I know two people who share my birthday, one from high school, Kelli, and one that I met at a wedding, Amber. Amber and I spent the night running around the reception and stealing people’s drinks as they put them down. She told me that what she was doing was rebellious because she was a Mormon. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but she was a lot of fun to be around. We kept in touch over the years via post, but as letter writing goes, one or the other of us delayed and delayed and then finally it was too late to write anymore.
January 29th isn’t much of a day for anniversaries, I mean, there aren’t many who get married in the chill of winter, but I do think of the anniversary of my old friend Chip on this day. Today is the anniversary of his death. In some ways I like that his death happened on my birthday because it guarantees that I won’t forget him. Also it reminds me that birthdays—even the innocuous 32nd one—are meaningful and should be celebrated.
Chip’s funeral was the first one I ever went to. I remember his wife—I’ve forgotten her name—and how she was the very picture of grief, and how uncomfortable that made me. More so, I remember his daughter, she was about Reilly’s age at the time, and though she didn’t affect me much then, I feel her pain even more so now, imagining how Reilly would react should I get cancer and one day leave her for good.
So, when people wish me a happy birthday, I am thankful, and I am grateful. After all, I’m only “in my thirties.”
It could be much worse.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
The Thumbs up Dance Routine
Back to the baby, okay?
Some time ago, let’s say six weeks or so, Shawn started the Thumbs Up Program with Reilly. The Thumbs Up Program is a thinly-veiled way for us to teach Reilly positive thinking and general optimism. The way the program is implemented is with some gentle encouragement, directed at Reilly (usually over breakfast). In short, Shawn will ask, “Reilly, are you going to have a thumbs up day today?
Over time, Reilly has gone from giving Shawn a simple thumbs up to now including an elaborate thumbs up and dance routine. This morning she was doing the routine with particular gusto, so I grabbed the video camera and recorded some footage.
Shawn and I tend to email back and forth throughout the day, as opposed to calling each other. Calling is less private and less convenient, so electronic mail is the way we keep in touch. Here is an email chain from this morning, as we reminisced about the thumbs up dance routine:
Me: I keep thinking of Reilly’s little happy thumbs up dance. I just loved it.
Shawn: Wasn’t that the best? I just love that little girl.
Me: I’ve been telling the story and doing the dance to anyone who will listen.
Shawn: I know, me too. I even did the dance for Reilly’s teacher this morning.
Me: Ha! The crazy things that child makes us do!
Some time ago, let’s say six weeks or so, Shawn started the Thumbs Up Program with Reilly. The Thumbs Up Program is a thinly-veiled way for us to teach Reilly positive thinking and general optimism. The way the program is implemented is with some gentle encouragement, directed at Reilly (usually over breakfast). In short, Shawn will ask, “Reilly, are you going to have a thumbs up day today?
Over time, Reilly has gone from giving Shawn a simple thumbs up to now including an elaborate thumbs up and dance routine. This morning she was doing the routine with particular gusto, so I grabbed the video camera and recorded some footage.
Shawn and I tend to email back and forth throughout the day, as opposed to calling each other. Calling is less private and less convenient, so electronic mail is the way we keep in touch. Here is an email chain from this morning, as we reminisced about the thumbs up dance routine:
Me: I keep thinking of Reilly’s little happy thumbs up dance. I just loved it.
Shawn: Wasn’t that the best? I just love that little girl.
Me: I’ve been telling the story and doing the dance to anyone who will listen.
Shawn: I know, me too. I even did the dance for Reilly’s teacher this morning.
Me: Ha! The crazy things that child makes us do!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Apparently I don't even know the date
You know when you have one of those weeks where you don't even know what the date is? As evidenced by the post below, I'm having one of those weeks. Apparently, it is still January. Here is a more appropriate "From the Archives" post from four years ago today:
Saturday, January 24th, 2004
After work yesterday, I waited for the N or R train to come along and whisk me uptown toward home. To my surprise, a Q Express Train came in on the local track, and since the Q stops at 14th Street, I got on. The train ran us up to City Hall Station, at which point the conductor said, “This is City Hall, next stop Canal Street. Stand clear of the closing doors please.” The only problem with this statement was that the doors had never opened in the first place. Those people waiting inside the train started banging on the doors, but it was too late. The people on the platform waiting to board just stared, dumbstruck, as the train pulled away from the station. I was laughing quietly to myself in amazement. Who would have thought it—just when I thought there wasn’t anything new left to be seen, the doors don’t open on a subway train.
Saturday, January 24th, 2004
After work yesterday, I waited for the N or R train to come along and whisk me uptown toward home. To my surprise, a Q Express Train came in on the local track, and since the Q stops at 14th Street, I got on. The train ran us up to City Hall Station, at which point the conductor said, “This is City Hall, next stop Canal Street. Stand clear of the closing doors please.” The only problem with this statement was that the doors had never opened in the first place. Those people waiting inside the train started banging on the doors, but it was too late. The people on the platform waiting to board just stared, dumbstruck, as the train pulled away from the station. I was laughing quietly to myself in amazement. Who would have thought it—just when I thought there wasn’t anything new left to be seen, the doors don’t open on a subway train.
From the archives: Tuesday, February 24th, 2004
This morning, Shawn and Donna left the apartment at about 8:00. I locked the door and then started ironing my clothes for work. About ten seconds later, Shawn called and told me that there was a bum sleeping in the small area between our front door and outer door. I asked if she wanted me to come down and escort him out, but she declined and delicately stepped around his sleeping form.
As I got ready over the course of the next half hour, I hoped that the bum would be gone when I left for work. In case he hadn’t left, I prepared myself for the various scenarios that might occur when I found him there. I decided that I would first ask him to leave nicely, saying something along the lines of, “Sorry friend, you can’t sleep here.” If that didn’t work, then I’d try a rougher approach, “Let’s go, get up, get out of here!” And then, if that didn’t persuade him, a little manual encouragement would be my technique of choice.
When I trudged down the stairs at 8:30, the bum was leaning against our mailboxes, and when I looked through the door at him, he looked away, and I saw that he was afraid. He was about my brother’s age, maybe a bit younger, and for some reason, that disarmed me. I did not say anything that I thought I would say. Instead, I said, “How are you?” and he said, “Okay.”
I left him there in the space between doors because it was cold outside, because there was snow in the forecast, and because seeing a kid instead of an adult really took the fight right out of me.
As I got ready over the course of the next half hour, I hoped that the bum would be gone when I left for work. In case he hadn’t left, I prepared myself for the various scenarios that might occur when I found him there. I decided that I would first ask him to leave nicely, saying something along the lines of, “Sorry friend, you can’t sleep here.” If that didn’t work, then I’d try a rougher approach, “Let’s go, get up, get out of here!” And then, if that didn’t persuade him, a little manual encouragement would be my technique of choice.
When I trudged down the stairs at 8:30, the bum was leaning against our mailboxes, and when I looked through the door at him, he looked away, and I saw that he was afraid. He was about my brother’s age, maybe a bit younger, and for some reason, that disarmed me. I did not say anything that I thought I would say. Instead, I said, “How are you?” and he said, “Okay.”
I left him there in the space between doors because it was cold outside, because there was snow in the forecast, and because seeing a kid instead of an adult really took the fight right out of me.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Week 132 Pictures
Reilly has a wonderful outlook on friends. She has what we would typically consider her friends: her little pals from preschool, her friend Hannah. She also considers the following people to be her friends: her teacher, her stuffed animals, her grandparents, My Danny, her parent's friends, and finally, her parents.
How lucky to be considered a friend.
A couple more photos from our broken camera can be found here.
How lucky to be considered a friend.
Also a friend is Mr. Scarecrow:
A couple more photos from our broken camera can be found here.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
As Willie would say, "On the road again..."
A travel day, in quotes only:
“Air puffers on. Wait for green light.”
“You can see my house from the window, right next to that tower. My family owns a horse farm.”
“Please initial here, here and here.”
“Please proceed to the highlighted route.”
“I heard of a man that ended up turning onto the train tracks just because the GPS told him to.”
“Hello, Brian, this is Natalie from the front desk. How is everything in your room?”
“You’re thinking about the Opa-Opa, aren’t you?”
“Air puffers on. Wait for green light.”
“You can see my house from the window, right next to that tower. My family owns a horse farm.”
“Please initial here, here and here.”
“Please proceed to the highlighted route.”
“I heard of a man that ended up turning onto the train tracks just because the GPS told him to.”
“Hello, Brian, this is Natalie from the front desk. How is everything in your room?”
“You’re thinking about the Opa-Opa, aren’t you?”
Monday, January 14, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
And then she looked at me.
Yesterday morning, Reilly was angry at the world. One way she was expressing that anger was by not doing anything I asked her to do. In many cases, she would accentuate this by actually doing the opposite of what I asked her to do. After about an hour of mental tug-of-war, I pulled out my trump card and put her in Time Out.
After Reilly’s two minutes of Time Out, I got down on my knee, hugged her, and explained to her why she was in Time Out. She averted her eyes while I gently lectured her, even when I asked her to look at me. Thirty minutes later, she was off and running at school and I was on my way to work, frazzled.
Last night, after her bath and story time, Reilly asked that I sit in the rocking chair and sing songs to her. She wrapped her legs around my stomach, laid her head on my shoulder, and nuzzled into my neck while I started in on “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” At the start of the second verse, she sat up and looked at me right in the eye. The intensity of her stare was almost overwhelming.
I stopped singing and asked her what was the matter. Reilly told me, a bit sheepishly, that she could sing “Twinkle, Twinkle” all by herself.
“Really?” I asked. “Well, go ahead.”
Reilly said, “One, two, three…” and then sang the song to me. After the first verse she let out a proud little giggle, and then continued until the song was over. Then we sang the song once together, a father and daughter duet that I won’t soon forget.
After Reilly’s two minutes of Time Out, I got down on my knee, hugged her, and explained to her why she was in Time Out. She averted her eyes while I gently lectured her, even when I asked her to look at me. Thirty minutes later, she was off and running at school and I was on my way to work, frazzled.
Last night, after her bath and story time, Reilly asked that I sit in the rocking chair and sing songs to her. She wrapped her legs around my stomach, laid her head on my shoulder, and nuzzled into my neck while I started in on “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” At the start of the second verse, she sat up and looked at me right in the eye. The intensity of her stare was almost overwhelming.
I stopped singing and asked her what was the matter. Reilly told me, a bit sheepishly, that she could sing “Twinkle, Twinkle” all by herself.
“Really?” I asked. “Well, go ahead.”
Reilly said, “One, two, three…” and then sang the song to me. After the first verse she let out a proud little giggle, and then continued until the song was over. Then we sang the song once together, a father and daughter duet that I won’t soon forget.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Your weekly photos
Our camera is down. I guess all those times we've dropped it have finally taken their toll.
These are all I could salvage of this week's shots.
These are all I could salvage of this week's shots.
Inspector Mustache bids you adieu
A Mr. Potato Head representation of me, after shaving this morning:
The Band-Aid was Reilly's addition.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Inspector, Part 3
When I was a teenager, my mother started to call me The Inspector because of my penchant for spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror. I think most teenagers spend a lot of time in front of the mirror; after all, we are for the first time going through rapid bodily changes while also trying to attract the opposite sex for the first time. Being that I had quite a bout of acne in this stage of my life, it is possible that I spent more time than most in front of the mirror. Perhaps I thought that by staring at my zits, they might disappear.
This habit of looking at myself in the mirror carried through into my adult life, so much so that while living in New York, Shawn once accused me of being vain. In fact, she sang the song to further drive home her point. I was quite defensive at this accusation. I’ve never considered myself vain—I was merely inspecting, and to prove the point, I decreed that I would not look into the mirror for one week.
One week later, I took the notes I had written on this experience and formed them into an essay, which I then turned in to my professor at The New School for my writing assignment. At my group critique, my professor led off by skewering my essay ruthlessly. My classmates, taking her lead, followed with scathing remarks. The essay, I’ll agree, was not great, but I though the gusto that my professor took in dismantling it a bit harsh. I did not like her for this.
My professor was Lucy Greeley. She told me I should read her book.
Looking back now, I can see how I stumbled here, how, as a person with a face, I had failed to consider that my teacher was not like me, that my week without a mirror was trivial compared to her life before one. Still, I did not like her. She was mean.
Many in my class did not like how mean Lucy was. When it was time for us to choose our advisors for our theses, none of us chose Lucy. This hurt her. One day she popped in to one of our literature classes and asked again if anyone needed an advisor. No one responded. Downcast eyes. I could see that it hurt her, but I didn’t want to work with someone so difficult.
It would have been wise of me to do so.
There are two kinds of writing teachers, the nurturing kind, and the cruel kind. When I reflect on my time at the New School, I know for certain that it was the third essay I wrote for Lucy’s class that was my best of my entire career. It was the best because Lucy’s meanness made me reach down for something that was raw, that might shock the class, and the essay that resulted she praised and praised. My classmates, taking her lead, followed with laurels.
Not long after Lucy ducked her head into our class, she killed herself. This fact was difficult for all of my classmates, difficult because of our guilt, and difficult because of our anger. How mean of her to give up, such a strong woman who had been through countless surgeries to recreate her face, to lay down in that grey city and give in to the unfairness of it all.
This habit of looking at myself in the mirror carried through into my adult life, so much so that while living in New York, Shawn once accused me of being vain. In fact, she sang the song to further drive home her point. I was quite defensive at this accusation. I’ve never considered myself vain—I was merely inspecting, and to prove the point, I decreed that I would not look into the mirror for one week.
One week later, I took the notes I had written on this experience and formed them into an essay, which I then turned in to my professor at The New School for my writing assignment. At my group critique, my professor led off by skewering my essay ruthlessly. My classmates, taking her lead, followed with scathing remarks. The essay, I’ll agree, was not great, but I though the gusto that my professor took in dismantling it a bit harsh. I did not like her for this.
My professor was Lucy Greeley. She told me I should read her book.
Looking back now, I can see how I stumbled here, how, as a person with a face, I had failed to consider that my teacher was not like me, that my week without a mirror was trivial compared to her life before one. Still, I did not like her. She was mean.
Many in my class did not like how mean Lucy was. When it was time for us to choose our advisors for our theses, none of us chose Lucy. This hurt her. One day she popped in to one of our literature classes and asked again if anyone needed an advisor. No one responded. Downcast eyes. I could see that it hurt her, but I didn’t want to work with someone so difficult.
It would have been wise of me to do so.
There are two kinds of writing teachers, the nurturing kind, and the cruel kind. When I reflect on my time at the New School, I know for certain that it was the third essay I wrote for Lucy’s class that was my best of my entire career. It was the best because Lucy’s meanness made me reach down for something that was raw, that might shock the class, and the essay that resulted she praised and praised. My classmates, taking her lead, followed with laurels.
Not long after Lucy ducked her head into our class, she killed herself. This fact was difficult for all of my classmates, difficult because of our guilt, and difficult because of our anger. How mean of her to give up, such a strong woman who had been through countless surgeries to recreate her face, to lay down in that grey city and give in to the unfairness of it all.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Inspector, Part 2
Yesterday, I returned home to find a sink full of dishes. Being “Husband of the Year” for two years running now, I rolled up my sleeves and got started. However, after washing the silverware and a few cups, I noted a scene that gave me pause.
Reilly’s large pink cereal bowl was partially full of leftover Peanut Butter Bumpers. However, there was also a second bowl, a smaller purple one that contained a few soggy Cinnamon Life squares. Being the world-class inspector that I am, I was able to deduce several things. Allow me to recreate Shawn and Reilly’s morning.
Shawn asks Reilly if she would like Peanut Butter Bumpers for breakfast. Reilly says yes. Shawn fills a bowl of Peanut Butter Bumpers for Reilly and lets her begin her breakfast. Then, Shawn returns to the kitchen to make her own bowl of cereal. Since Shawn does not like Peanut Butter Bumpers, she instead selects for herself Cinnamon Life. She takes the bowl into the dining room, sits down, but upon her first bite, hears a voice of protest from across the table. Reilly, being the conformist that she is, sees Shawn’s cereal and demands that she too be given a bowl of Cinnamon Life. Shawn, having had this argument before, silently thinks I should have seen that coming and goes to get Reilly a second, smaller bowl of the aforementioned cereal. However, Reilly, having eaten most of her Peanut Butter Bumpers already, is too full to finish her new—albeit smaller—bowl of cereal. Hence the scene from the kitchen sink.
Elementary, my dear Internets.
Reilly’s large pink cereal bowl was partially full of leftover Peanut Butter Bumpers. However, there was also a second bowl, a smaller purple one that contained a few soggy Cinnamon Life squares. Being the world-class inspector that I am, I was able to deduce several things. Allow me to recreate Shawn and Reilly’s morning.
Shawn asks Reilly if she would like Peanut Butter Bumpers for breakfast. Reilly says yes. Shawn fills a bowl of Peanut Butter Bumpers for Reilly and lets her begin her breakfast. Then, Shawn returns to the kitchen to make her own bowl of cereal. Since Shawn does not like Peanut Butter Bumpers, she instead selects for herself Cinnamon Life. She takes the bowl into the dining room, sits down, but upon her first bite, hears a voice of protest from across the table. Reilly, being the conformist that she is, sees Shawn’s cereal and demands that she too be given a bowl of Cinnamon Life. Shawn, having had this argument before, silently thinks I should have seen that coming and goes to get Reilly a second, smaller bowl of the aforementioned cereal. However, Reilly, having eaten most of her Peanut Butter Bumpers already, is too full to finish her new—albeit smaller—bowl of cereal. Hence the scene from the kitchen sink.
Elementary, my dear Internets.
The Inspector, Part I
Every year, over winter break, I grow a beard. The tradition started in The City, where the cold winters discouraged any unnecessary shaving. Why expose my face to the sub-freezing weather when there were no workplace faces to be seen?
This year, after some discussion with a coworker, a pact was made to grow out our mustaches over winter break, and then surprise our colleagues on our first day back at work. That day was today.
In the past I have had every manner of facial hair, from soul patches to goatees to full beards. Never before have I had a mustache. The reason was two-fold: One, my dad has a mustache. Two, I’ve always thought mustaches look either silly or sleazy on younger men.
Despite these two reasons, I kept to my pact and shaved my winter break beard into a stylish mustache. Too chicken to go the full monty, I left a little flavor saver under my bottom lip. The result was hilarious. I laughed so hard when I saw the final product in the bathroom mirror that Shawn came in to see what was the matter. When I showed her my ‘stache, she was amused in the “husbands will be husbands” kind-of-way.
At work, I received a variety of reactions, most of which placed me into some ethnic group. I was told I looked like a Colombian coffee farmer, a Frenchman, Clark Gable, Borat, and an British Inspector. I grasped on to this last one as my alter ego for the life of my mustache.
Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce Inspector Overcast, of Scotland Yard:
This year, after some discussion with a coworker, a pact was made to grow out our mustaches over winter break, and then surprise our colleagues on our first day back at work. That day was today.
In the past I have had every manner of facial hair, from soul patches to goatees to full beards. Never before have I had a mustache. The reason was two-fold: One, my dad has a mustache. Two, I’ve always thought mustaches look either silly or sleazy on younger men.
Despite these two reasons, I kept to my pact and shaved my winter break beard into a stylish mustache. Too chicken to go the full monty, I left a little flavor saver under my bottom lip. The result was hilarious. I laughed so hard when I saw the final product in the bathroom mirror that Shawn came in to see what was the matter. When I showed her my ‘stache, she was amused in the “husbands will be husbands” kind-of-way.
At work, I received a variety of reactions, most of which placed me into some ethnic group. I was told I looked like a Colombian coffee farmer, a Frenchman, Clark Gable, Borat, and an British Inspector. I grasped on to this last one as my alter ego for the life of my mustache.
Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce Inspector Overcast, of Scotland Yard:
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Top 5 Cute Christmas Comments
1) “Daddy, Santa’s coming down the chimney chin chin!” or, Christmas lore with a dash of the 3 Little Pigs.
2) “Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn’t know.” This was the only line Reilly knew from the Christmas carol Up on the Housetop. It was endearing until we endured a long car ride with her singing nothing but that same line over and over.
3) In keeping with Reilly’s penchant for mixing musical genres, she started singing the song Bingo with the letters S-A-N-T-A exchanged. This was equally cute in short spans and excruciating when the song got stuck in my head for half a day.
4) For weeks, we had told Reilly that she couldn’t open her presents until Santa came. A few days before Christmas, Reilly said, “When Santa comes, he’s going to open my presents, and mommy’s presents, and daddy’s presents.” I guess she took the concept a little too literally.
5) I don’t know if all children are able to remember everything at this age, or if Reilly is gifted in her sense of recall, but Shawn and I need to say something just once and she will remember it. Names, events, it’s all the same.
Reilly is obsessed with manger scenes, so the other day we walked her to St. Pauls to see a manger, but there wasn’t one there, though there was an outdoor statue of Mary. Reilly quietly sat in awe of the large statue, and at that moment, Shawn bent down and said to her, “Mary gave you to me.”
Fast forward to the next day, at yet another manger scene downtown by the marina. Reilly looked at Shawn and said, “There’s Mary, mommy. She gave me to you.”
2) “Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn’t know.” This was the only line Reilly knew from the Christmas carol Up on the Housetop. It was endearing until we endured a long car ride with her singing nothing but that same line over and over.
3) In keeping with Reilly’s penchant for mixing musical genres, she started singing the song Bingo with the letters S-A-N-T-A exchanged. This was equally cute in short spans and excruciating when the song got stuck in my head for half a day.
4) For weeks, we had told Reilly that she couldn’t open her presents until Santa came. A few days before Christmas, Reilly said, “When Santa comes, he’s going to open my presents, and mommy’s presents, and daddy’s presents.” I guess she took the concept a little too literally.
5) I don’t know if all children are able to remember everything at this age, or if Reilly is gifted in her sense of recall, but Shawn and I need to say something just once and she will remember it. Names, events, it’s all the same.
Reilly is obsessed with manger scenes, so the other day we walked her to St. Pauls to see a manger, but there wasn’t one there, though there was an outdoor statue of Mary. Reilly quietly sat in awe of the large statue, and at that moment, Shawn bent down and said to her, “Mary gave you to me.”
Fast forward to the next day, at yet another manger scene downtown by the marina. Reilly looked at Shawn and said, “There’s Mary, mommy. She gave me to you.”
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