Give in to the "F" word, Part II

And now, a two-word photo essay:

"Dedication: doubled"

*Note that the white box is actually bulging.
**To see "Give in to the 'F' word, Part I," click here.
***If you're wondering how much milk that is, it's over a gallon.

The Old Monk and a Fire Truck

After the apple episode, I have slowly grown more and more annoyed with the Old Monk once again. The two things about him that bother me, in brief:

1) He lies in wait until we come home, and then pops out of his apartment to see Reilly. This bothers me because when I come home—with Reilly under one arm and the rest of me laden down like a pack mule—I just want to get up the four flights of stairs without interruption.

2) When I do the obligatory stop for the Old Monk, he is always rough with Reilly, pushing heavily on her cheek or pulling on her limbs. I submit the following evidence of his roughness: Reilly, who loves everyone who crosses her path, is always tentative and afraid when the Old Monk is around her.

On Sunday, the Overcast Family returned home from a nice morning out at the playground, and as we came through the second door downstairs, the Old Monk emerged from his apartment. After submitting Reilly to the monk’s endearment, Shawn fled up the stairs while I put the stroller away. Much to my annoyance, the Monk followed me. With my eyes rolled so far back in my head, it was a wonder I could see anything, but it was at that moment that the Old monk reached into a bag and pulled out a brand new Hess toy fire truck. He gave it to me.

I called out to Shawn, who had already made it up the first flight of stairs, to come back down with Reilly. “The Old Monk has a gift for her,” I said.

Shawn looked as sheepish as I felt. To thank him, she reached out and touched his hand, a universal thank you, since we don’t share each other’s languages. And when she touched his hand, he very gently gave it a squeeze.

Reilly missed all these sensitivities, but didn’t overlook the truck. She got down to playing with it as soon as we made it upstairs:

From the Archives: May 29, 2004 - Age 28

Shawn and I started our day with a trip around the Farmer’s Market. It was a somewhat different trip, in that we passed up on our usual staples—bison and goat cheese—and chose instead to buy ourselves a ficus tree ($15), sugar snap peas ($4 lb.), and currant scones ($1.50 ea.). Of course, we bought asparagus ($3.50 lb.), as it is still in season, and further added to our bag yellow zucchini ($1.40 lb.), which emerged for the first time this week.

After we had made our way around the square, we doubled back to pick up our ficus, and carried it back with one of us holding each side of a blue plastic bag. (We also bought a little begonia plant, the steal of the day, for $2. Once we had unloaded our groceries, we quickly tidied up our apartment and showered in preparation for the arrival of Donna and Marion.

Our two guests arrived a bit after noon, and after showing off our pictures of Captiva (we’re loving our digital camera, by the way), we left the apartment. I have yet to mention the weather of this fine Saturday, but it was one of those perfect spring days that you get in the northeast, blue sky, a little chilly in the shade, a little warm in the sun. Everything flowering and green. High of 72. It was to be the sort of day in which I repeat the phrase: “What a beautiful day!” so many times, yet the phrase never gets tired or becomes untrue.

Our first stop was at ‘wichcraft, where we picked up sandwiches and drinks, all dutifully loaded into Shawn’s striped beach bag. From there we took the 6 Train all the way up to 77th Street, surfaced, and walked past a quiet demonstration to Central Park. (No idea what was being protested against.) We entered the park and walked down a shaded path to the boat pond, where we quickly found an available bench. After lunching on our sandwiches, we stayed a bit to talk and watch the miniature sailboats race across the pond.

On the far end of the pond was what appeared to be a film crew, so when we got up we walked over to check out the scene. Much to my surprise and delight, the film crew was actually the birdwatchers of Central Park, all of whom were closely watching a nest perched high on one of the grandiose buildings of Central Park East. In the nest were three new red tail hawk hatchlings, and we spent the next fifteen minutes watching the mother and father hawks soar about, capture prey, and deposit the prey into the eager beaks of the hatchlings. It was a thrill for me to see this scene still going on, as I had read a book recommended by my mom about a year ago, titled: “Red Tails in Love” which tells the story of these hawks.

After our dose of nature for the day, we walked up through the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We got our purple buttons and meandered our way through the sculptures to the elevator, which we promptly took up to the rooftop. It was a great day for the rooftop of the Met, warm enough for a Corona, but cool enough that we didn’t have to sweat. There are two new installations up there of stacked rocks that are surrounded by a wood beehive-like structure. Very cool. We took some pictures and watched the hawks soar about some more, then descended back to the ground level and made our way back to the street.

From there we walked all the way back down through the park via the rowboat pond, down through the mall, over to Sheep’s Meadow, and finally out via The Pond. Along the way we saw some Indian tribal dance, the weirdo violinist, the hackeysackers, the skateboarders, the disco rollerbladers, and any other number of interesting people and groups of people that inhabit the park. The park was bustling and full of spring-like energy.

We caught the F Train home from the park, crossed the street fair on 6th Avenue and picked up a bottle of Sancerre at the wine store. Then we walked back to the apartment, had a fruit and nut plate, and enjoyed our wine. As you might imagine, we were all a little worn out and drowsy, but we soldiered on, leaving once more for a nice quiet dinner at Friend of a Farmer, over on Irving Place.

Baby Steps

Yesterday, we spent a long day outside, enjoying the nice weather of Memorial Day weekend. After a bite to eat at the Mayrose with our friends Todd and Colleen, we returned to the apartment to give Reilly a nap. When we came to the last flight of stairs, Shawn, on an impulse, put Reilly down to see if she would try crawling up.

Ever the adventurous baby, Reilly tackled the task straight away...


With a little support from Mom, of course...


and to our surprise, made it to the top in no time at all.

Week 46 Pictures

Reilly's Week 46 pictures are up at the Smugmug site. To view, please click here, or click at the link on the sidebar.

House Clothes, or: Another reason I’m an irresponsible parent

At daycare, we are required to keep two complete back-up outfits on hand in case of “accidents.” It is our responsibility to check our baby’s cubby each day and make sure that none of these items were used. (And when I write our I mean my.)

At fancy restaurants where wearing a jacket is required, the establishment often has a couple of “house jackets” that may be leant to a gentleman who has arrived sans sport coat. At daycare, there is a similar arrangement. A baby who was not properly supplied with backup clothing may be dressed in one of the house outfits to avoid the embarrassment of hanging out with the other daycare kids in nothing but a diaper for the rest of the day.

So far, Reilly has come home wearing:

The house socks (twice)
The house pants (twice)
The house bib
The house pacifier leash

As a parent, each time I show up at daycare and see Reilly in an outfit not her own, I always ask, “What happened?” Jenya or Joyce (Reilly’s caregivers) will then say something along the lines of, “She got ____ on her outfit, so we had to change her.” (In place of the blank, insert any noun you’d like, from “paint” to “food” to “poop to “spit up.”)

They will then kindly ask me to please bring two fresh sets of ____. (Insert in this blank: socks, pants, bibs, etc.) They try to ask in the nicest way possible, but any way they say it, I feel like a deadbeat dad.

Then, when I get home, Shawn will take one look at Reilly and ask, “What happened?” And I will have to explain that Reilly’s drop-off person forgot to stock up her clothes. Shawn’s response always is, “Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Again? That’s so embarrassing!”

It is embarrassing. Especially considering that the house pants are white with red vertical stripes. They make Reilly look like a sad little candy cane.

If I had TIVO, this entry never would have existed

To begin with the background: Old Navy, the ubiquitous clothing store, is starting a nationwide hunt to find a new dog mascot for their company. They encourage people to submit pictures of their dogs online in the hopes that their mutt will be chosen as the next T-shirt wearing dog-wonder of the United States.

Last night, I was watching TV with Shawn when I saw a commercial for an “open call” for this contest right down the street in Union Square, slated for today. So, after running a few errands this morning, I strolled Reilly over to the park to check out all the dogs.

There were dogs and their owners lined up across the park, with orange water bowls interspersed every few feet to keep the dogs from getting dehydrated.

I walked Reilly up and down the line so that she could see all the hopeful pooches. She was chattering and bouncing in her seat with excitement. Reilly loves dogs, and the dogs, for their part, love her. It probably has to do with the fact that she almost always has a Cheerio stuck to the seat of her pants.

From the Archives: May 25, 2000 - Age 24

Note: For context, this was day 21 of our 37 day cross-country road trip.

Tonight, after dinner, Shawn said, “Let’s go home.” We both laughed at that. On this trip, we have no true home—we don’t dare call our car or our tent home—so wherever we are is our home. I guess home is where we pitch our tent, or lay our heads at night.

Now, we’re at a bed and breakfast, and a testament to its superb quality would be that Shawn called it “home” tonight, thought it was probably just because it was a house we were returning to, instead of a tent.

Induction

Under our cabinet, we have a basket that is full of Tupperware. Last weekend, Shawn pulled it out and placed it in front of Reilly. Meanwhile, I sat on the other side of the kitchen with the camera and watched my two girls playing together.

To say that they had fun would be an understatement. Reilly's giggles were second in volume only to Shawn's. I took over twenty pictures, but the two below caught a sequence that should be inducted into the Mother-Daughter Hall of Fame:

"Sequential Play" by Guest Blogger: Shawn Overcast

Despite my role as Writer in our household, Shawn also quietly keeps her own journal about Reilly’s development. The book she writes in is called Baby's First Year Journal. I highly recommend it to anyone who is considering buying such a gift for a baby shower, or for his wife, or perhaps on impulse for herself. (It strikes me that Shawn probably recieved this as a gift from someone out there. Pipe up if it was you!)

The journal has a day-by-day description of a baby’s typical development, and from time to time there is a half of a page that is left blank for a parent to write in. Shawn uses these blank lines to reflect on what she has read, and to apply it to the life of Reilly.

Though she would never admit it, she is actually a very good writer, and very succinctly appraises complex situations and emotions. I like the way she writes her entries directly to Reilly, addressing her with the second person point of view. I often find myself in awe over her entries. Here is one such example.

From the book:
“By about eleven months of age, your baby may be able to engage in sequential play. An example of this type of play is when your baby puts one object after another into a container.”

Shawn’s entry:
Play is all about taking things out. I laughed at the description that sequential play is described as putting objects into a container. Your sequential play is demonstrated by taking book by book off the shelf, by taking toy by toy out of your basket, by taking ring after ring after ring off its block. It doesn’t take long before this apartment looks like something exploded!

From the Archives: May 22, 2000 - Age 24

Note: For context, this was day 18 of our 37 day cross-country road trip.

At Clearlake State Park in California, our campsite was populated by a very large group of black ants. They worked throughout the day in a line crossing our entire site. The colony consisted of a central area that was very busy, and a few outlying areas that were more sparsely populated. It struck me that the ants moving to the outer areas were the misfits of the group, but Shawn reminded me of all the misfits we saw in San Francisco, which is a densely populated city. So, maybe the ants that moved to the outskirts were the ones who just wanted a bit of peace and quiet at the end of their day—the suburbanites, or country ants.

In San Fran, we were surrounded by the drug culture, from weed to psychedelics to cocaine. Now, I don’t care either way whether people do drugs or not. It’s their own choice, and their own business. This is not about that. What interested me was the sadness and desperation of the people, especially the coke users. They gritted their teeth, waiting for their fix, took their snort, then were absent from the room; drifting. And they were guilty, trying to justify their reasons, some even admitting that they hated what they were doing. But they did it anyway, and it made me sad, and I wanted to see my dog.

This is more than a single-threaded observation. I’ve been reading “On the Road,” on this trip, and in his book, Kerouac often glorifies the all-night parties, drinking, and booze, while also writing often about time, and how to make it stand still. Yet all of this wastedness is only killing time—or wasting time, even—because though the vacancy of the cokehead’s eyes might indicate time has stopped, nothing happens while they’re gone. Wasted people wasting time.

The only way to keep time moving, to feel every second, is to keep moving oneself. Perhaps that was what Kerouac was trying to say—travel, keep moving—only then can you absorb every moment, to feel life more deeply.

Five more things you might not know about Reilly

1) Reilly has started two new habits that are too cute for words. The first occurs when she is in a sitting position: she will kick out her legs, rubbing them across the floor in glee. The second is when she is standing in her Exersaucer, sitting in her high chair, or riding in her stroller: she will hug herself and twist back and forth with a big smile on her face.

What makes these two habits so endearing is that they each are physical ways for Reilly to express her good mood. The movements are distinctly un-baby-like, which is to say, she looks like a playful little girl.

2) As I’m writing this, Reilly has crawled up next me and started staring at the CD player. This brings me to the second thing you might not know about Reilly. She understands that the music in the apartment comes from the black box on the shelf next to the TV, so, when she wants to hear music, she will look at me and then stare at the CD player. When she sees the CD tray open, she gets excited and starts saying “huh-huh-huh!”

I think her love for music comes from two places: one, that we played music constantly when she was a newborn, just one of the techniques in our arsenal of calm, and two, that we just play a lot of music in our apartment. The whole house is addicted to Raffi now.

3) Reilly has learned how to stick her tongue into her cheek. The first time she did it, Shawn and I ran over to our baby, pried her mouth open, and tried to determine what foreign object she had placed in her mouth. Of course, her mouth was empty, except for her tongue. Now, when she does it, we can relax and laugh.

4) Reilly can now drink from a sippy cup with ease. A combination of the right sippy cup and a dose of patience helped us reach this feat.

I love this sippy cup: The Nuby. Not only is it designed in a way that is superior to all other cups, it is also the cheapest. I think we picked up the Nuby for $1.99 at CVS. The only problem is that there is no handle with this model, so we’ll have to keep working on getting Reilly to hold it herself. For now, we’re just happy she has some water in her diet.

5) Last, but certainly not least, Reilly has learned how to CLAP. Shawn has been working really hard on this one, and all her hard work came to fruition this morning when Reilly clapped on demand. Now, we need only say “yay!” and Reilly will start clapping. She has been kind enough to oblige us all day today, clapping like a little monkey.

Week 45 Pictures

Week 45 pictures are up at the Smugmug site. Click here to see Reilly's visit to the Bronx zoo, her first rice cake, and much, much more.

From the Archives: May 19, 2004 - Age 28

Wednesday, May 19th, 2004

This afternoon, Ellen and I walked over to Erika’s office to share with her the new stationery options that we have developed for our department. As we entered her office, I heard a low murmur coming from her computer monitor, and asked her what the noise was. She said that she was listening to the September 11th hearings. As she answered the question, the low murmur was interspersed by what appeared to be a man yelling. I said that it sounded like the conversation was getting heated. At this comment, Erika turned up the sound so that we might hear. The man was quite upset, was yelling that he wanted answers. A woman’s voice then came into the fray, and she said that her brother had been a firefighter that died in the fall of the towers, and quite bluntly told the man to sit down and shut up.

By this point, we had all lowered our eyes and drifted off into our own thoughts and memories, so it was with much gratitude that I thanked Erika when she reached over and turned the sound level back to a murmur. The murmur is what we are accustomed to, living here in The City. It’s always there.

It was then, with some uncomfortable clearing of throats, that we went about discussing the great importance of our new stationery.

A strawberry candy as metaphor for an evening of lasts

Last night, I left the apartment, ran down the stairs, and grabbed a strawberry candy out of the Holy Food Box on the way out the door. The holy strawberry candy was calling my name all the way down 6th Avenue, but I waited until I hit 10th Street to open it. The wrapper unfolded quickly in my clumsy fingers—too quickly—and the candy fell to the sidewalk. Sad.

I was sad last night because I was on the way to my last book club. I wasn’t sad about the books, of course. In fact, I hadn’t even read this month’s book. I was sad because this would be the last time I would ever see most of the people in the book club.

As a group we came together randomly, yet grew to like each other deliberately. And it is rare for me to find people who are cut from the same cloth as me, who are witty and progressive and literate. To discuss books with them was to have a Master’s class in literature without the pretension; to replace study with wine, to turn classmates into friends.

Another case of the baby playing with the box the gift came in

Last weekend, Shawn and I paid an exorbitant price at a local toystore to buy Reilly a Radio Flyer Walker Wagon. She had spent the last few days pushing a wicker basket around the apartment, and though we don't have the space for another thing in our room, we saw that Reilly had a developmental need, and God forbid we not fulfill it. I mean, what kind of parents would we be to not at least buy her something with wheels?

Of couse, after I spent a good 20 minutes putting the darn thing together (some assembly required), Reilly was so excited about her gift that she completely ignored it, choosing to play with the box it came in instead. To be fair, it was a very nice box, but at the same time, I got a little pit in my stomach over the cash we had just spent and the probability that Reilly would now refuse to play with the wagon.

Soon, though, the box grew boring, and Reilly suddenly noticed that sitting before her was a little wagon that was just her size. She climbed up to the handles...

..and pushed that wagon straight across the room.

I didn't know whether to be relieved or proud.

From the Archives: May 17, 1988 - Age 12

Mary, Amy, Brittinay, and Kelli are all lesbos. They were all looking at this lady with a strapless bra. They were all laughing at it!

Peter wants to trade Top Gun for Metroid.

Chris Petro talks to much!

While you were sleeping

At night, before we go to bed, Shawn and I always look in on Reilly. Shawn likes to gently rub her baby’s back, to steal a quiet moment while Reilly is sleeping. I just like to stare at my daughter, to take a moment to study her while she is not in motion.

Lately, we’ve both been commenting on how big Reilly is getting and how she is beginning to resemble a little girl. While she is active, we notice her budding vocabulary, or her ability to stand unsupported. While Reilly sleeps, we see the length of her hair, and the way her lean body, when stretched out to its full length, takes up a lot more crib that it used to.

The Sad Clown

If you ask a parent what his or her favorite sound is, I think most would say the sound of their child’s laughter.

I totally get it. There is something about Reilly’s laugh that I find truly therapeutic and life-affirming. When she laughs, the sound just takes over her whole little body, and I’ll perform all kinds of silly capers to generate even the smallest giggle.

I wonder, then, if the saddest thing about raising Reilly will be when I won’t be able to make her laugh anymore?

Going to the zoo, zoo, zoo...

When I asked Shawn last week what she wanted to do for Mother's Day, she was quick to answer: "Let's take Reilly to the Bronx Zoo." So, on Saturday we packed up the stroller and diaper bag and took the 5 Train to the Bronx. When we left Manhattan, it was overcast and chilly, but by the time we reached the zoo, the sky was blue and the sun was warming the air to a temperature worthy of short sleeves.



Just inside the front gate were the camel rides, where Reilly had her first encounter with an animal other than a dog, cat, or pigeon. She loved that camel so much that she cried when we wheeled away. Additional stops made less of an impression on her--the animals were either too far away or too still to catch her eye.

Then, we decided to give the children's zoo a try, and that is when Reilly came alive. First, we stopped by the petting zoo, where she met a llama, sheep, chickens, and the goat pictured below.

The highlight of the trip was when we went into the prairie dog section, where you could poke your head up in observation tubes and interact with the little critters. The prairie dogs were so social, they would come right up and scratch at the plastic tube. Reilly found this to be the silliest thing she had ever seen, and laughed wildly each time she was approached.

The best part was that the zoo was nearly empty. Being that the weather was poor in the morning, and that it was the day before Mother's Day, there were maybe only 1,000 people there. We never stood in a line, we never had to wait for the bathroom, and we even ate our lunch at a picnic area that was totally vacant. I think I can safely say that it was the best time we've ever had as a family, and a perfect way to celebrate Shawn's first Mother's Day.

Week 44 Pictures

New pictures are up at the Smugmug site. Click here to check 'em out!

Here comes the airplane!

Whenever I feed Reilly, I find myself opening my mouth in anticipation of her doing the same. I don’t believe in any sort of interpersonal mind-control, but for some reason, when I open my mouth, I expect Reilly’s mouth to stretch open as well.

I don’t know if this is a leftover vestige from my own childhood or some sort of reflex. I do know that I must look like a moron with my mouth gaping open as I feed Reilly. But unless I really focus on keeping my mouth sealed shut, my choppers open every time the airplane lifts off.

Proof that dad dressed the baby

Two legs, one pant leg:

Shirt on backwards:

Rusk Appreciation Day

Last Friday, our fellow daycare parents threw a party to recognize the daycare workers during “Teacher Appreciation Week.” The party was held under a white gazebo at a public park out on Chambers Street, and our $20 entry fee per family included pizza, mini cupcakes, and lots of screaming children.

Malcom, a fellow father from Reilly’s classroom (the Bunny Room) mentioned that the only thing missing was beer. I told him that I couldn’t agree more, being that it was 6:30pm on a Friday, and that Reilly was growing fussier by the minute. Also, both Shawn and I had neglected to bring the diaper bag, so we had no backup Cheerios or toys to distract her with. I said as much to Malcolm. He then reached into his bag and said, “Here, why don’t you give her a biscuit.”

I should pause here to say that Malcolm is British, so this sentence was said in a British accent.

Now, you may or may not know that Shawn and I are rather paranoid about the food we give Reilly, fearing allergy (a fear that was confirmed just a few days after this). Yet, in the face of an antsy baby, I acquiesced and gave Reilly the piece of biscuit. She promptly devoured it. What was more shocking is that she ate it without much mess and without choking once.

Since Reilly’s other teething biscuits require a bath after she eats them (should she survive the experience without asphyxiating), I asked Malcom what this magic biscuit was, and he said “Farley’s Rusks.” I told him that I would have to buy some, and asked where I might find a package. He furrowed his brow and told me that he had stocked up on them when he was home in England, since he was unsure if they could be found in the States.

The next day, I fired up the laptop and started my Google search. With the search terms “Farley's Rusks New York City” I was able to locate a store named “Myers of Keswick’s English Shop” located over on Hudson Avenue. Shawn and I buckled up Reilly right away and strolled out to the location, only to find that it was closed. Actually, we couldn’t find it at all. Apparently, the landscape changes so fast in the City, a storefront can change before a website comes down.

Dejected, we walked home on Greenwich Avenue, remembering that there was a British fish n’ chips restaurant and a British clothing store side-by-side a few blocks away. I figured I could inquire there as to where the magical biscuits might be found. When we arrived, I was elated to see that wedged in-between the restaurant and clothing store was a British tea house, complete with select goods for sale in the front window. I went in and asked if they had Farley’s Rusks, and the shopkeeper said, “Sure, large or small?”

So now, every afternoon, Reilly gets to eat a quarter of a biscuit. We have rationed the amount for three good reasons:

1) the biscuit is really a cookie, and is not very nutritious
2) the biscuit too big for Reilly to eat all at once
3) the box of 9 biscuits cost $6.50, and though I’m not a total miser, that strikes me as quite expensive for a box of cookies—even if they are magic.

The Five Stages of Sweet

For the last couple of months, our weekday mornings have started off like this:

The alarm goes off at 6:00am. We snooze until the second alarm at 6:15am. Due to the small size of our apartment, the second alarm also wakes up Reilly. Reilly is usually pretty patient about getting picked up, though if she is in a hurry, she will bang her pacifier against the slats of the crib like a little infant prisoner.

Shawn then goes to get our daughter from the crib and brings her back to bed for nursing. At this point, the five-stage morning routine beings:

Stage 1: The Milk Coma
Duration: 90 seconds
Once her stomach is full, Reilly is mellow and lethargic, and the moments after this first feeding are the only time of the day that she is willing to stay still. Shawn takes this opportunity to soak up Reilly in a full mother/daughter cuddle.

Stage 2: The Overcast Lounge
Duration: 2 minutes
After the first stage, Reilly will sit back with Shawn and just lounge while she is recovering from her cuddle and trying to shake off the remainder of her milk coma. The only thing missing is a pair of baby slippers. Eventually, she will snap out of it, and with her bearings intact, move into the next stage.

Stage 3: The Obstacle Course
Duration: 5 minutes
In this stage, Reilly slowly comes to life. She begins by exploring the bed around her, poking her parents with her finger (the middle one, of course) and murmuring quietly. As she grows more confident, she will begin to use us as an impromptu obstacle course, crawling all over.

*Today, while in this stage, Reilly pulled herself up on Shawn’s hip. Then, without even telling us it was coming, she let go and with the balance of a ballerina, stood without assistance for a good three seconds before falling back on her bum. Then, she did it again. And again. Effortlessly.

**Did I mention that Reilly stood without our help for three seconds?

***It was awesome.

Stage 4: The Daredevil
Duration: 10 seconds
This stage comes to a rapid beginning and end the first time that Reilly attempts to crawl off the bed.

Stage 5: The Babysitter
Duration: 40 minutes
We get out of bed, turn on Sesame Street, and put Reilly in her exersaucer to burn off some energy. I’d like to say that there is some good purpose behind this stage, but frankly, we just need a way to keep her contained while we get ready for work.

From the Archives: May 8, 2004 - Age 28

Part I: The Market Report

The Farmer's market, when I finally got up to frequent it, was bustling. My first stop was at the fish stand, where I bought a pound of scallops. While in line, I joked with a man about the system they have at the fish stand, in which one person weighs your fish, while another person rings you up for it. Much like a supermarket, they have divided the tasks into different jobs. Much like a supermarket, this system sucks. You get your order placed in a minute, then wait five minutes in line to pay for it.

Next to the fish stand was a woman selling zucchini and zucchini florets (I bought the zucchini but passed on the florets), and the first asparagus of the season. It was dark green in the stem, dark purple at the florets, and only four dollars for a bunch. I almost bit into a fresh stalk I was so excited.

My last three stops were at the mushroom stand for a half pound of “specials,” at the bread stand for our usual cranberry scones (which we would eat warm with a mug of Columbian coffee a short time later), and at the east end flower stand for a bunch of buttercups and lily of the valley. There were plentiful new garlic and ramps this week, but I forgot to get them. There were also fiddleheads, but I over did it with them last year, so I think I’ll pass this season.

Part II: If I Had a Hammer…

We spent our afternoon running errands, from SoHo to 34th Street and back again. I picked up some pants at Loehmann’s. Somehow, I also picked up a panhandler when crossing from 9th Avenue to 8th Avenue on 32nd Street. He saw us coming, asked some opening salvo (something along the lines of, “Hey man, can you help me out? I’m looking to use my 'go card' and wanna get home to see my momma"), then fell in step with us, me on one side, Shawn on the other.

He told me that it was his 32nd birthday on Easter, and that he had recently been baptized. He told me that he had just gotten out of jail, and his momma was looking at him like she didn’t even know him. He told me that he was special, he was different—he loved people, and he was a born-again Christian. The whole time I’m nodding along with him, not answering him either way, as this is an “in” for a panhandler. He told me the name of his psychiatrist, just in case I was “one of them,” which I didn't exactly get. He basically told me his whole damn panhandler sob story that I’ve heard in a hundred different versions from a hundred different shitheads, and the whole time Shawn is snickering and making faces and honestly, the guy was funny. Unintentionally. He gave up on us one block and one avenue later, just as I was beginning to get irritated.

His parting remark, after again asking if we could “help him out” was, and I quote, “The cross is on your back, the nails are in your pocket, the hammer is in your hand, and I know you pray every day.”

Part III. Yer Birthday.

We spent the evening with Drew and Sara, over at their place, in what amounted to the most casual birthday party ever. Since Sara recently hurt her lower back, and is unable to really get out and about, we decided to stay in. Shawn and I brought two bottles of red, and Drew and Sara supplied Joe’s pizza and cupcakes from Magnolia bakery. It was so nice to shrug off all the formality and pomp of The Birthday Party and instead do it like we did when we were kids (not counting the wine, of course). Shawn and I had been craving pizza lately anyway, and of course we’d never pass up a Magnolia cupcake. We ate and talked and drank our wine, chatting up until about 11:00pm, when Shawn and I started to glaze over, and the shenanigans from the night before began to catch up with us. We took the 1 Train home, the rhythm of the subway car gently rocking us to sleep.

Shouldn't "Relax" be Step 5?

One time, Shawn tried to make meringue cookies. The recipe essentially calls for a ton of egg whites which you whip into firm peaks, and then bake. I remember Shawn in the kitchen, whipping away with a whisk, and those egg whites would not rise. Shawn called her mom for advice, and found that even if the slightest tiny bit of egg yolk got into the mix, that the batch would be ruined.

Shawn rinsed out the mixing bowl and then started anew, making sure to keep every speck of egg yolk out of the mixture. This time when Shawn started in with the whisk, the egg whites rose out of the bowl like a mountain of fluff, and the cookies were a great success.

Yesterday, Shawn made Reilly some egg yolks for lunch. Reilly LOVES egg yolks, it is by far her favorite food, as evidenced by the way she literally dives forward for the spoon, mouth stretched wide. Unfortunately, we came to learn that even the smallest amount of egg white is an allergen for Reilly.

Our baby got hives, and I mean BAD. She was covered in the itchy little suckers, and Reilly was beside herself trying to scratch them away. Shawn was beside herself with worry and guilt. I was rapidly leafing through our Baby 411 book, looking for advice.

From page 329:

Step 1: Relax. If your child is not having any trouble breathing, this can be managed at home.

Shawn and I skip over the relax part and start focusing on Reilly’s breathing. Is she breathing okay? I don’t know, what do you think? I can’t hear her. Can we normally hear her? Okay, I guess she’s fine. Yeah. Okay.

Step 2: Try to figure out what caused the hives.

That one was easy. Next step!

Step 3: Stop any medications until seeing the doctor.

Another easy one, Reilly isn’t on any medications.

Step 4: Give Benadryl to the baby.

See Brian bolt to bedroom. See him locate Benadryl and pause while recalling proper dosage for a 15 pound baby. See Shawn enter room with Hive Baby. See Brian administer Benadryl in one quick squirt, while Hive Baby writhes in itchiness. See Shawn and Brian expect instant relief.

See Brian and Shawn panic when baby resumes frantic itching and crying.

Eventually, of course, the Benadryl kicked in, and though it took about 8 hours, the hives eventually started to recede, and Reilly returned to her normal, happy self, as if nothing ever happened.

It wasn’t so easy for us, especially Shawn, who took to repeating the following phrase to me about every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day, her face twisted up and contrite: “I poisoned my baby!”

Week 43 Pictures

Yep, it's that time of the week again. For more photos of Reilly, please click here.

From the Archives: May 6, 2002 - Age 26

Something I’ve been thinking about:

What, exactly, is a thought? What is it made of? If you could hold one, what would it feel like? A little shock from a synapse? And—what sort of space does a thought occupy? When I think it, does it dissipate, or does it float about in some microscopic form, hanging about my body until it drifts away to take up space elsewhere?

I imagine that thoughts are lighter than air, that the size of a thought is so small—I mean, we can’t see thoughts and we can’t see air. I see them on the paper but this is just the physical representation of that thought. The original thought, where is it? It must be true that thoughts are stored in the brain, otherwise we wouldn’t recall memory. So the space it takes up is finite in some way. Perhaps that is why it is so hard to remember—thoughts are so minute and numerous that they are difficult to file away—it is like trying to sort and make sense of a beach full of sand, grain by grain.

Evidence that Reilly is indeed an Urban Baby

Yesterday, I took Reilly to the playground at Madison Square Park. As we were leaving, I noticed that the green was open. I parked the stroller under a tree and then parked Reilly in a sunny spot in the grass. Reilly's first reaction to the grass was confusion. She absolutely did not want to touch it.

What the hell is this stuff?

What do I do, Dad?

But eventually she decided it was safe, and carefully combed the prickly blades with her hand.

Read to me, kid.

There are many things that new parents need. Among the most important, I would list a bouncy seat, a stroller, and at least two dozen burp rags. However, after nine plus months of being a parent, I would give up all these things for just one appliance: a dishwasher.

You see, after much trial and error in Reilly’s infancy, she finally settled on the most complex bottle that money can buy. Each of her Dr. Brown’s bottles has seven components to it. Multiply that by the three bottles she has per day, and I’m looking at twenty-one small plastic pieces to wash. Throw in the dishes generated by one of my extravagant dinners, and I’ll find myself at the sink for fifteen to twenty minutes a night.

Look, I know I’m not the only one out there who has to do dishes, but I’ve got to be the last person in America without a dishwasher.

Last night, I was about halfway through dish duty when Shawn, who was giving Reilly a bath, called me from the bathroom. I groaned and begrudgingly walked to the bathroom to see what trivial thing Shawn would point out to me. I even carried the sponge and fork I was washing to illustrate exactly how much I was being put out by this request. (Am I a brat or what?)

When I poked my head through the door, Shawn said, “Just listen. Reilly is sharing the book with me!”

Reilly had her waterproof book, “Who Lives in the Pond?” in the tub with her, and was pointing to a beaver on the open page while looking up at Shawn.

“Ba-ba-da-ba!” she said.
“Yes,” replied Shawn, “that’s a beaver.”

Reilly then pointed to the frog on the other side of the page and looked back up at Shawn.

“Da-pa!”
“Yes,” replied Shawn, “that’s a frog.”

And then she pointed to the turtle. And then the duck. And then the tadpole. Each time, she repeated the chatter.

Then Reilly threw down the book and splashed the water and squealed, and the moment was gone. Shawn and I just looked at each other, stretching our smiles to the edges of our faces. Then Shawn stuck out her bottom lip and said exactly what I was thinking:

“She’s growing up.”

If you're happy and you know it...

At our nine-month pediatrician visit a few weeks ago, Dr. Zullo asked me if Reilly had learned to knock two blocks together. Now, I know from our daycare progress report that this is a major milestone for a nine-month-old. In fact, if your child can’t knock two blocks together, this failure is to be demarcated in a bold and highlighted box at the bottom of the sheet, a box accompanied by other behavioral bad omens such as “Rocks incessantly” and “Avoids eye contact.”

Not wanting to get a check in that foreboding box, I did what every parent would do. I lied.

I said, “Well, she does slap her hands on the table sometimes.”

To which Dr. Zullo said, “But does she clap her hands together?”

Pause.

“Oh, you mean together! Of course. Yes. I misunderstood. Next question.”

Since that day, I’ve been anxiously awaiting the knocking of the blocks. Today, I was rewarded. This afternoon after I picked up Reilly from daycare, we set up on the carpet at home and started playing. (I should mention that the den is now a thing of the past. Reilly will not be contained.) I chose two of Reilly’s stacking rings, and started clapping them together. In response, Reilly picked up the two rings I had placed before her, and clapped together her rings, leaning her head back and swaying around like Stevie Wonder. We clapped back and forth like this until Reilly got bored and crawled away, skidding her rings across the floor.

Not wanting to let her escape, I swept her up into the air and let out a whoo!—a victory cry in lieu of applause.