Good things from today

1. Last night I went to bed early enough that I woke up feeling clear and rested. 
2. At work they upgraded my computer to Windows 7. I had this at my previous job but took a little step backward when I took on this role in July.  It made me incredibly happy to have all my old fonts and settings back. 
3. I had lunch with the kids at Five Guys, Alice's favorite. It was her idea for us to have lunch and I could tell it meant a lot to her.
4. At work I continued this weird new pattern of being extremely productive from approximately 4-5 pm.  This had never before been a good time of day for me, but it's working out right now. 
5. Our wonderful nanny told us she'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future, which is a huge relief. 
6. Our Christmas cards came today -- I am basically the chair of the Christmas card committee in this apartment, and they turned out really well this year. 
7. L gave me a special dispensation to go to the gym tonight, so I did one class and really worked hard and it felt good.
8. Nice quiet evening with L and "Survivor."
9. And that's it -- more than enough. 

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.

Justin Timberlake is getting old

I.

One of the coolest nights of my New York life took place on August 29, 2003.  The Video Music Awards production had consumed Radio City Music Hall and most of midtown.  As the night began I was with new friends (all of whom, with one exception, now lost in time) in an apartment on the Upper East Side, watching the show on TV.  Later that night Justin Timberlake was giving a semi-secret after-show concert at the Roseland Ballroom, and my friend (the one who endured) had somehow found out about it and procured tickets.  That afternoon I had gone to a thrift store near my apartment on Columbus to buy a cool new shirt.  I was ready. Around one in the morning we hopped in a cab to head downtown and joined the long line of people curving around the block to get in.

Inside we stood on our tiptoes and stared at the center of the world. He performed with Timbaland, Pharrell, John Mayer.  Relevant-at-the-time celebrities like Jessica Simpson and Cameron Diaz glowed in the balcony as cameras flashed before them.  The music was familiar and driving, giving us life.  Hours later we emerged into the darkest hours of the morning, exhausted and wide awake.  We were in New York City, young and broke and unstoppable.

It was almost a perfect night.  On the way in security guards had confiscated the disposable camera I had brought, and as we were leaving I realized I wouldn't be able to recover it -- they had thrown it away in the trash.  The camera had photos from a friend's recent wedding, and I was wracked with guilt and fear that the pictures were lost.  My friends implored me to get into a cab and leave, but I ended the night by myself sorting through garbage bags outside of Roseland, looking for a camera that of course I never found.

The pathetic ending, though, is necessary to demonstrate the reality of that spectacular night.  A better conclusion would have required flights of make-believe.

II.

Of course, that was now ten years ago.  And when I saw Justin host SNL a few weeks back, I thought, for the first time, that he looked kind of ... older.  Not that he looked objectively old or haggard, but that he no longer looked young.  He used to be the Justin Bieber of the early aughts, and now he's too old to get away with something as unabashedly silly (yet awesome) as "Beauty and the Beat."  He is in a different space now, ceding the teen-pop ground and moving on to a silkier, more mature R&B tradition.

One funny thing about my job working with college students is that I feel acutely aware of the passage of time, as I become older yet the cohort of people I work with remains static.  I see their experience of music become more and more estranged from my own.  When they find out I listen to JT or Maroon 5 or anyone like that they are often incredulous, as if I should be at home watching Lawrence Welk.

As a result I follow Justin Timberlake through music with the confidence that I can go where he is leading.  He is my spirit animal.  And the new album is fantastic: warmer than the last and with solid through-lines connecting its songs to the tracks on the 2003 album, "Justified," that was my soundtrack to those incredulous years ("Nothin' Else" to "Strawberry Bubblegum," "Last Night" to "Tunnel Vision"). 

Pop culture is a force of the young.   Maybe he is still doing those midnight shows, but I'm sure not going to them -- that particular moment has passed.  Now we dance in the kitchen with our daughters, cleaning dishes in the evening.

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.

Ok, who am I kidding, I'm back

So much for that.  Over the last two months I've found myself really wishing I had a place like this where I could write.  Now that I've taken my little sabbatical, I feel like I can begin things again with a slightly different frame of reference.  No more pressure to make this blog a pictorial timeline of my life (and more importantly, my children's lives).  No more guilt-posting.  Instead, whatever efforts I can make to record the moments and ideas that strike me -- that was the goal of this thing all along, before the existence of my own family made the whole idea seem a little silly and frivolous. But it isn't, really, and when it all boils down I'm still as selfish and jerky as I was pre-family, and that's who I will remain.

Here's what I was thinking about recently:

First, I found myself harboring a really weird and really intense jealousy for friends who are doing very well financially and professionally.  This was completely irrational and had nothing to do with their lives or mine -- I just found myself fuming at paths not taken, degrees earned or not earned, salaries not received. Rationally I could tell myself that this was stupid and that I wouldn't trade my life and circumstances for anything, but I felt like my insides were curdling.  An inchoate rage against  myself, the world.  I felt like all of my problems could be solved with -- what, maybe 60K?  I would take more.  I thought about how I could monetize things.  What's so bad about male prostitution? Surely I could find some kind of market, the Internet's a big place.

Eventually, this weird black balloon deflated and the fever broke, before I cold really explore the prostitution idea.  I was able to take a step back and think about why I was worrying about money, and what could be done about it.  I read some great short fiction by George Saunders that taps into these kinds of economic fears and we met with our retirement planning representative, which was reassuring in some ways.

The second thing I thought about were some longer term ideas: cash out retirement money to get a down payment on a place!  Buy or lease a car so that we can recover some freedom!  These ideas seem necessary to help us make sure we're moving towards something. Otherwise it just seems like us in the New York squeeze of money, real estate, and schools.  It's a game we won't win, most likely, and really I just want to make sure we don't back ourselves into playing it through our own inaction.  If this is our lives, it should be at our choosing.

So that's what I've been thinking about.  Money, jealousy and dread.  But aside from all that -- things are good and will only get better. Tomorrow's my birthday and it will be a good one.

Lights out

I think I'm going to wrap things up here at ol' Clarity.  When I started this blog in January 2005 I wanted to create an outlet where I could write and try to record the significant and small moments of life that seemed worth remembering.  Through 550 posts, that idea carried me through law school, getting engaged, getting married, having two careers and having two babies.  I am so thankful that I've had this record of the changes that occurred from age 24 to 32 -- it's hard to imagine a more momentous period of my life.

Things change, though, and for a number of reasons I think it's time to wrap things up here.  As more loved ones began reading the blog I felt compelled to change the way I wrote or what I wrote about.  I began to feel pressure to memorialize everything that seemed significant.  And perhaps most importantly, the blog began to feel like a source of guilt rather than an oasis.  Now I just feel guilty about about not writing or posting more.  

Maybe it's just a function of life with work and two kids under three, but it's hard to muster the energy to think and to write a lot of the time.  Of course, in the last few days I've been thinking about what to do here, and new things to write about seem to appear all around me like shiny coins on the sidewalk: Barrow smiling at me the other day as we sat on the couch, a moment of union and synthesis that in some ways feels like the beginning of my fatherhood of him; my great day on Friday, when I picked up some stationary and the Best American Short Stories 2012 at the bookstore and then entered Chipotle to hear a song I love on the sound system.  Also the fact that I feel more aware than ever of a certain stratification among my friends as all of our careers and life choices seem to push us in different and undeniable directions.  Not to mention what I read this year (the "Game of Thrones" books, the latest LBJ volume by Robert Caro, and not much else) and what I listened to (Drake, Frank Ocean, a lot of dance & pop music).

If I continue writing this blog, I'll feel guilty about not writing more; if I stop writing this blog, I'll feel guilty for stopping.  Because of course, a blog I began in 2005 should continue in perpetuity.  I feel guilty Barrow won't have as many posts as Alice.  I don't know.

So with that in mind, I'm turning out the lights for the time being.  I will certainly find another outlet to write when the time comes, but I don't know if it will be here.  But maybe it will.  

One last thing: over time L and I have developed a silly nickname for each other, "blabe," which comes from one time when I meant to say "babe" but it came out "blabe."  This is like how George W. and Laura Bush call each other "Bushie."  When Alice was in the womb we started calling her "Little Blabe," or LB, which we still sometimes call her.  And when we first started talking about the idea of Barrow, we identified him as "Baby Blabe."  A while back L and I were talking about those six-word biographies that are popular these days, and she asked what mine would be, and I responded: "Blabe, blabe, Little Blabe, Baby Blabe."  

What a life.  So much to be thankful for. 

Misadventures with Barrow

Sometimes I forget that Barrow is here. We'll all be sitting around the table eating dinner, L, Alice, and me, and I'll think, "Ah, my family." Then I look over and see him sleeping in his chair on the ground, and I feel a little guilty.

I have accidentally used female pronouns to refer to him. That's because I'm so used to dealing with Alice as a baby (as well as her partners in crime, Naomi and Pen Pen), it can be hard to remember that babies can be male too. This is probably not good in terms of gender identity.

Now that we are more than two weeks in, he is still flashing some deep and mysterious blue-gray eyes. Will they change to a more predictable brown? Where did they come from to begin with? What is this kid, a winter?

The other day I walked into the family room, saw Barrow swaddled up and sleeping on the couch, and for a second thought he was one of Alice's dolls. Then I looked at him again and realized, basically, "That is not a doll. You have a son now. And that is him."

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.

Barrow Martin

Barrow Martin
November 16, 2012
11:25 pm
8 lbs., 5 oz.

"Barrow" is the street in the Village where L and I first lived together and began our married lives together.  "Martin" is my dad's name.   

Nighttime routine

It occurred to me that before everything changes I should record one nice little rhythm we've fallen into with Alice.  At night L puts her to bed, and then Alice usually reads and putters around her room for about half an hour.  Then she says, quietly and insistently, "Daddy, I need a clean diaper!," over and over until I pad over and knock on the door.  Having waited at the doorway she opens it immediately and looks out to see what fun is happening in the family room.  Then I pick her up and change her diaper, and we chat a little bit about her poop or her books or what have you.  Then we take all the books that she has gathered on her bed and put them in a neat pile by her bookshelf.  Then I tuck her into bed and we sing three songs, her choice.  Lately we have been watching "Mary Poppins" clips, specifically "Supercalifragilistic..." and "Spoonful of Sugar."  Consequently I have grown to despise these songs.  I have had "Super" in my head for weeks now, boppy and unending.  Although the movie clip retains a real charm and energy, the song itself seems long and interminable, especially when Alice insists that I include one of the Dick Van Dyke verses and the "um diddle iddle iddle, um diddle aye" refrain.  Other popular songs include "I Love You, You Love Me," "You Are My Sunshine," and "Zip A Dee Doo Dah"; we touch our shoulders when we reach the part about the bluebird.  (Also, I've noticed that when I'm singing Alice often seems to be watching my mouth move, so I try to enunciate really well.)  After three songs she's usually ready for sleep.  We say good night, love you, sweet dreams, close your eyes, and then close the door.  This is something I don't want to forget.

Waiting

Come on, little man!  Come join us.

I have been winding down my work to take some time with the baby.  L just had her last day at work yesterday.  As a result I feel an odd mixture of calmness and stress, waiting for this thing to happen.  The part that makes me nervous is that trip to the hospital -- making sure someone is here to watch Alice -- navigating the journey itself -- and then finally feeling secure and ready at Mt. Sinai.  I am really excited to meet this kid, to name him, to bring him home, to see him as a younger brother, to see our girl as a big sister.  I can't wait to know what he will look like and who he will be.  The miraculous surprise of Alice was that she was immediately her own person, not necessarily a combination of L and me, but so clearly her own being.  I can't wait to see who we get to introduce and welcome into our family.

Come on, little man!  Come join us.  We have been waiting for you forever.

Central Park in fall

Good day with my girl

This morning we went on an epic outing. First we went to "go voting," then down to Columbus Circle. In Central Park we sat on a big rock, ate some snack pack, and read "Me and My Dad" twice. We played on the new playground and made up a game called "Up the hill, down the hill," and then trundled over to Alice's dentist appointment. A little traumatic, but about as good as can be expected. Afterwards she clutched her bright yellow balloon and we returned home.

After she woke up from her nap we "cooked" for a while and played with the turtle. It was a really good day.

And now on to the election results, and the regal trumpets of NBC news...

Beauty girl

Riverside Park

New perspectives

 

 A few days ago I wrote a self-pitying blog post about how I don't feel like I have time to think anymore.  Can't afford the gym and am compelled to graze all night, so I feel like a fat-ass. Can't find new music to listen to.  Can't find a book compelling enough to finish.  Can't even fathom the idea of sitting down to write something meaningful.  Between work and home I feel like I have nothing else to give, so I was becoming accustomed to the idea that this was just how life would be, that you just kind of give up on everything else and keep your head down and watch your body become that of an old person.

I've been revisiting that draft post in the last few days, and I think I've done a pretty good job of taking concrete steps to combat it.  To wit:

1. I joined the gym at work and signed up for two classes on Sunday.  I went for the first time yesterday and it kicked my ass.  My body is sore all over the place now.  I felt so happy to be moving and sweaty.  At one point we were doing push-ups and the floor around me was slick with sweat that I could barely keep my bearings.  The last time I was in this gym was in 2005, in a boxing class that I loved, and it was a very odd sense memory to return to this place in a completely different life.  While I feel guilty about being away from the family during that chunk of time on Sundays, I think it's worth it in the long run, especially since A is usually napping and L can use the time to herself.

2. I bought "David Copperfield" at the bookstore and so far I'm loving it.  I was trying to read all these contemporary books that just felt very transitory and slight.  I like reading something that has endured, and Dickens is weirdly accessible to me -- it is popular entertainment, after all.  I'm excited to have one big fat book to chew on for the next two months.

3. Alice and I are doing a dance class at Alvin Ailey on Sunday mornings.  Bringing Alice to the studios where I used to do hip hop is hilarious.  Yesterday I could hear a hip hop class thumping in the room next door to us and it broke my heart (as we ran around with jingle bells tied to our wrists and sang songs about butterflies).  But I like having our own little thing together, and Alice enjoys it and I think it's helpful to teach her the basics of rhythm and movement.  L noted that Alice has been nicer to me since we started doing the class together -- it's our own little adventure, her and I.  The funny thing is that I feel weirdly competitive with the other little kids and their parents (mothers), like I want the teacher to be impressed that I've mastered these exercises designed for 2 year olds.  See me twirl the scarf!  I know what sound a froggy makes!  Watch me gallop!

4. Yesterday we also went to see the big new public art spectacle down at Columbus Circle, in which a Japanese artist has built a living room around the statue of Christopher Columbus on top of a six-story obelisk in the middle of the intersection.  I found the piece more powerful and compelling than I expected.  It was neat to see this old hunk of marble up close, and the views were great.  It raised interesting questions about private ownership of public art/spaces.  And it was amusing to watch Alice ignore the tremendous statue dominating the space so she could flip through the coffee table book at its feet. 

And that's it.  Right now I'm just trying to fight entropy and reclaim some things about life that I enjoy.  If it doesn't happen now, before this new baby comes, then I think we're in trouble.

Whining

I've been too busy to think lately. Work has been madness since late August, as the new year began and I started working with a new set of responsibilities and challenges. L started a new job, and so our household has been leaning into the chance for her to make a great first impression, especially considering that she'll be on maternity leave soon. Alice has started potty training and is copping new attitudes and new sets of vocabulary -- today she came back from kiddie yoga and told us, in all seriousness, "NAmaste" -- and all the while the new kid in L's belly becomes all the more comprehensible. There is more to come.

I've realized, in the middle of all of this, that I really miss a few things: reading, exercise, writing.  I feel like a fat slob.  I haven't been able to sink my teeth into a book for a while. I'm dying for some new music. I recently retread John Williams' Stoner, a novel I first read in 2006 and immediately adored. It struck me as one of the most perfect, best novels I ever read, even with its flaws.  Reading it again it maintained its power and inspired me as a writer, a feeling I haven't had in a while.

Throughout my adult life, there have been things that I was so excited about -- I would shape my weeks by thinking about them, anticipating, considering, and the afterwards, reflecting and hoping for the next time.  It stated with improv class, then the gym, then hip hop, and then my writing class a few semesters ago. I miss those things. Now I think about the time commitment and the things I would miss -- time with Alice, family dinners, holding up my end of our domestic bargain. I miss that casual selfishness that made early adulthood so exciting and free.

So I'm trying to do something about it. I rejoined the gym at work and I'm looking for classes. I'm trying to carve out more time to be thoughtful and purposeful. But I still have that nagging fear, that this is the time when we put childish things aside -- passions, exploration -- and disappear into the daily routines that become the engine and the sum of our days.

Notes from tonight

Out to dinner tonight for our sixth anniversary at Dovetail. Happy senate term.  Dovetail: spiraling downwards or a bird's ass?

Drunk off of the chef's tasting menu, plus the accompanying wines.  It can't be my fault; I just drank what was given to me.

As we sat through the courses we saw generations of diners come and go.  Over three hours for seven courses, plus special bonus dishes.  Many waiters in different social castes: full servers in complete suits, sommeliers, vested Latino men delivering our plates, suited adolescents refilling our water.  Everyone intensely professional.

Felt like we ate pornography: foie gras and frogs legs.  Tragically, both were delicious.  But I knew they were wrong.

The most expensive dinner we've ever had. The thoughtless wealth in the room was staggering.

After numerous amuse bouches, our dinner ended in ignominy: dessert and a hastily produced check. Maybe because the restaurant was emptying.  The total bill was galling.  We sat and waited for another possible morsel, another bite, and none came.

Conversation this year was better than last.  Honesty, children, professional fulfillment.  She still makes me laugh and makes me proud.  We talked love languages, words of affirmation, acts of service, physical touch in a dining room.  Six years down and a lifetime to go.  Love you my blabe.

Beauty/horror

Yesterday I saw the most disgusting thing ever.

Alice and our new nanny, Angie, were playing in Riverside Park near our office, so I stepped out to visit with them during lunch time.  Alice was excited to see me and we played on the swings together for a while.  Soon I had to say, “Daddy has to go back to work,” and Alice cheerily saw me off with an “Adios” and a few blown kisses.

I crossed Riverside Drive to get back to work and thought about my great fortune.  I’m able to walk to work and remain near my daughter all day long, and I work in an environment that allows me to steal a few summer-midday moments to see my daughter.  Even as I approached her at the playground, I could see that she was happy and well-attended; our urban summer baby. 

I was thinking these thoughts as I started climbing a stairway on the other side of the street, when suddenly I heard a low voice saying, “watch it, watch it.” A man in a white worksuit was sitting eating his lunch nearby.  He gestured and I looked down.  A few feet away from me there was a rat scrabbling slowly along the stairway, making a fearful noise, szrrrk szrrk szrrk.  His backside seemed to be covered with something that looked like dried bird poop, something sore and festering.  Flies were darting around as the rat jerked along the stair.  Szrrk Szrrk szrrk!  I gasped and bounded away, my knees high in the air as I registered the rat shambling along.

“That’s disgusting,” I said to the man once I made it past, feeling the blood along my temples.  “What is wrong with that thing?”  “I don’t know,” the man said, “and I’m trying to eat my lunch.”  My heart was thrumming as I walked away.  I thought about Ebola and “Contagion,” 911 and Old Yeller, killing something with a shovel.  When I was a block past I could hear a girl scream behind me.  “What the hell! What was that!”  By then I was back to the sanctuary of Broadway.   I decided that there was no way the rat would be able to make it all the way back to Alice on the playground. 

So what do you do after that?  I got my lunch, returned to the office, washed my hands.  Thought about Alice playing just a few blocks away.  Wished for a merciful death for the rat staggering through the daylight.

"You can see a beautiful day from the morning"

Marblehead, MA