounding beauty. Cameras were set up with telephoto lenses to capture the moment. We witnessed it while listening to horrendously bad/near karaoke singing at the Beach Hut. M and her girl cousins danced about to sixties tunes rendered with muzak CD accompaniment. It was free and the view was incredible – the ocean, the moon. Hard to complain. I’ll take a red moon and amazing beach day that allows me to read my book (Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest) largely uninterrupted – no settling squabbles or watching girls swim from the deck - any time.

Some say this about the red moon: “The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.” - Joel 2:31

Tomorrow my other two brothers arrive with M’s oldest cousin and his little brother to-be (four months or so). My second oldest brother will arrive with a friend. The house will be teeming with a different chemistry. I don’t remember the last time the whole clan has been in one area code. At least with the additional adults I’m sure to finish my book. And there are seven beers in the fridge – that should help. Plus M and/or I could walk to the beach or get another of that favorite sandwich. Hopefully another red moon will rise for easy family chemistry.

in good company

2010-08-25T18:18:00.001-07:00

Sat in the playground watching M and my college friend’s son running around. The son – W – is almost two. M asked him to sit on a two person spring propelled apparatus. He complied. She was in hog heaven – ordering someone somewhat compliant around. R – W’s mom – and I sat watching. With a pre-schooler and toddler we didn’t have to get up and organize – just keep an eye out for danger. W took a car and ran through the playground. It was a happy afternoon. At no point did I feel wistful for what I didn’t have – a sibling for M. The thought of early wake ups for bottles and diapers appeals to me on no level. Not to mention the cost.

Instead I was able to appreciate two kids playing carefree. They swam, splashed, swung, climbed, twirled, and hung out. Which is pretty much what R and I did when we met in college and have done in the decades since. It’s nice that we are a few towns over from one another.

Catching up with her was great. It’d been about a month since we walked around a relatively new Bergen County park and chatted. When you have a history with someone, it’s easy to just gel right back into the shorthand of the friendship. The comfort is gratifying and relaxing.

After weeks of packing, moving, planning, worrying, and adjusting – it was nice to just have a day. The kids played. We talked. R offered to help organize and I demurred. Where’s the fun in planning whether the same box of unpublished manuscripts goes in the attic or stands out like a bad tattoo on an office bookshelf? I can do that one night when M is with her mom or after she falls asleep. It was more fun to just take the time.

Catching up is a lost art. People naturally think that a Facebook status is enough. Or a text message about a delay or blow off is enough. Actually having face time – two friends together for a span of several hours – is where it’s at. Listening, talking, laughing in person beats the hell out of a tweet or status update. How many people on your Facebook list have you actually spoken to in the last year? Five years? Ten? Twenty?

Later I spent the evening in the city having dinner with two male friends. I can’t tell you the last time we hung without spouse(s) or children. The digs and old jokes were pretty much there from moment one. Each of us navigating our role, supportive, joshing, set up man over the course of a few drinks and a weak meal. Sure we talked about kids and compared electronic devices – but largely we were left to our original devices – the connection of knowing and loving one another for over a decade.

Just as reading books with M, flailing about the pool, holding hands as we navigate a supermarket is important. Leaving her with a sitter and getting out of the house is more necessary for both of us. Too often I feel the pangs of guilt as I awkwardly leave her with teacher or counselor and she bursts into tears as I pull away. Those mornings dampen an entire day. One can’t be everywhere at once. Can’t please everybody? Not going to work would definitely put a crimp in my slurpee fund.

Honestly, taking the time was really good. I don’t do it enough. That probably sounds ludicrous. I’m a divorced day. I should want to spend all the time I can with my daughter. And usually I do. This summer has been one of perpetual motion and emotion. Up to the Berkshires, down to New Jersey, sideways to the Hamptons. Pack. Unpack. Work trips. It adds up into a collective holy shit parade of inadequacy. Lack of time and energy stretch the not dones on the to-do list even longer. Hell, it stares at me every day. The sprawl of boxes up ended into a total lack of organization in my bedroom and office. M’s room is set. The kitchen is mostly pretty well organized. Living room and playroom are copacetic except for a dire vacuum need. Bathroom chaos. It will get done. Eventually.

Taking the day was necessary. M got quality time with me, friends, the pool and playground, and her cousin/babysitter. She even introduced W and his mom to the head of early childhood program at the JCC. Although she did forget R’s name. And I got a glimpse of two parents, two kids in action. There were hand offs and rescues. No injuries and a lot of fun.

But at the end of the day, I got necessary me time. Yes, there was the rush home to actually get M to sleep. How many of us take me time? Really say to ourselves I need this for myself. Worse I’m out of practice. I kept one eye on the cell phone the entire evening.

If guilt is like the blind folded justice scale – then I have some work to do. In the end, I go to have a not so good drink but an amazing re-connection with friends. Parents set examples and models. Tonight, we finger-painted. And now, we’ll have a new work of art to frame and hang in the house. My model is have fun, have friends, have a full life. It’s a careful balance to maintain a robust life. Too easy we think – there’s an app for that and download a facsimile of something resembling usefulness, fulfillment, and time occupation. I’ll stick with the original models – living, thinking, laughing humans.

Force of Nature

2010-08-15T19:17:00.001-07:00

It is really nice having family in the area. When I lived on Long Island, I had my mother down the block. It was amazing for both M and my mother to hang out as much as I did. Moving back to New Jersey was tough so being so close to two relations is nice….especially with one in the same town.

Yesterday, my cousin came over to view the house. She’d seen it once before without all the carpet ripped and scowled at the yellow paint. She basically rebuilt her house so she knows design, construction, organization, and determination. While one cousin cooed with gentle suggestions, this one arrived with her daughter and began to tear through the downstairs. She bee lined to the kitchen saw utensils on the counter, told me to bolt down the shelving unit in the pantry, and began the interrogation.

Do you need this? What is this? Why is this here? Drawers were reorganized. Utensils repositioned. Sippy cups questioned (the amount – way too many). Specific silverware for M questioned (she’s almost five). Things were thrown away. My job was to watch her daughter. In moments, the kitchen was transformed. Clutter disappeared. Food was all in the pantry – no condiments or anything else on top of the fridge. The room began to make sense and was actually appealing. One could actually prepare a meal in it and eat with satisfaction and potential enjoyment.

We moved the dining room table into the actual center of the dining room. It’s actually a 4 x 6 table with four chairs that will eventually make way for a real table…like in four to six years. The plants migrated to the mantle. Newspapers, magazines and mail flew to one area. Furniture shifted. M’s playroom was largely left alone.

I was proud of the work I’d put into M’s actual bedroom. It was organized. The clothes were meticulously sorted. Fall/winter gear was on the top shelf of the closet. Daily dresses hanging neatly in a row. Bathing suits on their own shelf. The books were nicely arranged in their shelves. The cousin grabbed a bag of dolls and arranged them about the room. The dolls were from her own childhood – so M actually playing and loving them would be a big deal, as her own daughter wouldn’t truly appreciate them given a raw genetic flaw that renders her extremely special needs.

M’s bed was just a sheet, her silkies, a bed skirt, and her Dora comforter. Cousin grabbed a real comforter, pillows, and made the bed. Her daughter sat on it happily.

In an hour the house was transformed. I had a list of things to purchase – organizational and shelving items from The Container Store. More importantly there was order. If the system could live for more than one day – it would stick. So far – food is still in the pantry. Dishes are cleaned during M’s tv time and stuck in the dishwasher. The kitchen floor still needs to be cleaned – perhaps tomorrow while I’m waiting for the stair carpet to be installed. I also need to run laundry. And there are all those boxes in my office, the dining room, and my bedroom to go through. Top priority – the frying pan used for M’s precious scrambled eggs has gone missing. It was probably banished to the basement mistakenly. Now if only I could get the Tivo and Cablevision to be friends, my evening will be complete.

However, exhaustion has set in. As psyched as M was for the new home – lots of questions about the move process. “So they took the bed apart in the apartment and put it back together in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Holy smokes!” She awoke at two, crawled into bed with me, and then asked every five minutes if it was time to wake up. This lasted until three. Just as I hit a deep sleep, she’d wake me. I yo-yo’d through the night. Finally she went down and awoke to complain about the crickets chirping.

Having her home was like Hanukah in August…an amazing present. I’ve always contended home is wherever Eema or I are for her. With all the deitrus, the simple parental act of love is often enough to carry me. It sounds like pablum – but honestly, it isn’t. The wealth of kisses and hugs received everyday, plus the “I love you”s carries the day. Ask any parent. No matter what kind of day you have – it’s always better with little arms secured around your neck and shoulders, snuggling close against your heart. Parent/child love is a whole other force of nature.

Goodbye Bachelor Pad

2010-08-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

I closed the door on “The Tower”- my home for the past ten months – along the banks of the Hudson River. Yesterday, I moved into my house. It’s impossible to call a home with a pink room a bachelor pad. With any luck, this will be my last move for at least thirteen years – it can be shorter than that but not by anything less than a decade.

Moves are a lot of work. There’s packing, arranging a mover, and then locating all your stuff once you’ve arrived and begun unpacking. Today was a tough unpack. I thought I’d cruise the neighborhood to the bagel store this morning. Arrival was actually easy – got there within three minutes – even with a traffic light. My riding into a car marred the return voyage. This guy was making a left turn – a really lugubrious left turn and I rammed my front wheel into his back wheel. I was fine, his car was fine. There were even witnesses. He drove off and I tended to the bike – flipped chain (no big deal), misaligned handlebars. I ambled the bike home, gingerly testing the brakes (no problem) and askew steering. Could have been worse.

I ran some quick errands and then headed to The Tower for the remainder of my stuff. It’s hard to believe how much stuff M and I have. Every work of art M generates can’t be saved. Nor can I hang onto books, clothes, and papers that haven’t been glanced at because they’ve lingered in boxes. I opened every drawer and closet to ensure I got everything. Several trips later – it was loaded into the car and I was ready to turn into the keys.

Home Justification Section AKA Lengthy Rationalization You’ve Heard Before

The Tower was a tremendous apartment – two bedrooms and bathrooms, decent kitchen, washer/dryer in unit, playground, tennis court, bar-b-ques, open space, and a terrace – gym, indoor and outdoor pool. I’d have stayed longer if not for pesky neighbors and an annoying commute to get M to school. My commute was tremendous – bus or ferry, even the occasional drive with easy access to both the bridge and tunnel. However, I had the cash to purchase and I didn’t want to risk it in the market. Plus my neighbor was truly annoying this winter with a too loud television turning the shared wall into a bass drum. Not to mention their smoke drifting into my apartment and their parties – despite firm denials of having a stereo. In any event, I bought a home for less than Eema and I did in the same town back in 2002.

The superintendent did a cursory inspection…he opened the fridge and said, “Clean it.” He told me to clean the glass on the shower. My first thought was “hey don’t you recognize me as the guy who’s really nice to your differently abilities son at the pool?” Then I realized I’m going to get hit with a cleaning charge anyway. But I grabbed some cleaning stuff from the car and rubbed down the fridge and shower door. I can only hope my security check is large enough to cover the appliances and Home Depot bills.

The nice part of living in the Tower was no matter how my day – there was always someone there to greet me. Depending on the concierge – there was a warm smile, a critique of either my running gear or length or work out, a conversation, or avoidance of the mailbox area to avoid conversation. M, in particular, developed a real rapport with one of the concierges and I promised we’d stop by to say hello. To counter the lack of formal greeting in the house – I inflated a three-foot dinosaur I got at a trade show. He/she sits in the living room window – hopefully scaring off the neighbor’s cat, which likes to hang on my stoop. I’ll need to research some sort of cat scare off substance.

The move itself was pretty basic. Loading and unloading – very straight forward. Four guys – two altogether too talkative – one of whom spied a picture of M and broke out into a horrendous version of “Tommorow” and decried her the next “Annie.” To conserve cash, I tipped them with gift cards left over from last year’s New York Marathon (I was “paid” to run by a television show about people over a certain age) and holiday tips not given to Tower staff.

A friend recommended setting up my bedroom and the kitchen first to make it seem like home. I generally followed that advice – although I did spent a good portion of the evening frantically searching for my toothbrush, Tivo, and phone charger. All turned up today – exactly where I didn’t expect them.

My cousin came over to assist with organization. She’s a professional organizer. I’m a professional disorganizer…at least at home. After three years of things just being in place long enough for me to get used to where they are – it’s nice to have the inkling of long term, practical organization. She methodically made me sort and go through boxes, pointing out reasonable solutions about what to put where to clear a path and straighten the room out. And soon enough – the kitchen and pantry (hopeful power room) were in place. Sears showed up and swiftly installed the washer/dryer.

The electrician arrived today as well to handle overhead lights, ceiling fans, and outlets. Had I a brain in my head – I’d have had him start with the ceiling fans. However, my limited knowledge of electrical items coupled with his descriptions of the shopping list was like a game of telephone. So I purchased a few wrong things and now have working inset lights in the living room – but no ceiling fan in mine or M’s rooms’….and the air conditioners are in the basement.

Tonight – I found my official toothbrush and set up a bookshelf. I also cleaned the shower and celebrated with a good long shower. Note to self – set up water company service. Tomorrow I’ll do a quick bike ride to my doctor, drop the bike at the repair shop, and then head to work. The place is coming along. At some point, I’ll even email a change of address. For now, my teeth really need a good long cleaning. With any luck the neighborhood dogs won’t bark too loudly tonight – they disharmonious with all the crickets. The nice part of the house – I can play my music loud – and so far no complaints. Goodbye bachelor pad. Hello single parent abode.

Floored

2010-08-06T18:05:00.001-07:00

The day I closed on the house, I drove over and following my habit of occupancy placed something of M’s in her room – a watch from a fast food joint. Nerves wracked me so I was in and out in under a minute – stopping only to figure out how to turn off the alarm. The amount of work to be done was overwhelming. I imagined swimming in low cash and having too much on the punch list.

Since the government tax credits ran out every contractor, electrician, painter, roofer, floorer, etc is busy beyond belief. The floors were the biggest effort so I started there – ripping carpet and pulling out nails and tack board.

I hit the internet and made a list of local floor guys. My criteria for any vendor is show up on time – or call with a reasonable excuse, don’t ask to use my bathroom, and have a quote that’s within my best estimate. Appointments were made but only two vendors actually bothered to show up.

Bathing in sweat and covered with dust – I paused to answer the phone. “This is Mrs. Finlay of Finlay Flooring. I’m sorry but my husband will be a little delayed. He’s waiting for the cable people.” I stifled a laugh. Even vendors have to wait for vendors…especially for the cable guy. She had a sweet Irish accent. I could picture them sitting on their porch rocking in chairs waiting for shepherd’s pie to cool.

Awhile later, Mr. Finlay showed up. He did a detailed walk through, observing the minutiae – holes from removed radiators, scratches, missing floorboards. We talked stains. Or at least he did. I just nodded. Stairs and moldings would be extra. His estimate was reasonable. Even better he could fit me in shortly.

The next vendor called to confirm that he was a few minutes away. He was a portly chap with business cards. Upon entering the premises, he asked to use the facility. He couldn’t even give me a written estimate on the spot – I’d have to wait a few days. When I did get it, the price was twice Finlay’s.

Some say I take the easy way out, but I didn’t bother calling Finlay’s references. I just had a good feeling about him and went with my gut. Besides what vendor is going to give me the number of someone who was dissatisfied with his or her work? Yes, I could have called and asked an array of questions – was he prompt; clean; efficient; on target with the estimate. Wanting the work done quickly definitely promoted rashness. What’s life without a bit of gambling?

The appointed day arrived. Finlay didn’t ask for cash upfront so that was even better. I opened the door, handed his guys a key, and went to work. There was nothing in the house except my tools, suit pants, and a dress shirt. And there wasn’t a prayer in the world that I’d sit around listening to high impact and noisy sanding.

I showed up a day or so later and was amazed at how clean the raw wood looked. The house looked so much brighter and cheerier I really wanted to go with a lighter stain and risk it not matching the downstairs moldings and stairs. I got talked out of it.

After dropping M back at camp, I stopped by the house and checked out the floors. The upstairs was stained and looking good. After another few days, Finlay called, he was done and wanted to meet with me. We made a date.

I got there on time and was amazed. The floors gleamed. Sunglasses might have been appropriate. I stepped around gingerly, not sure I could actually step on the wood. I grabbed my tools and got to work on the steps removing padding and tack board – so they could be re-carpeted.

Finlay showed up. “Amazing,” I said, “just amazing. Feel free to use me as a reference.”

“Thank you,” he said modestly. “We aim to please” and he handed me a container of floor cleaner and explained how to use it and with what sort of mop. He indicated high traffic areas that would benefit from an area rug and walked around inspecting, ensuring the work was done to his satisfaction.

I wrote out the check. He marked the invoice paid. His estimate was on the mark – the final bill was a bit higher because of sales tax and my adding molding to the task. Besides the cleaner, he knocked a few bucks off the final bill.

I thanked him again. “You a runner?” he asked – pointing to the sopping sweat race t-shirt I wore.

“Yes. Are you?”

“I’ve done a races. Not so much in this weather. Did the New York marathon in 2007.”

“Me too.”

“Look over your shoulder next time, might be me coming up behind you.” I smiled and shook his hand. My floors look amazing. And my gut was completely right. Better yet – rooms are starting to take shape in my head. The place may end up looking like home yet.

Uncle

2010-08-05T21:29:00.001-07:00

I am mere days away from my latest move. Once again my possessions and me will physically be transported elsewhere. If only it were as easy as “Star Trek” with someone saying “Beam my up, Scotty.” It’s not. It means boxes (I have plenty), sorting, throwing out/recycling, giving away, and packing.

I am altogether used to moving. College prepared me for it. We attended a thirteen-week semester, took winter break and a two-month job/internship, returned for another thirteen-week semester, and retreated for the summer. Our stuff came with us each and every time.

Post-college, I moved home, then to Los Angeles (three months), home, and a bunch of apartments in the city up and down the west side. Throw in a girlfriend/fiancée/wife and there were more moves. At this point – all I should own is a few pairs of underwear, sensible shoes, some running stuff, and work/play clothes – enough to put in a single bag. Instead – there are suits from when a boss dictated suits everyday…now they are worn on high holidays and special occasions. Loads of t-shirts from races run and un-run. Three kinds of socks – play, running, and work. Books – mostly for M – mine have all been sold off, except for keepsakes and ones I love. Tivos – for DirectTV and regular old television. Wedding albums, a ketubah (marriage contract), and assorted photos. Lots of kitchen stuff, and furniture that’s been around the block. Stuff. It’s all just stuff, collected from various rest stops along the way.

It would be awesome if all our stuff could be shrunk down and placed in a pocket – just add water and shazam – it’s full size and in pristine condition to boot. Looking around at all the stuff crammed into closets and drawers – it’s time to give away more stuff. Like the suits. And time to either scan or burn old letters…there’s only so many times the same box of old scribblings can be schlepped around.

In 2007, when our house was sold, I came home from work one day and Eema’s stuff had been moved. It was scheduled but what was once a home was now half empty. The dining room – empty. Playroom – had toys but no couch. Master bedroom adorned with a single dresser. Only M’s room and mine were populated with full furnishings. Houses take on the personalities of their owners – reflections indicated in furnishing and décor. Mine that day was lobotomized, scarred for life…or at least the three days until I moved out.

The stucco-plastered walls of my new place will take on some personality. The floors are newly sanded and stained. Eventually lighting will be improved. There may even be a second bathroom or half bath. The kitchen too will get an upgrade…someday.

I wave the white flag of surrender. This must be my last move until M graduates high school or by some miracle love plops itself down in my lap and more people populate the premises.

In the meantime, there’s a television/phone/internet provider to choose; a mover to select; and rooms to pack. Unpacking and organization will be done orderly – M’s room and my room. I’ll retrieve M and our new house will evolve into a home, with laughter, adventure, scrambled eggs, and a whole lot of love.

Past & Passing

2010-08-03T10:17:00.000-07:00

M and I were playing on the beach, building a castle of some sort. My Crackberry slipped out of my shorts. I picked it up and slyly checked the messages. My brother wrote to tell of his wife’s father’s passing. I forwarded the email to Eema. And then I called my brother. A gaggle of camper’s ran up to M, wanting their daily high fives. I scooped her up into a chair, away from them. “She’s on the phone” one of them whispered.

It’s been a year a half (luckily. Knock wood) since my last funeral. That occasion was for the last of my maternal grandmother’s sisters. We’d been working on a family history which I honestly need to revisit because it’s been at least two years since my last stab at it.

I knew my sister in law’s dad. He was a good guy. Jovial, good natured. I’d been to his apartment, shared a few meals (super bowl, wedding, father’s/mother’s days, bris).

My father, his wife, and I drove to the funeral service together. It was on the Rego Park/Forest Hills Queens border on a stifling hot July day. We worried over parking at a meter, despite the funeral home having valets. There I stood digging for quarters, traffic rumbling by, searching for the appropriate mood. We weren’t close, the deceased and I. We were friendly, familiar, recipients of the weekly round of photos from my brother. He’d been in increasingly poor health over the past few years, in and out of hospitals and finally settling in a 24 hour care/home. I could image his energy and personality slowly dissipating as time passed. My sister in law and brother had described it in their own inimitable manners.

I greeted my friend (the deceased’s granddaughter and niece of my sister in law) and her husband. “I’m sorry” is such a lame thing to say but it is everyone’s standard line. “How are you?” I asked hugging her. She did the shrug which indicated “as well as can be expected.” “He’d had a good life except for the last few years,” she said. I nodded. She asked about the house. I shrugged which indicated “yup, not my smartest decision.”

My cousins were there, as were my nephew, my brother’s creepy friend who writes for Mad magazine, much of my sister in law’s family, and slowly but surely all of my brothers, my mom and husband, and another cousin. I was impressed at my family’s turnout. It’s good to know we can do the right thing when it counts and actually stand up for one another.

The great myth of death is that it brings people closer together. And for a time – the week of Shiva (public mourning) – it does. The saying of the Kaddish in synagogue binds us temporally to a community of supporters. Having that support – the casual conversation of parking, homes, kids – temporarily shifts thoughts/conversation from the deceased. We know life goes on.

Divorce is a kind of death – though there’s no funeral. Just mourning. Gradually the pain evaporates as time and life pass. But death – the passing of family or friend – that’s the big ticket.

As I sat listening to my sister in law, friend, and two other grandchildren eulogize their relative, I thought about other funerals I’d been to. I sat next to my nephew in the second row. He had a smile on his face as he played with his fidgit toys and looked at photos of his grandfather from the navy and his parents wedding. My mind drifted to my own funeral wondering if I’d be able to witness it or just dictate terms while still present. Isn’t it human to ponder one’s mortality at a ceremony of this sort? To wonder if the “we should get together and…” that frequents these occasions actualize.

Later, bypassing the burial, my father and I lunched. We commented on the speeches, agreeing about the character of the man portrayed and quality of delivery/writing. We also agreed on the affability of the deceased.

I asked if he’d heard from his brother. He paused, forked some salad, “No.” Once, a few years ago, my oldest brother remarked that he and I were going to be the “dad and uncle” of our generation…not talking much or talking through third parties. That sentiment has largely passed but it does weigh on me occasionally. I believe it was the announcement of my divorce that drew us closer again. Or just trying.

My dad suggested an occasion “like your new house” where everyone could gather. But I wondered the likelihood of his brother making the drive from South Jersey. He might. They’ve got to be cognizant of time past and passing. When we lived in Jersey we saw that side of the family often, then just for bar mitzvahs, weddings, a house warming, engagement party, and occasional lunch in the city, and via Facebook updates/commentary.

Upon returning the office, I learned of the passing of my boss’s father. A few days later some co-workers and I took the train, met a fourth co-worker, and drove to the wake. There his father law, American flag folded to represent his years of military service, family photo collages adorning easels, and scrolling on-screen. My boss gave me a hug and thanked me for coming. I was wordless, listening to him talk about a man I didn’t know. One co-worker scanned the room for blackmail photos. Others greeted his family. There was talk of trips abroad, how far the funeral home was from anything but where his parent’s reside, recovery from coma, and a little bit of work. We stayed an appropriate amount of time and shuffled back to the city.

I called my kid, told her I loved her. Called my best friends, did the same. Hung out with my cousins who I haven’t spent much time left despite frequently parking on their street this year when dropping off M at school. It’s living but connecting/reconnecting, tying the bonds a bit tighter.

Discussed my unwritten will with its executor who cringed and deflected the duty to his wife. “No,” I said, “I need someone hates more than me to do this.” Why hate? My requests aren’t so heinous or difficult. It lies in protection of my daughter and her assets, ensuring my voice is heard in future decisions (financial, educational, provisioning). I direct this hate to the task, not a person. There is always gritting of teeth and negotiating. To hate the task indicates respect of the challenge; fueling the effort; ensuring. It sounds cruel but is necessary and in similar circumstances I would return the favor. Cold logic rules the day. May we all outlive said hate.

And you are?

2010-08-03T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have no memory for names. It’s embarrassing but I went whole semesters of teaching not remembering every student’s name. That’s where nicknames or terms like “dude” or “you” and pointing at a kid came in handy. Some would say that was indicative of not caring about my job or the students. Call it a professional and personal liability. We all have them. Once I know the name – have said it; referred to the person to a third party; and get to know them fully – there’s no problem.

I’ve got neighbors on both sides of my house. Each has kids and a seemingly happy marriage. The neighbor on the left offered tools and drinks upon introducing himself and one of his however many kids. His lawn is green and immaculate. His garden is thriving. Today, his son mowed. They must water everyday. The other night as I was painting his wife and one of his daughter’s hung some plants. The air conditioners buzz from his home.

Today, I ripped out the last of the carpet and padding from the downstairs. There’s still a few nails and tacks but I’ll get to them. The floor definitely needs work. There’s areas of no varnish whatsoever, missing planks, and holes from where the steam radiators were removed. It won’t be an easy job. My friend’s father did their floors and she encouraged me to rent a sander and give it a shot.

In my last house, Eema and I decided to sand down all the windows so we could repaint them. We’d put in new windows and the sills were all peeling or cracked. We started in the bathroom. Deadly paint thinner that peeled the layers of paint was applied with thick rubber gloves. The paint curdled under the spell. It was an amazingly pungent and powerful chemical. We got some sanders with various grades of sandpaper and worked and worked. It took several weekends to get the one window done. Once painted it was the finest looking window in the house – with a view of the backyard – providing ample light for bathroom business. A professional painter scrapped and took care of the remaining sills. So the prospect of me sanding two levels of wood floors is highly unlikely…no matter the amusement factor.

M’s room is an obvious but not obnoxious (to me) pink. The walls are a pseudo stucco so one must apply a lot of paint. There’s bits of white peaking through here and there but it makes a cool tie dye effect. She’ll enjoy it.

Still no movement on color for my room. Last night I voiced to a friend my new plan. I’ll subdivide the existing bathroom by busting into M’s current closet and create a second bathroom. Then I’ll hack into the cedar closet to create a closet in that room. The question being – does that become the defacto master bedroom – slightly smaller but benefiting from being in the back of the house and having cross-ventilation for the air conditioning loathing home owner/chief mortgage payer. M would love having the bigger room. I guess I’ll price this fantasy. Sounds good to me….especially because we’d each have our own bathroom.

I started the morning by tying all the carpet and padding into bundles and laying them on the sidewalk. Trash collection isn’t until Tuesday. As I was jetting along crowbarring nails and tacks out, I heard my name called. It was Immaculate Lawn Neighbor. “Holy shit. You scared the hell out me.” He really had. I was in the zone, focused on the goal, blocking out music, sending nails and tacks flying routinely.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

My heart seriously skipped three beats. “No problem.”

“I’m heading to the dump. Want me to take that stuff?” Immaculate Lawn must hate my slowing bronwning grass and drooping flowers. You can tell the border – real or artificial – from the tufts of overgrown crabgrass and dying grass on my side from the thriving greenery on his. He must also hate the idea of ancient carpet and padding hanging out in plain view. Not to mention the security risk it poses to anyone who wanders by.

“Absolutely. Want me to go with you?”

“Nah. Let’s load it in.” Momentarily, I was thankful for an SUV. We threw it all in and I thanked him wholeheartedly. Neighbors doing neighborly things. Awesome. Our last neighbor had a lot of kids and was very nice. His name was Pedro. I don’t know his wife or kids names. They were nice. In fact, I used their painter to do my windows. We had the smile and wave relationship of suburbia. There was no can I borrow a cup of sugar or welcome to the neighborhood brownies.

Immaculate Lawn filled me in about how he’s lived in Tenafly 20 years. Moved overseas for two years and rented his house. The people I bought from weren’t married and they sold to move to “her” place at the shore. “They kept the place in good shape but didn’t modernize it much.”

“No,” I said. “They didn’t. But I hate wall to wall carpeting.”

“Me too. I like area rugs. The guy next door to me deals in them. Real high end stuff.” That lead me to think that Immaculate Lawn doesn’t know the name of his neighbor. Maybe he calls him Rug Dude…which could have double meaning if he wears a hair piece. I’ll just refer to them as the Dogs. They have a fenced off property with a couple of loud, angry sounding dogs…perfect for across the street from an elementary school. I haven’t met those people yet. “What else are you doing to the place?”

“The floors. A kitchen at some point. Do you know an electrician?”

“Yeah I got a good guy. Lives in Dumont. His name’s…” and of course, I’ve forgotten the name. It will be embarrassing but once I’ve got M in tow, next week, we’ll stop by with some brownies (store bought) and I’ll introduce her. I’ll say their names several times and learn them. To make matters worse, as he drove away he said, “whatever tools you need – the garage is always open. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” I replied, relieved that the trash was going to the dump and not sitting in front of my house for two days.

As I ran a race yesterday, my friend was saying she didn’t know how I kept it all going – house renovations, packing, running, working, parenting. I told her the parenting thing was easy – because it’s all phone calls, letters, and Skype (for the next few days). Everything else I make the time. Have to. Who else would do it? Ironically, I should have made the time to learn those student’s names. Would have made the classes that much more effective. At least it rained granting my lawn and slow brownery a stay of execution.

The Little Mermaid

2010-08-02T09:30:00.003-07:00

My uncle once told me that if you do something everyday for at least 21 days, you would do it for life. Perhaps that’s so. Other than walking and eating, I can’t honestly say I’ve ever done anything 21 days in a row. That said, my kid has and as a result – she’s turned into quite the little swimmer. This is a far happier tale than the original Hans Christen Andersen story “The Little Mermaid.” With Hans, the mermaid sacrifices her voice for love and the dude ends up with another princess anyway and when given the chance to get her voice back by killing her beloved, she resists.

Between her spring lessons, hitting the pool in the Berkshires, hanging with me for a few weeks, and day camp – the girl can swim. She does a hysterical old woman not wanting to get hair-wet impression above water. But below water – gracefulness and litheness appear like nowhere else. She can hold her breath and go at least ten feet. It’s quite amazing and beautiful. Now you’re saying, sure dude, it’s your kid – of course you think she’s the next Dara Torres – Olympic swimming champion.

M has always loved swimming – but the water has to be warm. Seeing her fearlessly enter the pool and conquer it is inspiring. She’ll even forgo goggles and open her eyes underwater. It is bad writing – but the kid is happy as a clam in the water. We’ll high five or goggle knock, watch each other and smile.

Years ago I learned to scuba dive. I was going on a trip to Israel with my best friends and they urged me to learn so we could extend the trip and dive in the Red Sea. I figured why not? The certifiers were all Europeans spending a year working as Dive Masters – camping on the beach, smoking pot at night, and diving all day. My friends and I preferred to stay in the Egyptian five star hotel (for under $100 a night).

The first day – we ran through all our safety checks and waded into the Red Sea. The Jordanians – environmentalists that they are – throw their trash from barges into the water. So we walked into all sorts of garbage and slowly descended. The first dive I had too little weight on and had trouble getting under. It was pretty scary. I’ve never had great luck with my ears on planes and with loads of childhood ear infections. The thought of forcing ears to equalize was daunting. But it went smoothly…these things work themselves out.

Once under water and the trash – we didn’t have amazing visibility. The water was warm but murky. I followed the instructor as best I could. Being lighter than I should have been he basically had to grab my hand and pull me through the water. We ran through a few tests, and then we ascended.

The second dive – done within an hour of the first – I had too much weight on. So while on the first dive I was overly buoyant, the second I added more air to the vest to keep up. But my relaxing vacation was turning into way too much work.

Finally certified, I could just dive with my friends and work out the kinks with them. We ended up having so much fun we rented a few houses in the British Virgin Islands over the years and having week long vacations, diving, and hanging out. It’s been awhile – but who knows – maybe it’s time to revisit that thought.

Diving is amazing. It’s all about the breath. So relaxing, energizing, and exciting. Breath controls your ascent and descent. It forces you to think about how much air you use and how quickly you move. More movement – you expend more air which shortens your dive. Under sea is so quiet. The incessant mental chatter and ambient noise is different 20,000 leagues under. The quiet is so palpable you can feel and move it. I miss being water logged in the way.

With M – we spent so much time in the water – I prune fingered above land. That chlorinated feel took two days to shake. The joy she exhibits is addictive. It made me want to improve my swimming. I mean I’m decent but diving isn’t about swimming. It’s about breathing, weight, and buoyancy.

I also took her to the beach one weekend. She wanted to bury me in the sand but it was so hot. We walked and ran along the shore – trying to out run the waves. Once used to the water – she jumped and ran happily. The wet sand and waves would subsume her feet and she’d laugh hysterically.

Swimming is hard and fast movement using completely different muscles in a wholly different way from running. I ramped up my swimming to participate in a triathlon but I have much more room to grow.

Watching M get new skills and confidence is fun. So much of parenting and even life – is about hope. Will she like this? Want to do it? Be good (enough) at it? But hoping is pretty boring and passive. Imagine sitting around for 21 days – watching someone else do something and not participating yourself? You can sit on the sidelines and watch hopefully or you can just dive in.

2 a.m.

2010-07-27T18:52:00.000-07:00

Each morning the train departs Dreamland and promptly arrives in Edgewater. The passenger pushes back her hair, sighs, and vocally brings attention to herself. The conductor rouses. There’s steady action at this hour. Unfortunately. He heads to the passenger car and directs her to the way station. Upon fulfilling her immediate need, he guides her back to her berth, and rocks back to slumber. Often there’s an urging to “have a sleepover.” The conductor weighs the options that will get him back to his own slumber fastest. Soon enough the train departs, all gently sawing wood. The schedule holds true, reliably true.
It would no matter the liquid consumption. Or type of day, weather. There's something about the hour. Dark. Quiet. Urgency of reassurance.