From the Archives: September 7, 2001 - Age 25

(What interested me about this entry, and the reason I'm posting it, is how amazingly free our lives were the first year we lived in New York City. With Reilly, our lives are so different--but no less amazing.)

One of the topics that Shawn and I have conversed on lately is that of the people who hand out flyers on the streets of The City. They all have various techniques, and some are more successful than others. These men and women (and children too) hand out flyers offering a variety of products, from clothing sales to bands that are playing. Some we see every day, like the girl who hands out pink slips of paper in front of her father’s jewelry store (at least, that is the story we’ve built around her).

There are many different colors and shapes of the flyers; most are either plain white or some fluorescent color, like pink or yellow. There are also many different techniques for handing out a flyer. Some people are timid and just turn out their wrist from their sides, while the people on the other end of the spectrum fully extend their arms and snap their wrists at you. Some stand still, some dance, some walk with you. The occasional person will approach you, tell you what the flyer offers, and then hand you one. Establishing this rapport is successful, but not time efficient. So, after careful study, I have devised the ultimate way to hand out a flyer. Flyer hander-outers take notice:

1) Though neon is more visible, I hate it. Especially fluorescent pink. I think most people will agree. So, screw the visibility—use white paper with black type, card stock. People will be less inclined to throw away a classy piece of white card stock than a cheap, thin piece of eye burning yellow paper.
2) Full arm extension, with a wrist snap. The paper should make a rustling noise, which will draw a person’s attention to the article.
3) Eye contact, when possible. This is the most time effective way to build a rapport.
4) Speaking of which, 99% of the people who we encounter handing out flyers, do NOT tell you what is on the flyer. So, the final, and critical rule here is to cry your wares, 19th century style. If people know what you’re offering, they’ll take a flyer.

Now, maybe these people don’t cry their wares because they’re selling pig ears. Or maybe they’re getting paid by the hour, and don’t really want to give away their flyers, because then they’d be out of work. That’s what I’m doing now, after all—writing in my journal when I should be working, trying to fill time because yesterday I almost finished what it was supposed to take me two full days to do.

After lunch Shawn and I (we are both temping at MoMA, but in different departments) got coffee at Au Croissant, an awesome cafeteria-style café with dirt-cheap goods. For example, our café au lait is $1.05, and no, it is not a thimble full of coffee. There are croissants, cookies, and all kinds of pastries for less than $2. The reason they keep their prices so cheap is because the place does brisk business at all hours. Now, other than the unusually cheap prices, there is another point of interest about the place. Though it is labeled as a French Café, the cooks are Asian and the cashiers say “Gracias” after you place your order. Very international. Very New York.

Since my job ended at 1pm, I read in Rockefeller Plaza for several hours, at one point interrupted from my studies by a black man crowing. Yes, imagine the sound the bird makes and put it in this man’s mouth, turn up the volume and set it on repeat. He even wore three feathers on the front of his ball cap. Everyone hated him. This was my second experience with The Crow, and though he is noteworthy, and decidedly a New Yorker, I didn’t much care for him either. Had he not he not crowed to draw attention to himself, no one would have noticed him. Perhaps that is why he did it. Well.

After Shawn got off work we decided to walk to the Met (Metropolitan Museum) for a drink at the rooftop garden. The walk to the museum was beautiful, up 5th Ave., along the east side of the park, tree-lined, cool breeze, cloudless sky—distinctly pre-fall. But before we even reached the park we saw a foot-traffic stopping sight on 5th Ave. I would have missed it if the two gay guys in front of me hadn’t stopped to gawk. In the two storefront windows on either side of the entrance were two bathtubs with two towel-clad models pseudo-bathing. I looked at the left, a young lady washing her arm, while the gay guys looked to the right, a handsome fella scrubbing his back. I don’t know what they were selling, but they certainly were getting the attention they wanted, as a crowd was gathering. After getting an eyeful, we walked on to the Met.

The view from the rooftop was incredible, the trees of Central Park so green and blanketing the activity beneath—all framed by the New York City skyline on three sides. After our drink, we strolled away feeling refreshed and relaxed, and took the 6 Train to Astor Place.

There we ate dinner at a Hawaiian joint called Marion's. Shawn liked it for the name, of course, (that's her middle name) but the food was very good and the martini’s cheap.

After dinner we finished our evening at the home base, Liam was working the bar, and working hard, as he was by himself on a Friday night (this makes my analogy from an entry ago more relevant than I had intended). We sat and watched him work; we talked, debated, and people watched. We talked quite a bit with Deanna, a girl who was helping out Liam and who also designed the website for the Keltic Lounge. She took a quote from us to add, “The BEST jukebox in The Entire City!” (It’s true.) We also chatted with two underage girls from Israel, who were going on a tour of the US. I tried to talk politics with them, but they were rather dull. I expected more converstion and personality from world travelers. Maybe they were just shy.

We walked home arm in arm, very merry.

Pat, Pat, Pat

As I mentioned in a previous entry, we “sleep trained” Reilly using the methods outlined in this this book, by the Sleep Lady. One of the techniques put forth within its covers is to never lay your baby down in the crib, but rather to place her in the crib and pat the mattress next to her. The idea is that this technique teaches the child to put herself down, instead of you forcing her to do it. It’s a smart idea.

Last night I put Reilly in her crib, and she popped right back up. Remembering the wisdom of the Sleep Lady, I put my hand through the slats of the crib and patted the mattress. After a few moments, Reilly eased her way down next to my hand. However, instead of closing her eyes and going to sleep, she reached out her little hand and started patting the mattress too. Pat, pat, pat on the pink sheet, as sweet as can be.

Thanks, and, How the Lucky Outfit Won the Game

Thanks to all my readers who have posted comments and sent emails of encouragement in response to my blog from Sunday. I've found great solace in reading the child-related injury stories of other parents. To my daughter and all of the children: may you forgive us.

Thanks also to Amy for highlighting my entry on the Daily Dose, and to Club Mom for providing such a service to all the parent-bloggers out there.

On a lighter note, we put Reilly into a "game day outfit" yesterday of our alma mater. The Seminoles won. Little does Reilly know, she'll now have to wear that outift every Saturday the 'Noles play, to keep the good luck streak alive. (Because you all know it was the outfit that won the game.)

The Fool

When Reilly was first born, I was afraid that she would suddenly die from SIDS, some unknown heart defect, or other hidden ailment. Reilly’s arrival had reopened my eyes to the fragileness of our existence, and how with all the dangers that come with just walking out the door, and all the random circumstance in life, we just choose to fool ourselves into believing we are safe. That it won’t happen to us. This anxiety did not go away in the first week or even the first month, but instead lessened in little increments each day. Then one day, without realizing it, the fear was gone, and I was once again under my self-imposed shield of false security.

As Reilly learned to walk, I began to worry again, this time fearing a serious injury, but as with before, this fear slowly eased until it was gone. Reilly did get a few bumps and bruises and bit her lip a few times, but these injuries did not stoke my fears, but rather quashed them. See, I told myself, she will fall, but she will not break.

For the most part, Reilly is a very agile walker, always falling to her diaper-padded bum, able to navigate stairs, doorjambs and cracks in the sidewalk. The beauty of her agility is that I don’t have to follow her around the house any longer. As long as she is within eyesight, I can tap out a blog entry on the computer, or watch a little television, and not have to concern myself with her falling and hurting herself. You might say that I relaxed. Or, you might say that I got lackadaisical.

Friday afternoon, at about 3:00pm, Shawn and I decided we would take Reilly to tour a local daycare. Since my shirt was wrinkled, and since it is well known by all daycare workers that fathers in wrinkled shirts are bad fathers, I took out the ironing board. When I turned my back to get the iron, Reilly fell into the ironing board, hitting her mouth on one of the screws that holds the contraption together.

There was much screaming and much blood. There was so much blood in Reilly’s mouth that we couldn’t really determine what had happened, but we were quite sure that one of her teeth might be missing. After staunching the bleeding and placing a hurried call, we left to visit our new pediatrician. By then, Reilly’s lip was quite swollen, but she was walking around the waiting room like nothing ever happened. She is, and remains, the bounce back baby.

As we sat at the doctor, through all my guilt, I was writing this blog in my head. All I could think was how sometimes you look for blogs, and sometimes, the blogs come looking for you.

The guilt though, the guilt. As it was the day I clipped Reilly’s finger instead of her fingernail, woe to the father who is responsible for hurting his little girl. Oh, I know, accidents happen, you’re a good father, blah, blah, blah, but what it boils down to is that I’m the one who put down the ironing board right next to Reilly, and I’m the one who turned my back on the situation. It happened on my watch. I’m responsible.

The doctor let us know that she didn’t actually lose the tooth. It just got jammed all the way back up into her gums. “See,” she said pushing Reilly’s fat lip up with a tongue depressor, “it’s still there.” She then explained that yes, it would grow back in, but it would probably be brown or grey in color. When I asked how long it would be until the adult tooth came in, she told me “five years.”

A little brown tooth will be my reminder then—for the next five years—of the day that I took my eye off my daughter, and how she tripped and smashed her face into the ironing board, her red blood reminding me that she is human—that we all are—and that life is not to be trifled with, not for a second.

Week 60 Pictures

Reilly says, "Click here to see me hugging a tree, feeding myself yogurt, and being my usual cute self."

Here comes the airplane! Part II

If you'll remember from this previous post, I had mentioned how odd it was that my mouth automatically opens whenever I am spoon-feeding Reilly. I still can't tell if it is some sort of modeling instinct dictating that my jaws swing open or if there are other forces at work. (Perhaps a bit of sorcery mixed in with the Gerber pureed carrots?)

Anyway, as I was perusing some recent pictures Shawn took, I came across this one. Apparently, even our daughter is not immune to the gaping mouth syndrome.

Baby's Got a New Pair of Shoes