Barrow is 1

 When we were waiting for Barrow to be born, the one thing I was sure of was that he would have brown eyes. When he finally emerged, a year and two days ago, he had the same bright baby blues he wears today. It was a reminder that life will always surprise you and that genetics are a mysterious and still unknowable thing.  And yet, on a very basic level: baby, boy, Barrow, blue.  It made a strange kind of sense. 

In the year since, he has created and fulfilled his role in our family.  Now he is the perfect complement to our previous trio and I can't imagine our household without him.  Having a second kid was challenging in many ways. I felt like the romance and sentimentality of infancy often gave way to pragmatic concerns very quickly: how do we manage two children, how do we make sure the basic needs of everyone are being met. I often felt guilty that I wasn't writing more about Barrow, or spending time reading to him in a cozy and quiet room, or scribbling in the baby book that is still (shamefully, so very shamefully) still mostly empty. 

I also had forgotten about the reptilian existence of very young babies.  Their needs are basic and they are not cute very often. Personalities remain unformed.  But in these last few months there has been a real blossoming, and Barrow has really come into his own (as much as someone can when they can't walk, talk, or poop in a respectable way).  

He is showing signs of a personality that makes me feel like he will carry himself well with the goofy name we strapped him with.  He is curious and flirtatious. He is so happy and quick to smile and laugh. He moons over his big sister and looks to her constantly. He is physically affectionate and loves the feel of scruff on his cheek or kisses on his neck.  He bounces up and down with enthusiasm and gnaws on the bars of his crib. He likes to nap and gratefully sinks into his crib with a soothie and his love.  Right now he has approximately six teeth, large and asymmetrical, poking along his gums.  And always, always, the lone dimple: the heartbreaker. 

With both kids, I was so excited when they learned to move themselves on their own. I like seeing where they will go of their own volition. Barrow doesn't like to be alone and will come trundling around the corner to see who's coming in or out the front door. He doesn't want to be the last one in a room.  

And so now he is one, and we all continue to grow together. Happy birthday, little man.

In the black box

Today's my birthday, and now I'm 33.  The Jesus age.  Still young enough on an absolute scale, but old enough that I should have things somewhat together.  I think this is about where I am.

Oddly enough, yesterday the New York Times featured a Motherlode blog entry entitled "A Birth Mother With the Right Regrets."  Part of it included this:

I remember exactly what I was typing the day my birth-mother lenses fell off my face and shattered. It was the same thing I’d said again and again in describing my experience, except this time, I said it to my friends who had been adopted: “The adoption of my son was the hardest decision I had ever made, but I don’t regret it.”

It was their collective response that changed it all: “Promise us that if you ever do meet your son that you won’t say that. Don’t say that you don’t regret giving him up. For an adoptee, that means that you didn’t miss him. That it was O.K. not seeing his first step or knowing who he is. Don’t say that. It will hurt him.”

The post generated a lot of angry comments about the ills of the "adoption industry."  People talked about the exploitation of "first mothers," a phrase I was unfamiliar with, and the inherent pain and damage caused by adoption.  "Babies belong with their mothers."  Adoption was presented as a wholly unnatural, horrible thing.  The woman who wrote this piece eventually found her 19 year-old son through the internet, made contact via MySpace, and waited three years until her child was "ready" (the author's quotes) to meet in person.  And then at some later date the writer was able to create family photos including all of her biological children, not just the ones she had raised. 

When I take an inventory of my life and think about these things -- especially on days like this -- I think I'm ok with the idea of my biological mother not regretting putting me up for adoption.  I don't regret being adopted.  I can't imagine a happier, more fortunate life or a more loving set of parents.  Yet the whole concept of adoption involves a great deal of pain and sacrifice on all sides, and an almost unbearable set of questions that may never be answered.

As a child one might fantasize about biological parents (perhaps she's Princess Diana!) as a set of fairy tale and escapist scenarios.  But time passes, though, and one becomes more comfortable with ambiguity.  The dawn of sex during the teenage years makes one aware of the fear/horror of the idea of unintended pregnancy.  The choices we face as adults -- in love, in family, in education and career -- makes one appreciate the gravity of that fundamental, life-changing decision.  The anticipation and joy of an expectant father opens up new depths of love and devotion, emotions so difficult to channel into this kind of sacrifice.

And ultimately, as an adult, one learns to accept the fact that not all questions have answers.  The fact of adoption is not Chekhov's gun -- there is no guarantee or promise that the mysteries established at the beginning of one's life will be revealed or explained later.  It's all right to leave room for ambiguity, for grace, for gratitude to a stranger.  There is pain in this, of course, but also an unexpected wellspring of love -- for the ones who chose for you rather than for themselves, for the ones who fought for you.

Who knows how my thoughts about this may change with time, but right now this is where things are.  Inside a black box, with no need to seek an exit.

Before my children were born I thought that having a biological relative would change everything.  At times I longed to see someone who looked and acted just like me.  And now my daughter is a lot like me, physically and temperamentally.  When strangers note our similarities it makes my heart ache in a beautiful way.  But ultimately, it doesn't matter very much, and I know that.  She is her own person, as mysterious and inscrutable (at first I wrote "unscrupulous" - heh) as any man or woman on the street.  This is true even if she has a face like mine, eyes like mine, that certain curve in her cheek and jaw like mine. 

If there has been one lesson in my life, it's that biological ties don't matter very much.  I was thirty years old before I had a blood relative.  Reading this article, and its attendant comments that provoked such bile about about the very idea of adoption, really bothered me.  This is the institution that gave me my life, my family, my identity.  I could never ask for anything more, and that's why I'm content to leave these questions unanswered.  There is a balance in my life that doesn't need to be upset. 

The best part of my birthday happened this afternoon, when I was walking to lunch with colleagues.  I happened to see my children and our nanny walking up the sidewalk towards us, over near 113th Street on the east side of Broadway.  I saw them before they saw me.  My daughter was holding the nanny's hand with her other hand in the pocket of her stiff red jacket, and she was looking at all the shops and the people along the sidewalk.  Her hair was in a ponytail and she looked like any young woman you might see on the city streets.  My girl, strolling up Broadway.  I moved to stand in her line of vision and a few seconds later she saw me.  She turned to look at me and her eyes brightened and she said, "Daddy! Daddy!" She let go of the nanny's hand and ran towards me, hurrying up the sidewalk to find me, running up and into her daddy's arms.

Barrow arrives

Friday was my last day of work, and L's first day away from the office.  We felt you coming soon, a distant rumble, but thought it was a long way off.  Alice had napped until 7:30 that night, so she was up and thrumming as we watched "The Amazing Spider-Man."  L began to feel some contractions and we called the doctor, who assured us we could wait for a while.  Later, as the movie continued, we realized something was happening.  We called our nanny Angie and she and her husband Steven began making their way over.  I paused the movie just as Spiderman was going underground into the sewers after he had battled the Lizard in his (Spiderman's, not the Lizard's) high school.  Needless to say I will probably never know how the movie ends.

We tried to put Alice to bed before Angie came, and L was battling contractions in the baby's (babies') room. I found myself looking out the window for Angie's car.  Finally they arrived and we went out the door, with hospital bag, purse, nursing pillow, and jackets in tow.  We felt calm because the contractions seemed erratic -- four minutes, then ten, then seven.  We were okay in the taxi but the driver was nervous, assuring us as we crossed Central Park North that we would be there in five minutes.  We got out and made our way to the labor and delivery area.  After ten minutes or so, we were waiting in the admission area when L had to go into the bathroom for some really painful contractions.  We had finished the paperwork and were still waiting for someone to deal with us.  After the second strong contraction L was hunched over a handlebar in the bathroom and she told me, "You need to find someone to help us."

Alert to my responsibilities, and slightly resentful of being told what to do, I walked into the hallway and called out, "Can somebody help us, my wife feels the need to push."  Nurses descended on us and we ended up in an antepartum room, a cozy enough space not at all equipped for the gruesome necessities of childbirth.  A wise nurse named Charisse, who guided us through that long night, told L to go with her body and push.  Ride the contraction.  I was holding L's hands awkwardly from the top of the bed.  The nurses were laying down papers and fabrics as L pushed.  No one even knew our names or who our doctors were.  After some comically gross physiological elements had occurred (I will refrain from detailing them here, although they are seared into the same vaults of my memory as certain scenes from "Alien"), you were here in this world - long and blue and squalling.  You immediately landed on your mama's chest and stayed there for a long, lovely while.  Unfortunately L was in a great deal of pain and had a long way to go as the doctors performed the necessary ministrations.  When they finally moved L from one bed to another, the original bed looked like the scene of a car accident.  By which I mean disgusting.  But L was amazing, brave and tough, and the doctor (a wonderful, no-nonsense, slightly masculine woman with a hedgehog-like hairdo) complimented her various body parts and abilities as if she were assessing livestock at the state fair.  That's my girl!

Once you were born -- perhaps an hour after we had left our home -- we called loved ones, telling the story and explaining your name, and waited in the room where the birth had occurred.  The lights were turned off so that you would be more at peace.  Somehow during the birthing process the TV in the room had turned on, and for a long while we had the constant buzz of the Knicks-Grizzlies game (I believe), which we remarked on ironically from time to time.  ("We actually don't care about basketball at all," I explained to our doctor.)  The calm of the room was betrayed by the detritus around us -- the bloody basins and pairs of scissors in the sink, the wet on the floor.  A certain kind of tedium set in as we waited to go to the room where L would spend the next couple days. 

After a long while we moved up to the eighth floor, and L went to get settled in the room and I followed you to the nursery, where I watched behind a glass wall as a new nurse scrubbed you, took measurements, and did who knows what else.  It was now very late, around 2 or so, and the hospital floor was dark and quiet.  I watched as a few other children in the nursery slept and cried in turn like dominoes.  As the nurse worked on you I could see you shiver sometimes, still adjusting to our new reality, cold and unadorned.  For some reason in the hospital I kept hearing some chime, some tone that sounded exactly like the start of an old R&B song, Donell Jones' "You Know That I Love You," a jaunty and happy tune that somehow seemed very appropriate as its first notes bleated from some machine somewhere.  As I watched you from behind the glass I held on to all of our bags and jackets for a long while, then eventually I put them down and just settled into my vigilance. 

Eventually, finally, they returned you to us and we went to your mama's room.  She would spent the night nursing you and sleeping beside you in the bed.  I returned home around 4, said my thanks and apologies to Angie and her husband as they woke up and left, and had a brownie and a seltzer.  I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.

You looked then, and still look, exhausted and bewildered by your own birth.  You're a little rough around the edges, kid, but I hope that each day, each moment, you are settling into yourself and our family.  Alice has been a dream, immediately doting (yet with a dawning realization that she has new competition for our attention).  As soon as she saw you in the hospital, she ran to your mama so that she could hold you, stroking your head and patting you. 

Welcome to the world, little bear.  We are so happy and blessed to have you.

Truth

Here's a Motherlode blog post from the New York Times that I completely agreed with.  And I was even moved to add a comment.

Motherlode: That ‘He’s Adopted’ One-Liner in ‘The Avengers’? Not Funny.

Shake Shack

The other Friday night the three of us headed down to 79th Street to have dinner at Shake Shack.  It was a cold night on the Upper West Side, the kind of night that reminds me of my first year in the city, when I would walk down to the Loews theatre on 68th Street to watch movies by myself on Saturday nights.  It's the feeling of being wrapped up in a hat and scarf, carrying a book, and knowing you have everything you could need for the moment.

Shake Shack was its usual riot of children and strollers, but we were able to find a table by the wall-length windows.  The glass was cold and dark to our touch, but we were warm and comfortable.  The food was delicious.  Afterwards we walked eastward back towards the train.  Alice acquiesced to wearing her hat and mittens, and we made our way by playing "One-two-three-RUN," in which the family counts to three and then runs for a bit.  She was flushed and beautiful.  I carried two half-drunk milkshakes in my hands.  It was a good night.

Thanksgiving!

There's not much to say about Thanksgiving besides the fact that it was wonderful.  Four generations around the table -- a table nearly buckling under the weight of so much good food, most of it prepared by my beautiful wife/executive chef, L.  My grandma said the turkey was the best she's ever eaten.  The weather was nice enough to allow for plenty of long walks and an excursion to Central Park.  We all had the chance to express our gratitude for the chance to be together to celebrate the holiday and enjoy the gifts and blessings of a growing family.  I don't know what more one could want.

...Oh wait!  I DO know what more one could want.  We had a huge debacle in the morning thanks to the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade.  We had received tickets from an extremely kind colleague of L's, so my parents and I, along with Alice, trooped down to Columbus Circle early in the morning to claim our seats in the bleachers in Central Park.  We unexpectedly had to walk ten blocks north to get to the only available entrance, and by the time we got there, the police weren't allowing anybody else in.  People were walking out of the parade route area a block away, telling all of us who were assembled, "Don't bother!  There's nowhere to sit and you can't even see!  We had tickets too!"  As you may be able to tell, the people telling us this were fashionable gay men who were waving their hands in disgust.  We bought Alice a blow-up Dora the Explorer doll as a consolation prize (she loves it - ever since she has been pushing Dora in the stroller, dancing with Dora, making us include Dora in "Ring Around the Rosy," and dragging Dora to the table to eat with us).

So, rejected by the parade, we went to a little cafe to eat some breakfast, where we encountered the people I will always think of fondly as the Thanksgiving Assholes of 2011.  Let me set the scene: picture three rectangular two-top tables lined up along the window.  Simple, right?  We pushed two tables together to accommodate our party, dumped our stuff there, and went to get our food.  When we returned, we found that the Thanksgiving Assholes - a well-dressed middle aged couple - had turned the remaining two-top around, so that both seats were now parallel to the window I guess, which had the effect of blocking us from getting into our table.  I said, excuse me, please let us in, and my polite mom said, oh, we'll just sit elsewhere (forcing us to crowd around a skimpy little table), and the male Thanksgiving Asshole said, "Oh, you'll be fine, there's plenty of room there."  The woman concurred, and after a bit more completely disrespectful small talk, the encounter was formally over. 

But not for me, of course!  I spent the rest of the meal shooting them dirty looks, saying loud remarks like "that was really rude" and "we have no room for my daughter now," and subtly jabbing the man with our inflatable Dora.  Even days later, while out on a run, I thought about them and their absolute thoughtlessness and blithe disregard for us and got irritated again.  I hope their turkey tasted like sand.  Happy Thanksgiving!

State update: Massachusetts

I spent most of last week at a conference in Boston, a city I haven't visited in an extremely long time.  It was unexpectedly lovely -- amidst the usual unpredictable cruelty of Massachusetts weather, we enjoyed a beautiful summer evening on my first night in town.  I went for a run on a route traced out for me by the hotel: from Boston Common along Cambridge Street, across Longfellow Bridge and along the Charles River, then crossing back over on Harvard Bridge and running along the Esplanade back to Cambridge -- a nice four-mile loop.  As I ran, I kept thinking, "I am not in New York, these are not New Yorkers, this is another city where people live.  And it is beautiful here."  Sunset over the water, sailboats bobbing along.  Brilliant office towers reflecting the orange-yellow light.  Running blindly and confidently.

One evening I abandoned the conference program to visit with my grandparents and aunt in nearby Beverly.  I was proud of myself for navigating the commuter train and making it to the Beverly Depot, where I had a great summer dinner with my aunt and grandfather (steak, grilled out in the spitting rain; salad, potato salad, sliced tomato (first good one of the year), brownie and ice cream, Bud Light) and then went on to the hospital where my grandmother was unfortunately checked in.  It had been five years since I had seen this side of the family, and being with them again felt easy and familiar.  I saw unexpected glimpses of my dad in my aunt's features or my grandfather's gestures.  Their home was full of pictures of my sister and me, Alice and L.  I felt like I had discovered some kind of reservoir of love, and I felt horrible and strange about letting so much time pass between visits.  It was wonderful, but it came with a certain ache, too.  I called L when I was standing on the dark, rainy platform, waiting for the train to arrive to roll me through the night back to Boston, but we could barely talk before the flashing lights and clatter of the train roared into the station. 

Another train ride and a few days later, and now I'm back at home.

Sweet sorrow

On Monday, Alice was the id of our family.  We were in McLean, at my parents' house with my folks, grandparents, and L's mom.  We were heading to the train station to return to New York, but L's mom had come by to say goodbye -- she was leaving that day for an exciting year-long opportunity in Afghanistan.  It might be six months until we are able to see her again.

The house was simmering with the usual pre-departure anxiety, exacerbated by the presence of an unhappy, unsettled baby.  Alice hadn't slept well all weekend, and this morning she was crying and jabbering, arching her back against anyone who would hold her.  Her forlorn cries were the background as we bustled around with bags and last-minute details.

The goodbyes started as we made our way to the door with all of our things.  In the foyer L and her mom were hugging tearfully.  L's mom embraced me and said she loved me, and I said the same with a huge lump in my throat.  I said, "it will be good, it will be good."  In the driveway L and her mom hugged again with Alice strapped to her mama's chest.  How I wished she could remember this.  As L's mom got in her car I had my arm around my wife, who was leaning into me as our daughter craned her neck around to peer at her mama.

Soon enough we were on our way to Union Station with the realization that the goodbyes were behind us.  My grandma had said to me, "take care of your little family," and for a brief moment it felt like a daunting responsibility.  But now we are home, easing back into normal life.  Finding a way to live as our love and prayers fly through the night from our home to Afghanistan.

Baptism

On Saturday we celebrated Alice's baptism.  It was a far lovelier thing than I had ever thought it would be.  

Her christening gown has been hanging in our closet for several months.  We kept it wrapped in its plastic hanger and carried it downtown to the church for the actual event.  L and I changed her from her chic Baby Gap dress into her stately gown in a bathroom tucked away in some far-flung corner of the church, standing Alice up on the changing table to put on her slip and then button her into her dress.  It took me a few minutes to work out all the pins holding the various pieces of the garment together.  We added a bangle that LeeLee had given her, and tied her into some clean white booties, and the final touch was to add the little hat that draped over her head like a wimple.  She looked like a cute little Hester Prynne of a girl.  The shocking thing, though -- the thing that I genuinely did not expect -- was that she looked beautiful.  Somehow the exorbitant dress and the funny bunched-up sleeve and her World-War-I-era-nurse hat all made sense.  She looked beautiful and pure; it seemed like the foreshadowing of a wedding day, almost, and it reminded me of how the Church is supposed to be revered as the bride of Christ.  I did not expect any of this.

She was remarkably calm through the whole ceremony.  She played with the long cords dangling from the sides of the hat, wrapping them around her fingers and trying to eat them.  When it came time for me to lower her over the baptismal font so that the priest could pour water on her forehead, she kept her eyes locked on him, calmly watching the entire thing.  My grandfather said he never saw a better-behaved baby at a christening.  The priest was friendly and kind, calling her "sweet Alice" and making sure the holy water was the right temperature before the sacrament began.

I was struck by the beauty of the language of the baptismal rite.  Here are some parts that I found particularly lovely as the priest recited the words:

My dear brothers and sisters, God uses the sacrament of water to give his divine life to those who believe in him. Let us turn to him, and ask him to pour his gift of life from this font on this child he has chosen. 

Father, you give us grace through sacramental signs, which tell us of the wonders of your unseen power. In baptism we use your gift of water, which you have made a rich symbol of the grace you give us in this sacrament. 

At the very dawn of creation your Spirit breathed on the waters, making them the wellspring of all holiness. Your Son willed that water and blood should flow from his side as he hung upon the cross. And after his resurrection Christ told his disciples: "Go out and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Father, look now with love upon your Church, and unseal for them the fountain of baptism. By the power of the Spirit give to the water of this font the grace of your Son. You created us in your own likeness: cleanse us from sin in a new birth to innocence by water and the Spirit.

I was very happy the we decided to baptize our girl.  I'm happy that she is a member of a faith community, even though I have many issues with the doctrine and with the way the current leadership has decided to engage the world.  I'm glad we can tell her some day that it was important to us to welcome her into a formal relationship with God and community.  I think sacraments are important things -- a way to measure life -- and I'm really happy we could give Alice her first one; that we could add her name to the rolls of a church, that we could hear a priest bless her as a member of this flawed yet hopeful flock, that we as an extended family could share a small moment of religious faith. 

I'm also glad we will be able to show her the outpouring of love our little family received on the occasion.  It meant a lot to us to see our parents, grandparents, siblings and friends gathered in that church on that beautiful Saturday. 

Morning sprint

L's alarm goes off at 6:15, but chances are she's already awake. I may stir when I hear the soft morning voices of NPR float from her nightstand, but L is probably sitting on the couch half-asleep nursing A. Some mornings I find L and A asleep together, L's neck arched to rest her head on the couch and the baby lying still in her lap. On occasional mornings the alarm actually wakes her up, as the baby has deigned to let us sleep -- but these mornings are rare.

My alarm goes off at 6:45, but I am usually awake by then. Once I have showered and dressed I find out how A has dealt with her morning; whether she is placid or fiery, whether she slept soundly or battled through the night. L leaves around 7:30, propelled by currents of unconditional love and professional ambition and a subtle but unrelenting guilt; these are the forces that drive us.

If I am lucky A will let me eat my cereal and read the paper. A happy compromise is to hold her in my lap and let her wreak havoc on the bottom half of the paper while I read something on the top. I always worry about her ink-smeared hands but apparently her constant coat of saliva repels the stain. At 7:55 we are out the door; the baby is in the stroller, my work bag is stuffed underneath her seat, the baby bag (my old backpack, which has seen me from college through Asia to A) is draped over the handlebars with my lunch sack. If I am smart I have remembered the daily log to be completed by the nanny, and A's food. Then the apartment is silent.

We walk up Tiemann to Riverside, heading forcefully up the hill that flattens out around Grant's Tomb, near 120th Street. At this point I have broken in a sweat. The walk to our friends' is about a mile from this point; it's a mile and quarter from door to door. I walk quickly through Riverside Park, under the canopy of leaves and over the uneven paving stones. I pass a few joggers, a few kids in strollers staring outwards with a look of tired perplexity, a man doing some kind of martial art in the middle of the way, and dog-walkers. Today one woman informed me that A's blanket was dragging along the ground with an unnecessary measure of spite. I don't listen to any music, but I do make inane comments to my daughter occasionally to remind her that I'm still there. She is content to stare at her surroundings and feast on her blanket, or perhaps her hand. There is an unexpected measure of balance and companionship.

We cut over on 108th Street and head down Broadway for a couple of blocks, and then we have arrived. After visiting with our friends and passing A, who is aware yet compliant, to the nanny, the dash continues. I walked ten more blocks north and arrive in my office. Despite my efforts to pace myself I am sweaty by the time I get to work; damp under my shirt, the occasional bead trickling down my neck. The back of my hair is wet. Compose yourself. You have arrived at work.

In the evening, on a good day, L will pick up A and continue walking north to retrieve me from work. The three of us stroll home together, enjoying the slow pace and temperate breeze that is an unattainable luxury in the morning. If we are smart and diligent, A is in bed by seven. Then L is still working to make us dinner. In the evening we watch television, because it asks nothing of us. L will pump more milk. At eleven we shut down the apartment. L sleeps immediately, and I try to read a few pages before I can't even remember the words on the page. At some point A will wake herself up by rolling over, or she will interrupt the quiet with a piercing cry that must represent a nightmare. Her eyes won't open, yet she is inconsolable.

And then, after whatever kind of night we have, it will all start again. This is how a home becomes a household.

On old things

At home this weekend in Virginia, what struck me on that first night were the objects, the things that my parents have owned forever that have only recently returned with them from Texas: the plates and bowls with the mottled pattern of faded fruit around the perimeter; the lovely old water glasses; the ceramic pencil mug in the kitchen; the painting of the old man and the boy looking out over the sea that I found tonight in a bedroom closet.  These are the objects, the talismans, that I have used and eaten from and moved around since I was very, very young.  Tonight before I went to bed I washed my face the way I used to, the way I hated, where your skin feels raw and tiny traces of soap remain on your neck and near your eyes, and that was the sensation that brought me back to that broad scope of memory. 

Now, of course, I have a wife, and a daughter, and my own household.  Yet so much of the idea of "home" is still found in these old things.  And everything I own -- goods from national chain stores, items bought in a fit of urgency or convenience or compromise -- seems cheap and insubstantial.  How could a child ever build a life, or memories of a childhood, from the flimsy bric-a-brac I place into her hands? 

When does this improvisation yield to permanence?

4th anniversary

Today is our fourth wedding anniversary!  After being struck by a bolt of inspiration on Sunday at the gym, I spent the last few nights working on this.  It has been a true labor of love -- it's been fun learning how to use iMovie, culling through our pictures, finding the right songs, trying to tell a four-year story in five minutes.

Of course, I've also gotten no sleep, and I fully expect to get a cold this weekend, but L is worth it.

State update: South Carolina

This past weekend we took Alice on her first flight, down to Myrtle Beach for a nice visit with Aunt Kelsey and the vacationing hordes.  Alice absorbed everything with her standard air of studied nonchalance.  She slept through the takeoff from Newark, pausing from her suckling of the pacifier to smile broadly after a particularly violent lurch upward.  When we held her in the gentlest rushes of the ocean surf, or when we towed her around the pool, buoyed by her hilariously absorbent diaper, she kept her poker face on -- not smiling but not unhappy either, her expressive little eyebrows raised in a face of wary enjoyment.  Hey, if she's not crying, she must enjoy it.  This is our mantra.

Today L told me that our super said that our baby is beautiful, but that she doesn't smile very much.  I was kind of taken aback by this, but I think he's right.  I think I'm learning how to reach her humor buttons -- how to get her to giggle or squeal by crowing her name in falsetto, how to make her eyes curl in a smile from a vigorous game of pattycake or a few fun lifts into the air, where she can revel in her secret identity as Space Baby.  Still, she's not the most effusive kid in the world, but this is fine. She seems to be very observant, and I like that a little better, I think.  Dig deep, little girl -- always investigate -- always ask the question -- remember your intuition, your irony -- take it all in -- save your smiles, but don't be stingy.

We had a great time in South Carolina.  The people are so distinct down there -- many of the vacationers were orange, blond, carefree people, decked in breezy shorts and dresses, coating their words in molasses and tumbling out of SUVs.  Some of the kids down there, though, the ones who seem local, have a certain wildness to them; glaring, wiry young men, and lithe young women in tight shorts with dark tans.  There's a certain hunger there, that attitude you see on the beach avenues but not while you're waiting for a table at Tommy Bahama.  Still, it was great to see Kelsey and to eat like kings for a few days.  I can't describe the exquisite pleasure of settling in to a ten-dollar plate of a full pound of shrimp dusted with Old Bay,  armed with a pile of napkins and wet naps and nice crisp Bud Light with Lime.  It was heaven.  (You know, the older I get the more I realize that it's all I ever wanted: a plateful of shrimp ready to be peeled, and a nice cold beer.  I have many fond memories of this, which makes me wonder why I don't make this happen more often.)

Anyways, I really like the photo above. It makes me think of fatherhood and what I'm supposed to be doing.  I feel like I was doing it right for that brief moment.  Welcome to the world -- I have you -- this is the ocean, it is beautiful -- we will always come back here -- I will always have you. 

Independence Day weekend

We had a wonderful weekend.  But right now I am sitting at the table in our godforsaken apartment as the ceiling fan shoves great glaciers of hot air around the room and as beads of sweat gather at my temples.  It is so hot.  The heat bundles itself in these rooms and starts weighing down.  I expect the bed to buckle at any moment.  And it's 11 o'clock at night.

Friday:  We took the D and Q trains out to Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  Brighton Beach is the home of a large Russian population, and we ate lunch at a boardwalk Russian cafe, where we tried borscht for the first time.  Pretty darn good!  Like a weird gazpacho!  The quiet of Brighton Beach and the width of the boardwalk there reminded me of Rehoboth.  We walked across the hot sand to the water -- the sand of course being riddled with broken glass, because since this is New York City every nice thing must have an edge to it, which means that your typical idyllic beach will be liberally sprinkled with shrapnel -- and found the ocean to be freezing cold.  We continued up the way towards Coney Island, where we fought the urge to buy fried things and took in the spectacle.  I appreciated the history -- the parachute tower from the 1939 World's Fair, the amusement park rides from the same era.  Following our beach tradition, we had some photo booth pictures taken, and were happy to include Alice for the first time.  Later we ventured out onto the pier, passing fishermen and families and men cat-calling the women.  Looking back towards the beach, seeing the Wonder Wheel and the housing towers and the train snaking through it all, I was struck by the vastness of New York City.  Here we could feel ocean breezes, hear the caw of seagulls, see the wide blue sky over the water.  How many worlds, how many places this city contains.  (Walking along the beach, I was also struck by the sheer brazenness of people -- the  wildly inappropriate bathing suits, all those swathes of unrequested flesh -- that actually made me feel embarrassed for them, on their behalf, but I preferred to focus on the breadth of the City, thanks very much.)

Brighton Beach

Sunday: I started out Independence Day with a nice long run in the morning through Riverside Park.  As the heat settled on our skin and in our clothes, we walked down to Lincoln Center to watch a movie, baby in tow.  Here is our thinking: we did this last week with a matinee of "Toy Story 3," where the theater was empty and Alice was as well-behaved as one could reasonably expect.  L would jump out of her seat as soon as the baby started to fuss, and there was no issue.  Sunday we figured we would go see "Sex and the City 2: A Big Mistake" (see the pun there!) because (a) it's long, (b) it's playing in a place that's air-conditioned, and (c) everyone knows it's horrible, so no one will be there and it won't be a big deal with the baby.

Well, apparently the bitter old women of Manhattan did not get that memo, because they were out in full force.  Why were they seeing this movie everyone hated, six weeks after it originally came out?  Worst of all, the theater was configured in such a way that you entered by the movie screen, which means all the other patrons see you as you come in.  I could feel a collective wave of feminine disdain overtake us as we entered with our stroller, so we hustled to the back row to suffer the withering gaze of some freedom-hating old hag.  When I came back from getting popcorn, I actually took off the hat and sunglasses I had been wearing, so people wouldn't think I was the jerk who brought a baby to the movie.

But you know what, haters?  We did bring a baby, and she did great.  L had to take her out a couple times, and I had a few artificial coughing fits to camoflauge her gurgling, but she did great.  No crying. (We did note the fact that under normal circumstances, we would be part of the disdain brigade, harrumphing about how a movie theater is a completely inappropriate place to bring a baby, but thanks to the challenges of parenting and perhaps even a slight mellowing of my temper, perhaps I am evolving.)

Unfortunately, the movie was horrific.  It was really offensive against the middle east, and somehow the characters were even more insufferable than usual.  Why does Charlotte have a full-time nanny?  She doesn't have a job!  All the characters who were mothers sucked at it.  And their partners, the fathers, were simpering and spineless.  And the karaoke scene made me want to gouge my eyes out.  Other than that, two thumbs up!

We walked back to the piers on 125th Street and set up an impromptu picnic to see the fireworks.  We made friends with the sweet family to our left and watched the sunset sink across the Hudson.  The weather was perfect and the people were friendly, kids chasing each other and people eating sandwiches on their blankets.  When the fireworks started we found that our view was blocked by a clump of trees -- and then hundreds of people were shifting and jostling for a better view -- but at that point it didn't matter.

125th Street piers

Monday: Today I took my first Manhattan bike ride, after a morning stop at the local bike shop to outfit the old bike I had as a teenager, which has been dormant for about 15 years.  After pumping the tires, checking the brakes, and buying a helmet, this evening I rode down the Hudson to about 72nd Street and back.  I know it's no excuse for an actual workout, but it felt great to move, to force some air around me in the illusion of coolness.

This afternoon, after lunch, I took Alice home alone so that L could enjoy a small piece of the day.  The baby and I stayed in the cool oasis of her room. We read my favorite children's colonialist allegory, "The Story of Babar," as well as "Make Way for Ducklings," and a brief selection of "Moby-Dick," which she did not enjoy.  Then I was holding her in my lap, and we were both sitting there rocking, me relaxing in the cool air and quiet moment, feeling her weight on me, and the baby with the pacifier in her mouth, restful in my arms.  I looked at her and she was smiling sweetly, even with the pacifier, and then something happened and she was looking so clearly in my eyes, and smiling so broadly -- I started speaking to her and she would coo right in response, her mouth wide and open and happy, her eyes so intent on mine, laughing together.  At that moment I expected her to speak, to say my name or her own, or to tell a joke, or to laugh like her mother.  For a second she was not a baby, but my friend.  A brief moment of such connection.  During those moments I wouldn't have been surprised by anything.  It was so lovely.

Eventually it passed, and her adorable haze returned, clouding her thoughts, her needs.  But that moment!  My mysterious daughter.
 

It's been a wonderful weekend.  Now time for a last cold shower, and an escape into sleep, on top of the sheets, under the fans.

Father's Day

Father's Day!  All the self-absorption of birthdays, plus the expectation that relative strangers should acknowledge it!

There's more to it than that, of course.  If there's one thing parenthood points out to the recently initiated, it's that it's not about you anymore.  You are merely incidental to the arrival and progress of the child.  Heads snap away from you and turn towards the babe.  And that's all right.

I had a pretty darn good first Father's Day.  In the morning I woke up early to run a 5 mile race to benefit prostate cancer research.  It was hotter than hell, humid, sticky, and the run was unpleasant.  Sweaty shirt thwapping against my chest.  I took my time at the water breaks, took a few steps at mile 4 to regroup for the last push.  Even though my time wasn't particularly good, I was proud that I held up muscle-wise and breathing-wise -- it was just the heat that got to me, but that's always the case.

The highlight of the race was seeing Senator Chuck Schumer (D-NY), an amiable, Biden-esque blowhard, who made a few remarks before the race started.  He also invited all of us to give him five as we started the race.  So I jogged over to the side of the pack and made my way to the good senator, who stood there with an open palm and a funny grin on his face as runners slapped him five and moved along.  I keep hoping someone will ask me, "Hey, have you high-fived any U.S. senators this week?", but as usual people are pretty self-absorbed and nobody seems too interested.

The rest of the day continued along this plateau of excellence.  My brilliant wife gave me a Chipotle gift card, earmarked for exclusive use when I'm enjoying some alone time.  Alice gave me a "Hop On Pop" pop-up book, and L even manipulated her tight little fists so that she "signed" the card and labeled the envelope.  It was wonderful.  Here she is signing the card:

We went downtown for lunch at Stand, walking through the soupy air with the baby strapped on my chest like a totem of parenthood.  A nice lady on the subway wished me happy father's day.  We stopped at the bookstore and they were very kind about it, too.  After we made our way back home I escaped to Chipotle by myself for a little bit, enjoying fountain Coke and reading Dave Eggers' "Zeitoun."  Along my walk I listened to Drake's "Find Your Love," which is quickly becoming my song of the summer, and thought about my great good fortune.

For dinner L made me salmon, asparagus, macaroni and cheese, and salad.  We had a little bit of ice cream for dessert.  We watched some television.  And eventually we went to bed in our sweltering apartment, the ceiling fans spinning in their taut, chaotic orbits, the curtains billowing inwards with gusts of warm night air and the dull regular groan of the train, lying under thin cotton sheets, listening for any cries from the baby's room, anticipating another day of heat, of family, of a baby.  It's a new kind of summer.

Then and now

Last night I sent a photo to some family and friends featuring me modeling all of the university-branded swag I received on my first day of work:

My parents quickly responded, to the entire group, with a photo of me on my first day of pre-school, 28 years ago.   I concede that there may be some similarities:

Two thoughts occurred to me: I am touched that my parents can remember such small, ancient moments. And I can't wait to similarly humiliate my kid in another thirty years.

Beautiful Saturday

Yesterday was a really magnificent day. The weather was a little warmer and the sun was strong in the blue sky. It was L's baby shower, so Melissa and Anna arrived early to set up and bustle around in the kitchen for a while. I had made plans with John to head down to Benny's Burritos for some margaritas while the ladies feted our wee baby.

I was in a good mood heading downtown; the air was crisp and the skies were clear. Upbeat music in the headphones, spring in my step. The Village sidewalks were crowded with people enjoying the day, out and about with their shopping bags or strollers. I got to Benny's around 2 and went inside; John wasn't there yet. I left the restaurant to wait outside on the sidewalk, to watch the people and enjoy the old neighborhood, when who do I see coming up but -- Ashesh! I have a distinct impression of seeing his face and the bright green triangle of his scarf. Even though he's only in Philadelphia (studying at Wharton; I think he's taking some kind of evening-division part-time GED prep class or something) I haven't seen him since he left the city last summer. We stood on the sidewalk chatting when who comes sauntering up but -- Russell! Russell lives in Colorado and spends some time in Virginia, and I only get to see him a couple times of year. I hadn't seen him since Thanksgiving and I wasn't sure when we would hang out next. A little while later John arrived, brandishing a bag from my favorite bookstore and laughing at my incredulity, and we went inside to sit.

(This surprise was orchestrated by L, of course. Amid the hubbub of her shower and everything else going on, she engineered an early birthday celebration for me. I was floored.)

It made me so happy to share a table with these guys. As we were sitting there, eating and drinking, I tried to take in how it felt - a beautiful afternoon outside through the plate glass windows of the restaurant, good drinks, catchy songs playing in the background, John on my left, Russell across the table, Ashesh on my right. A table of some of my favorite people, somehow finding themselves in this old dive. I had a dumb grin on my face, feeling happy and at ease and very thankful. I couldn't believe these guys would make the time to be here and shoot the breeze for an afternoon.

To be honest, during this whole pregnancy there have been some moments of extreme loneliness. A few weeks ago, when we were at the Buy Buy Baby Maternity and Childcare Emporium, I remember feeling very overwhelmed by the sheer amount of junk and information and decisions and childrearing philosophies that seemed to demand immediate analysis and commitment. I have missed having family close by, to impart some wisdom, offer guidance, and help contextualize this new baby into the larger story and tradition of our families. True, our families are never too far away, and we speak with them often and think of them even more often, but the idea of raising our kid here by ourselves can be daunting. We have relied so much on the new community we have knitted here, but I miss the old comfort and shared history of old, genuine friends.

That's why yesterday struck such a deep chord with me. After we left Benny's we made our way to Wogie's for a couple of beers. Finally we returned to John and Anna's, where we rejoined Anna and L. John cooked up a delicious dinner, we watched the Olympics and played some poker, sipping on Old Pogue and sambuca.

Yesterday I felt contented and grateful and at peace. To be honest, I felt a kind of easy happiness with life that I haven't enjoyed in a long time. I tell you, man -- with the love of a good woman, and the kind of friends who will come up to the city on a lark for a long, late winter afternoon of margaritas and poker -- these are the days and the people I can't wait to introduce to my daughter.

Merry Christmas

This is our first Christmas alone in New York, uncomfortably far from our families. This afternoon we set out to buy a Christmas tree, my first in the city. Earlier this morning I stopped a guy on our block to ask where he got the Christmas tree he was lugging in his handcart -- for you non-New Yorkers, here they wrap your tree in tight netting for the trip back to your apartment. It looks like you are holding it hostage, but really it's a sign of good cheer and merriment.

As the afternoon started darkening we headed over to Amsterdam and La Salle to get a tree. We also needed a Christmas tree stand, and we assumed we could get one where we bought the tree. But, like Mary and Joseph getting rejected from all the good hotels in Bethlehem, this was not to be. We then embarked on a 40-minute trek through the neighborhood, stopping at many pharmacies, bodegas, 99-cent stores, houseware stores, and hardware stores until, again like Mary and Joseph, we finally found a reasonably-priced Christmas tree stand. Then we lugged the stand back to the original tree place on La Salle, and selected a slim little fir tree to wrap up in netting and parade back to the apartment: our festive little holiday hostage. As you can see, she's a real beauty.

Tonight we had lasagna for dinner, a nod to the Christmas Eve Stouffer's lasagna dinners of my childhood. Tomorrow we are eating L's classic beef brisket, which is marinating in our fridge. L bought some cheap stockings from a dollar store in Florida to bide our time until she finishes cross-stitching our real, long-term stockings, and we have a handful of ornaments we've gathered from the last few years -- a few brightly colored balls, a couple of random Bush-era White House ornaments, and some quality ones we got as wedding gifts. We have the ornament we received from my cousin who passed away (the card says, "special delivery from heaven") and the crystal snowman I received from my late Aunt Evie. It's a little funny because our tree is severely under-decorated -- we had to be strategic about where we placed the ornaments, because we don't have many. Originally I thought we should divide the tree into equal sectors and decorate accordingly, but for some reason this plan was not implemented. We didn't have a star for the top of the tree, either, so we ended up tying a bow out of a length of ribbon -- and it wasn't even a pretty bow, but more like a utilitarian shoelace bow. In the end, though, I'm very happy with the result. It felt lovely and genuine to listen to old Christmas songs and decorate our tree and welcome our family, in whatever small way we could, into our new home.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Dismantling

Strange weekend at home. My parents are moving from Virginia to Austin in a few weeks, and they have been busy packing up the house. As it happens we are moving that same day from our home in the village to the new place uptown. Originally we planned to pick up a U-Haul on Saturday in Virginia, load it up with the bed, rocking chair, wedding gifts, and books for the baby, and then drive it all back to New York on Sunday. I was nervous about timing, though, and traffic, and work. So we decided to pack up the truck and drive out late Saturday night.

As I sorted through all of the old stuff in my closet, I tried to move too quickly to feel sentimental. I let my eyes fall on old programs, tickets, letters, awards, cards, trophies, yearbooks, and threw most of it away. I saved the journals and the photos. I couldn't let myself think too hard about any of it.

Last night, after we had a great dinner with my parents and sister, we loaded the last of our stuff into the mighty U-Haul and pulled out. We left so quickly. "Don't think about what's happening right now," I said to L, and to myself. I tried to honk the horn jauntily as we pulled away into the night. That was my last time in that house, the last sight of my parents and sister waving from the driveway. Inside the house was a tangle of half-packed boxes and old objects on their way out of the house and our lives. Things had already changed.

It was a weird feeling driving through the cold night from Washington to New York. We left after nine and arrived around 2:30 in the morning. The highways were dark and vacant, no traffic anywhere. The U-Haul rattled mercilessly, cold air hanging around us in the cab as the engine wheezed below us. We listened to pop songs and NPR, kept our jackets on. As L closed her eyes in an attempt at sleep I sang along to the music just to make a sound. The string of headlights on the other side of the highway flattened into a broad smear before my tired eyes.

Driving through a cold night in a truck that isn't yours, carrying your old bed and the rocking chair from which your parents read to you as a child, from which you can still remember sitting in your dad's lap with his soothing arm around your shoulders, listening to the deep timbre of his voice and relaxing into the comfort and security of another night's sleep.

And now: we were hurrying towards a new room, a new dad, a new sleepy child. There was a reason we couldn't wait. Despite the late hour and the cold air and the thoughts kept at bay, it still felt, in its own pained way, like some kind of beginning.

Telling my parents

My parents were in town this past weekend, and we got to tell them the great news. After two really long, stressful weeks at work, I was so excited to see them and tell them. The idea of that moment kept pulling me through.

My parents and L were waiting for me at their hotel on Washington Square. We spent a few minutes visiting and checking out the room, and then we started meandering through the park on our way to dinner. We were going over to Stand for some burgers. It was turning into a very nice evening -- the heat had broken, the sky was a watery bluish pink, and people were strolling all around. We pointed out some of the renovations made to Washington Square lately, the wide boulevards and colorful flower beds and wrought iron fences and lightposts. We were just talking about work stuff, nothing major, just visiting with each other. We were over by the south side of the fountain, watching the jets shooting up, standing in a little circle. I had made eye contact with L and she gave me the go-ahead.

"Guess what?" I said. My parents looked at me expectantly. I looked at my mom and then at my dad as I said, "Lillian's pregnant!"

There was a real moment of silence then, as what I was saying settled in with them. Then it was all hugs and good cheer. L said later that she saw my dad tear up as soon as I said it, but there was a real moment of astonishment there. They were so excited. "Oh, this is so special!" Dad said. "How could you not tell me?!" Mom said. It was such an exciting thing. Mom said later she thought that maybe we were getting a dog. She started crying a little bit out of happiness, and told us how much we would love our child. She said Kelsey's and my cheeks used to turn red because she would just kiss us so much. "You will not believe how much you love that child, you will kill for your child, you will kill for your child," Mom said in a way that was funny and only a little weird.

I'm smiling even now as I write this. Dad said we must have planned this, to tell them this news in such a perfect setting -- in the middle of Washington Square under a clear pink sky on a great July evening -- but we really didn't. Telling them cast the rest of the weekend in this great glow of love and excitement. My parents said they would be talking about this for a long time that night. Mom insisted on calling her friend Jill to share the news immediately ("I'm going to be a grandmother!"). It was so wonderful to feel such love and support from them. I had this strange fear that they wouldn't be excited -- that they would think it was too soon, or that we were too young or not established enough or too indebted or something -- and even though I knew those fears weren't rational, it was nice to have them dashed anyway.

Telling my parents was different from telling friends. Like marriage, having a baby is a significant event in the life of an entire family, not just the immediate participants. It was nice to add another circle of love around the little one.