Sunday, June 13, 2010
Apropos of Nothing
Boston Globe Sunday Sports Page enthusiasts may recognize my title. And I say that imitation is the ultimate form of flattery, Nick Cafardo… On Saturday, the T family went to a birthday party for the Conn triplets that was so cute and fun for both the kids and adults alike. (Thank you, Jess and Mike.) At home later that night, I realized that my attention span and level of preoccupation are at their worst when we’re interacting at social gatherings with Greta. Someone could be in the middle of explaining how Jessica Biel wants to sleep with me no strings attached but I cut them off because G is about to drink from an unattended wine glass or she’s trying to pry a sippy cup from another little one’s hands. While the veteran parent is empathetic, I still feel horrible in retrospect - especially if I was talking to a non-parent. My “clarking out” (my dad’s been preoccupied when I speak to him for the last 30 years) is only going to worsen once Baby T2 arrives because the wife’s and my defensive scheme at parties will naturally have to shift to man-to-man from our current 2 v.1 zone. My apologies to anyone I left in the lurch mid-conversation… My new favorite antic of G’s is easily the sudden and spontaneous dance party that ensues when she’s digging on a good song. She’ll be in her own world playing with a toy when she senses a good jam, moves to a clear space in the room, and begins to hop around in a circle on her knees jerking her head from side to side – all the while smiling and flailing her arms in delight. It melts my heart to see her so happy… When G farts audibly and obviously, she smiles with guilt as her eyes dart to the faces of all around for fear of discovery. It cracks me up… Changing G’s diaper nowadays is like trying to lasso a calf while on horseback. When she’s dropped a bomb in her drawers, she’s inevitably way more squirmy and I just pray she doesn’t get poop on her hands while I struggle to secure the adhesive straps around her waist in a barely symmetrical final position… The next time you see her, please ask G to show you her “pretty eyes.” Pep added this trick to Greta’s arsenal, which she usually reserves only for males. Occasionally, she greets me with her “pretty eyes” unsolicited as I get her out of the crib in the morning. Other times, G will crane her neck forwards to do the honors as we eat dinner, making sure to bat her eyes at each person sitting around her. Once in a while, she even follows it up with a flirtatious wink that is more accurately described as G keeping her mouth open and one eye larger than the other… Speaking of eating, we use these bibs with a snap in the back because Greta can’t yank them off. About a month ago, Nana accidentally caught some of G’s hair as she snapped the bib around G’s neck. Consequently, G says “ow” pretty much every time someone either takes it off or puts it on… While we’re on the meal topic, I’ve been trying to teach Greta that throwing her sippy cup or food on the floor is bad. Basically, I make a stern face with my eyebrows pointing down, lower my head towards G, and say in a deeper voice while pointing to the floor “No!” When she puts the sippy cup back on her tray, instead of the floor, I say “very good” or something encouraging. Shortly after these disciplinary “lessons” began, G has changed her behavior minimally. She still hucks food and the sippy cup like a brat, but instead of just carrying on nonchalantly, she actually stops and points to the floor, shaking her head, while saying “Nooooo” in her own deep voice. I can’t keep a straight face and the adults at the table look away because we are trying not to lose our shit laughing. Basically, I suck as a disciplinarian… On my bath nights, I kind of treat it like a starting pitcher. First inning, G and I turn on the bath and check for the right temp. We pour in the soap. We wave at the toys as they begin to float. Second inning, I take off G’s clothes and diaper. I place her in. Third and fourth innings, I scrub her down and give sound effects as she plays with the toys. Fifth inning, we shampoo and rinse the hair. Sixth inning, I rinse off the rest of her body. As soon as I switch the valve down to drain the tub, G says bye-bye to her toys. In the seventh, I wrap G in a towel, pick her up, and stand in front of the sink. We wave at the mirror and grab the Elmo tooth brush. She likes to stick the brush repeatedly under running water, and then we go to the dreaded changing table. This is where I begin to tire as the starter. 95% of the time, G fights me with her diaper (see above) and I am hoping for a conference at the mound with my catcher and pitching coach so that the reliever a/k/a the wife comes in to finish off the game. 67% of those times, my pitching coach is nowhere to be seen or updating her status on FB oblivious to or simply ignoring my struggles. Somehow, we make it through to pajamas, the final bottle, her sleep sack, and finally bed. Complete game shutouts are rare, but no matter what the result, a celebratory drink in the clubhouse is often automatic.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Tootie Fruity
While I certainly enjoy sweets once in a while, candy and ice cream don’t pose as much of a temptation to me as compared to, oh I don’t know, say an eight-months-pregnant lady. Overall, I’m much more a fan of savory over sweet. But that's not to say I don't enjoy sweet.
Before G’s arrival, my eating habits weren’t necessarily bad but they weren’t the greatest either. Once G transitioned into eating real food, it was a perfect opportunity for me to rediscover a very simple pleasure somewhat forgotten: fruit.
As a kid, my parents always had at least apples, bananas, and oranges lying in a bowl around the house at 2 Bert Street. When in season, peaches, pears, plums, and grapes were common, too. During holidays, figs, dates, dried fruit, and nuts appeared in bowls on the dining room table for nibbling with coffee and dessert after a big family meal.
From the time I was in college through my glorious years of freedom that preceded cohabitation with the wife, 90% of my meals were prepared by someone outside of the kitchen where I lived. It’s fair to say I wasn’t ordering a fruit basket from Cappy’s Pizza. But once the wife and I were under the same roof, she reminded me it was possible to shop at the supermarket and make your own meals. Suddenly, bananas became a part of my diet again.
As Greta graduated from bottles to real food, I looked to the wife to explain what we’d feed her first. Cheese steak bombs with mushrooms, peppers, and onions? Chili cheese hot dogs with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and hots? Boloco tofu burritos with peanut sauce and Asian slaw? None of the above. I think we started with mushy plain cereal of some sort. But fortunately for G and her colon, she made it to fruit pretty quickly thereafter. G eats grapes like a dog eats anything in a mass quantity – if you leave too much in front of them, they’ll scarf it down like contestants on The Biggest Loser the night before arriving at the ranch.
Fruits are fun food. Nothing says summer like eating cherries and spitting out the seeds as you go. Grab a handful, pop em’ in your mouth, sit back, and just carry on with your conversation. Watermelon’s good like that, too. And there’s something about slicing up an orange or apple to share while sitting at a table next to somebody. It’s a communal thing, I guess.
Of course, the novelty of fruits’ natural sweetness has begun to wane now that G has dabbled in bites of ice cream, animal crackers, and other tantalizing treats. She’s a lot more likely to huck a strawberry over the side of her high chair now that she’s become more of a fruit pro. I guess we need to step things up a bit in the produce department. Maybe some mango or kiwi fruit. Perhaps a nectarine. I know. I’m a wild man.
Still to come: other culinary frontiers for us to conquer. Raw oysters. Buffalo wings. Sushi. Hot sauce. And the best treat is just around the corner: G’s first peanut butter cup!
Before G’s arrival, my eating habits weren’t necessarily bad but they weren’t the greatest either. Once G transitioned into eating real food, it was a perfect opportunity for me to rediscover a very simple pleasure somewhat forgotten: fruit.
As a kid, my parents always had at least apples, bananas, and oranges lying in a bowl around the house at 2 Bert Street. When in season, peaches, pears, plums, and grapes were common, too. During holidays, figs, dates, dried fruit, and nuts appeared in bowls on the dining room table for nibbling with coffee and dessert after a big family meal.
From the time I was in college through my glorious years of freedom that preceded cohabitation with the wife, 90% of my meals were prepared by someone outside of the kitchen where I lived. It’s fair to say I wasn’t ordering a fruit basket from Cappy’s Pizza. But once the wife and I were under the same roof, she reminded me it was possible to shop at the supermarket and make your own meals. Suddenly, bananas became a part of my diet again.
As Greta graduated from bottles to real food, I looked to the wife to explain what we’d feed her first. Cheese steak bombs with mushrooms, peppers, and onions? Chili cheese hot dogs with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and hots? Boloco tofu burritos with peanut sauce and Asian slaw? None of the above. I think we started with mushy plain cereal of some sort. But fortunately for G and her colon, she made it to fruit pretty quickly thereafter. G eats grapes like a dog eats anything in a mass quantity – if you leave too much in front of them, they’ll scarf it down like contestants on The Biggest Loser the night before arriving at the ranch.
Fruits are fun food. Nothing says summer like eating cherries and spitting out the seeds as you go. Grab a handful, pop em’ in your mouth, sit back, and just carry on with your conversation. Watermelon’s good like that, too. And there’s something about slicing up an orange or apple to share while sitting at a table next to somebody. It’s a communal thing, I guess.
Of course, the novelty of fruits’ natural sweetness has begun to wane now that G has dabbled in bites of ice cream, animal crackers, and other tantalizing treats. She’s a lot more likely to huck a strawberry over the side of her high chair now that she’s become more of a fruit pro. I guess we need to step things up a bit in the produce department. Maybe some mango or kiwi fruit. Perhaps a nectarine. I know. I’m a wild man.
Still to come: other culinary frontiers for us to conquer. Raw oysters. Buffalo wings. Sushi. Hot sauce. And the best treat is just around the corner: G’s first peanut butter cup!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Baby, Baby, I Got That Fever
On Sunday night, the wife and I were winding down the day watching the Survivor finale when we heard Greta stirring in the other room. After dinner, the wife thought that our little girl was a bit warm and I of course disagreed. I thought G was fine.
I did G’s bath, got her into her PJs, and filled the night bottle. (I suspect the wife is mortified now that the public is aware we still do a bottle because we have apparently broken some unwritten rule where a 15-month old should have graduated to sippy cups by now. The horror!) As she often does before I turn to leave her crib, G clutched a binky in her mouth, a binky in each hand, laid down on the mattress, and said “bye-bye” before turning over to fall asleep. (Uh oh, now everyone knows G still sleeps with a binky. More shame on us. We're utter failures as parents.)
Around nine o’clock, just about when the jury was listening to the final arguments of Russell, Sandra, and Parvati, we heard G. I got up to investigate. Misplaced binky perhaps? Bad dream? Poop? Lots of potentially harmless reasons.
G was crying groggily. She looked uncomfortable. I felt her head. En fuego. I immediately took off the sleep sack and the PJ pants. The wife came in to see for herself. Our collective red flags were now standing straight up. Eventually, the wife decided appropriately that we take G’s official temp. Fortunately, we purchased a digital thermometer for recording from the ear so we didn’t have to go in through the out door. Unfortunately, Greta equally disliked the ear instrument.
We tested the thermometer on ourselves first by placing it in our ears and pressing the button. A beep activated within seconds giving a reading on the digital display. I was a hypothermal 95 degrees. The wife was somewhere in the same neighborhood. I wanted to huck the piece of crap out the window and smash it with a hammer. Moving quickly because of G’s growing restlessness, we anticipated having to calibrate by roughly adding three degrees to whatever reading we got on G. It came back at 97 and change.
G had been noticeably drooling and teething recently so we knew a higher temp may be the simple by-product of her molars coming in. Even so, G was a bit moody compared to her usual happy self during the past day’s events. To be sure, we decided to be, well, anal and get a more accurate reading. As is generally the case in tough parent situations, mama was bad cop while I was good cop. (The wife’s tougher than me, what can I say? I start to wilt the second I hear G whimper.) I soothed our little girl and tried to keep her still as the wife probed dutifully. 102.7. Yikes! We were nervous now.
My grandmother Grace lost her firstborn son when he was two years old. As I understand it, my grandmother went to the hospital with her baby because of a fever. The doctors sent them home with instructions to take aspirin. He died shortly thereafter, most likely from meningitis. Undoubtedly, my dad’s parents were never the same again.
I have thought often about that family tragedy since becoming a father. I can’t even fathom the level of devastation my grandparents must have experienced. They did nothing wrong. They listened to medical professionals. The medical professionals were catastrophically mistaken. Eventually, the doctors of course moved on while my grandparents mourned their son’s loss for years. I tried to block out that thought and to focus on our little girl. I realized now that she was almost panting in her breathing.
The wife called the doctor's office and consulted with Nana who came down to help. We followed the nurse's instructions: lukewarm bath, Tylenol, and fluids. If the temperature increased, go to the hospital. Otherwise, prepare for a long night. The wife and I did the bath, administered Tylenol, reduced G’s layers, and comforted her back to sleep.
Without saying anything, we both knew the other was part scared and part nervous while trying to remain calm. We tried to distract ourselves by watching Survivor again. Suddenly, these “reality” characters' struggles to “survive” seemed more trivial and less entertaining.
We checked in on G at first every 15 minutes. I volunteered to do the 2 a.m. shift before we turned in at 12:30. G awoke around 1:45 and mama beat me out of bed. She soothed G back to sleep. I checked on G at 4. Sound asleep. Still warm but okay. Hour by hour, we rode out the storm until the morning. After another up and down day, G was back to her normal self by dinner time the next day. Phew, we made it. Cue the big sigh of relief and nervous laughter wondering aloud what we were so worried about.
I know this instance is of course only the first of many fevers, calls to the doctor, and other inevitable scares that will cause us to lose sleep in the future. But as long as we have the same outcome with G laughing, playing, smiling, and otherwise being her normal self, I’ll never complain.
Nice work mama. Thanks for being my partner … and for being the bad cop. Now where’s that damn digital thermometer? I don’t care if it cost 40 bucks, it’s outta here.
I did G’s bath, got her into her PJs, and filled the night bottle. (I suspect the wife is mortified now that the public is aware we still do a bottle because we have apparently broken some unwritten rule where a 15-month old should have graduated to sippy cups by now. The horror!) As she often does before I turn to leave her crib, G clutched a binky in her mouth, a binky in each hand, laid down on the mattress, and said “bye-bye” before turning over to fall asleep. (Uh oh, now everyone knows G still sleeps with a binky. More shame on us. We're utter failures as parents.)
Around nine o’clock, just about when the jury was listening to the final arguments of Russell, Sandra, and Parvati, we heard G. I got up to investigate. Misplaced binky perhaps? Bad dream? Poop? Lots of potentially harmless reasons.
G was crying groggily. She looked uncomfortable. I felt her head. En fuego. I immediately took off the sleep sack and the PJ pants. The wife came in to see for herself. Our collective red flags were now standing straight up. Eventually, the wife decided appropriately that we take G’s official temp. Fortunately, we purchased a digital thermometer for recording from the ear so we didn’t have to go in through the out door. Unfortunately, Greta equally disliked the ear instrument.
We tested the thermometer on ourselves first by placing it in our ears and pressing the button. A beep activated within seconds giving a reading on the digital display. I was a hypothermal 95 degrees. The wife was somewhere in the same neighborhood. I wanted to huck the piece of crap out the window and smash it with a hammer. Moving quickly because of G’s growing restlessness, we anticipated having to calibrate by roughly adding three degrees to whatever reading we got on G. It came back at 97 and change.
G had been noticeably drooling and teething recently so we knew a higher temp may be the simple by-product of her molars coming in. Even so, G was a bit moody compared to her usual happy self during the past day’s events. To be sure, we decided to be, well, anal and get a more accurate reading. As is generally the case in tough parent situations, mama was bad cop while I was good cop. (The wife’s tougher than me, what can I say? I start to wilt the second I hear G whimper.) I soothed our little girl and tried to keep her still as the wife probed dutifully. 102.7. Yikes! We were nervous now.
My grandmother Grace lost her firstborn son when he was two years old. As I understand it, my grandmother went to the hospital with her baby because of a fever. The doctors sent them home with instructions to take aspirin. He died shortly thereafter, most likely from meningitis. Undoubtedly, my dad’s parents were never the same again.
I have thought often about that family tragedy since becoming a father. I can’t even fathom the level of devastation my grandparents must have experienced. They did nothing wrong. They listened to medical professionals. The medical professionals were catastrophically mistaken. Eventually, the doctors of course moved on while my grandparents mourned their son’s loss for years. I tried to block out that thought and to focus on our little girl. I realized now that she was almost panting in her breathing.
The wife called the doctor's office and consulted with Nana who came down to help. We followed the nurse's instructions: lukewarm bath, Tylenol, and fluids. If the temperature increased, go to the hospital. Otherwise, prepare for a long night. The wife and I did the bath, administered Tylenol, reduced G’s layers, and comforted her back to sleep.
Without saying anything, we both knew the other was part scared and part nervous while trying to remain calm. We tried to distract ourselves by watching Survivor again. Suddenly, these “reality” characters' struggles to “survive” seemed more trivial and less entertaining.
We checked in on G at first every 15 minutes. I volunteered to do the 2 a.m. shift before we turned in at 12:30. G awoke around 1:45 and mama beat me out of bed. She soothed G back to sleep. I checked on G at 4. Sound asleep. Still warm but okay. Hour by hour, we rode out the storm until the morning. After another up and down day, G was back to her normal self by dinner time the next day. Phew, we made it. Cue the big sigh of relief and nervous laughter wondering aloud what we were so worried about.
I know this instance is of course only the first of many fevers, calls to the doctor, and other inevitable scares that will cause us to lose sleep in the future. But as long as we have the same outcome with G laughing, playing, smiling, and otherwise being her normal self, I’ll never complain.
Nice work mama. Thanks for being my partner … and for being the bad cop. Now where’s that damn digital thermometer? I don’t care if it cost 40 bucks, it’s outta here.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
A Tradition Revisited
A belated Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, the wife, nana, and all of the other ladies who are loving and wonderful mothers to their children. And a special Happy Mother’s Day to those who recently became moms including my cousin Kat who welcomed Aiden Patrick last week and Castleton Kristin E. who welcomed Lydia Eve a few weeks ago. Congrats ladies!
So, the T family had a really big night tonight. You may recall that when G entered the world last year, we were fortunate enough to watch an episode of Friday Night Lights (“FNL”) at the hospital before the labor went into full speed ahead. As a result of the show's timing just before G's arrival, FNL has a special place in our hearts. Turns out we’re not alone. To uphold the precedent established during G’s introduction to FNL, we’re fulfilling tradition with a running diary blog of 2010’s season opener.
To re-cap last season, Coach Taylor lost his job at the end of the football season because of the evil, rich father of a rising star quarterback J.D. who rigged the system to depose our beloved head coach. Meanwhile, the town of Dillon became redistricted resulting in the transfer of many students from Dillon High to previously defunct East Dillon High. In a curious twist, Coach’s wife Tammi remained as principal at Dillon High when Coach took the helm of the decrepit football program at East Dillon. Several other things took place but we don’t have time or space to summarize. Now to the basement at 46 Great Meadow Drive in Carver...
The wife and I are hunkered down in Nana’s basement. The DVR is 98% full and we're anxious to cross this one off the list. The wife is enthusiastically chewing on Swedish fish. Her crinkling of the bag as she reaches in for another is distracting me. I request a volume increase in the hopes that she gets the point without me having to ask her to be quiet. I forgive her though because she's carrying our second baby and she hasn’t been this pumped for a season opener of a high school drama since Gossip Girl and the new Bev Niner. She presses play.
Coach Taylor and the detective discuss who will most certainly become the juvenile delinquent turned football ringer at East Dillon this season. Let’s just call this kid Smash part II. I'm leery… Tim Riggins is in college with very fluffy hair. Looks like he’s been using a lot of Pert Plus. Also appears that he’s quitting college after one bad literature class. We knew it was too good to be true. Riggins’ Riggs here he comes… Tammi Taylor is still the hottest high school principal cougar ever. Redonculous. Parents are yelling at her because of the redistricting. Not fair. Not her fault. I can't believe she's over 30…
Matt Saracen’s sad story continues. The Dillon graduate and former starting QB couldn’t go to college because of his ill grandmother. He’s now a pizza delivery boy driving my brother’s old Chevy Celebrity station wagon. Even worse, he has to deliver some pies to the sophomore quarterback J.D. whose dad was behind Coach Taylor’s firing in addition to Matt's benching last year. By the way, J.D. has become a villain douchebag since last season. I see this ending ugly…
The wife almost just went into labor. She just fast forwarded with the remote over commercials a little too far and freaked out because Riggins is topless after a one night stand with a bartender (by the way, his bar going character is 18 still) who took him home to her house. The wife's finers are frantically struggling with the fast forward, play, pause, and rewind buttons. Wait for it. Wait for it. Now she’s paused it to look at Tim’s eight pack. I think I had one of those around 1985. I hate him. Anyway, Riggins’ milf lover has a hot daughter who is now singing the national anthem at the East Dillon game...
Game night is finally here and the camera is toggling between each of the school’s opening football games. I’m thinking that rich Dillon will be upset as J.D.'s leg breaks in half like Joe Theismann's by Lawrence Taylor while scrappy, underprivileged East Dillon will pull off an upset in Coach Taylor’s debut. Ok, maybe just wishful thinking. Let’s see what happens…
J.D.’s dad is an even bigger douche than his son. I want him to get run over by a Cadillac Escalade from Buddy Garrity’s dealership. I also want Lila to be back on the show. Derek Jeter is a lucky man… As suspected, Dillon is romping and East Dillon is not faring so well. The Lions are getting crushed and the locker room at halftime is filled with more injury clichés than Any Given Sunday or The Program…
Coach Taylor just forfeited the game at halftime. I can’t believe it. This is not the Coach Taylor we all know and love. This is also not the FNL that we all know and love. Too many unoriginal story lines. Too many predictable plot "twists." We are in for a long season. I hope that East Dillon’s football team and the show’s writers turn things around. Soon. Like next week. Go Lions!
So, the T family had a really big night tonight. You may recall that when G entered the world last year, we were fortunate enough to watch an episode of Friday Night Lights (“FNL”) at the hospital before the labor went into full speed ahead. As a result of the show's timing just before G's arrival, FNL has a special place in our hearts. Turns out we’re not alone. To uphold the precedent established during G’s introduction to FNL, we’re fulfilling tradition with a running diary blog of 2010’s season opener.
To re-cap last season, Coach Taylor lost his job at the end of the football season because of the evil, rich father of a rising star quarterback J.D. who rigged the system to depose our beloved head coach. Meanwhile, the town of Dillon became redistricted resulting in the transfer of many students from Dillon High to previously defunct East Dillon High. In a curious twist, Coach’s wife Tammi remained as principal at Dillon High when Coach took the helm of the decrepit football program at East Dillon. Several other things took place but we don’t have time or space to summarize. Now to the basement at 46 Great Meadow Drive in Carver...
The wife and I are hunkered down in Nana’s basement. The DVR is 98% full and we're anxious to cross this one off the list. The wife is enthusiastically chewing on Swedish fish. Her crinkling of the bag as she reaches in for another is distracting me. I request a volume increase in the hopes that she gets the point without me having to ask her to be quiet. I forgive her though because she's carrying our second baby and she hasn’t been this pumped for a season opener of a high school drama since Gossip Girl and the new Bev Niner. She presses play.
Coach Taylor and the detective discuss who will most certainly become the juvenile delinquent turned football ringer at East Dillon this season. Let’s just call this kid Smash part II. I'm leery… Tim Riggins is in college with very fluffy hair. Looks like he’s been using a lot of Pert Plus. Also appears that he’s quitting college after one bad literature class. We knew it was too good to be true. Riggins’ Riggs here he comes… Tammi Taylor is still the hottest high school principal cougar ever. Redonculous. Parents are yelling at her because of the redistricting. Not fair. Not her fault. I can't believe she's over 30…
Matt Saracen’s sad story continues. The Dillon graduate and former starting QB couldn’t go to college because of his ill grandmother. He’s now a pizza delivery boy driving my brother’s old Chevy Celebrity station wagon. Even worse, he has to deliver some pies to the sophomore quarterback J.D. whose dad was behind Coach Taylor’s firing in addition to Matt's benching last year. By the way, J.D. has become a villain douchebag since last season. I see this ending ugly…
The wife almost just went into labor. She just fast forwarded with the remote over commercials a little too far and freaked out because Riggins is topless after a one night stand with a bartender (by the way, his bar going character is 18 still) who took him home to her house. The wife's finers are frantically struggling with the fast forward, play, pause, and rewind buttons. Wait for it. Wait for it. Now she’s paused it to look at Tim’s eight pack. I think I had one of those around 1985. I hate him. Anyway, Riggins’ milf lover has a hot daughter who is now singing the national anthem at the East Dillon game...
Game night is finally here and the camera is toggling between each of the school’s opening football games. I’m thinking that rich Dillon will be upset as J.D.'s leg breaks in half like Joe Theismann's by Lawrence Taylor while scrappy, underprivileged East Dillon will pull off an upset in Coach Taylor’s debut. Ok, maybe just wishful thinking. Let’s see what happens…
J.D.’s dad is an even bigger douche than his son. I want him to get run over by a Cadillac Escalade from Buddy Garrity’s dealership. I also want Lila to be back on the show. Derek Jeter is a lucky man… As suspected, Dillon is romping and East Dillon is not faring so well. The Lions are getting crushed and the locker room at halftime is filled with more injury clichés than Any Given Sunday or The Program…
Coach Taylor just forfeited the game at halftime. I can’t believe it. This is not the Coach Taylor we all know and love. This is also not the FNL that we all know and love. Too many unoriginal story lines. Too many predictable plot "twists." We are in for a long season. I hope that East Dillon’s football team and the show’s writers turn things around. Soon. Like next week. Go Lions!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Nana's Basement: Temporary Tenants
When I tell people that we have moved in with my mother-in-law, most of them kind of laugh and smile the same way my buddies do when someone announces they’re getting a vasectomy. The reasons may be sound and logical on paper, but every married man still kinda cringes. Fortunately, I sincerely enjoy my mother-in-law’s company so our recent cohabitation until July should be relatively painless.
(For those just tuning in, the wife and I sold our condo a few weeks ago and we close on a house in Easton on June 23rd – knock on wood. In the interim, my mother-in-law graciously offered and/or surrendered to putting us up at her Carver home in the interim.)
In the blog, I was inclined initially to call the wife’s mom the “M.I.L.” but then I realized the name may be confusingly similar to “M.I.L.F.” and that’s just plain dangerous territory. Instead, we’ll go with “Nana” and move on.
Yep, so we’re living in Nana’s basement. If you told the wife in 2000 that she, her husband, and her firstborn child would be living in her mother’s basement by 2010, I’m pretty sure she’d think that something went terribly wrong. After a few weeks, though, it’s been pleasantly successful in my opinion. The change in scenery has resulted in a lot of changes for all involved.
For example, Nana’s house has transformed from a meticulously clean home straight out of Martha Stewart to a childproof day care center overnight. Her stairway is now a labyrinth of child gates. Her kitchen tablecloth and floor have souvenirs from every meal that G eats. Nana’s living room table was replaced by a tent in the shape of a green frog complete with roll out tongue. Sippy cups and plastic sporks have taken over her cabinets. Total bedlam, as you can imagine.
As for me, the biggest adjustment (besides not openly farting in three weeks) has been an overhaul to the daily schedule. Wake up is 5 a.m. (don’t cry for me Argentina) so as to avoid traffic on Routes 3 and 93. Dinner is at 6 p.m. on the dot, which is the greatest sight (besides my fam) after getting home from work. After sundown, I wear my headlamp to get around because Nana doesn’t use lights in her house unless she’s hosting guests – and now we’re technically housemates. Lastly, my bedtime is around 9:30 p.m., which makes me feel like I should be watching “Golden Girls” or “Matlock” with an earpiece connected to the TV.
Besides one major faux pas on my part (I flushed the toilet instinctively after a wake up pee, which activated the septic pump and woke Nana immediately – whoops!), we seem to be settling right in. Gigi is loving her new digs and all the attention from her Nana and Pep. The wife is happy to spend so much time with her clone, I mean mom. I’m beginning to like this “All in the Family” thing. Maybe we should drag this living-in-the-basement thing out a little longer.
Well, gotta go. The light’s just went out. Is it 7 o’clock already?
(Editors' note: Thank you very much Nana. We very much appreciate you letting us disrupt your life for the next two months!)
(For those just tuning in, the wife and I sold our condo a few weeks ago and we close on a house in Easton on June 23rd – knock on wood. In the interim, my mother-in-law graciously offered and/or surrendered to putting us up at her Carver home in the interim.)
In the blog, I was inclined initially to call the wife’s mom the “M.I.L.” but then I realized the name may be confusingly similar to “M.I.L.F.” and that’s just plain dangerous territory. Instead, we’ll go with “Nana” and move on.
Yep, so we’re living in Nana’s basement. If you told the wife in 2000 that she, her husband, and her firstborn child would be living in her mother’s basement by 2010, I’m pretty sure she’d think that something went terribly wrong. After a few weeks, though, it’s been pleasantly successful in my opinion. The change in scenery has resulted in a lot of changes for all involved.
For example, Nana’s house has transformed from a meticulously clean home straight out of Martha Stewart to a childproof day care center overnight. Her stairway is now a labyrinth of child gates. Her kitchen tablecloth and floor have souvenirs from every meal that G eats. Nana’s living room table was replaced by a tent in the shape of a green frog complete with roll out tongue. Sippy cups and plastic sporks have taken over her cabinets. Total bedlam, as you can imagine.
As for me, the biggest adjustment (besides not openly farting in three weeks) has been an overhaul to the daily schedule. Wake up is 5 a.m. (don’t cry for me Argentina) so as to avoid traffic on Routes 3 and 93. Dinner is at 6 p.m. on the dot, which is the greatest sight (besides my fam) after getting home from work. After sundown, I wear my headlamp to get around because Nana doesn’t use lights in her house unless she’s hosting guests – and now we’re technically housemates. Lastly, my bedtime is around 9:30 p.m., which makes me feel like I should be watching “Golden Girls” or “Matlock” with an earpiece connected to the TV.
Besides one major faux pas on my part (I flushed the toilet instinctively after a wake up pee, which activated the septic pump and woke Nana immediately – whoops!), we seem to be settling right in. Gigi is loving her new digs and all the attention from her Nana and Pep. The wife is happy to spend so much time with her clone, I mean mom. I’m beginning to like this “All in the Family” thing. Maybe we should drag this living-in-the-basement thing out a little longer.
Well, gotta go. The light’s just went out. Is it 7 o’clock already?
(Editors' note: Thank you very much Nana. We very much appreciate you letting us disrupt your life for the next two months!)
Friday, April 2, 2010
Original Besties
In a prior life, I am convinced that G was living somewhere in Asia – and possibly vacationed in Rhode Island. My conjecture is based solely on one of the many ways that G presently pronounces “Hi” (by far her favorite word) when she is being melodramatic, which is often. Anyway, it goes like this:
“Hiiiiii-eeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggg-ga.” To me, it sounds like what would happen if one combined 95% Mandarin and 5% Pawtucketese, then poured it over Bostonian English. Just saying. Moving on to the matter at hand…
As her mom and dad, the wife and I have taken credit for all of Greta’s breakthroughs and accomplishments in her first 14 months of life. I’ve come to realize, however, that accepting future praise without disclosing full credit would be like Brangelina or the Gosselins suggesting that they personally parent Maddux or Alexis for more than an hour a day.
In what is probably a long overdue post and confession of sorts, I finally have the opportunity to discuss one of the most important players in the T family parent team: Kate. Honestly, I'm ashamed it's taken me this long to introduce her to you because she plays such an enormous role in our small family's life.
When the wife prepared to end her maternity leave and rejoin the work force last spring, our original babysitter option fell through. We scrambled to find somebody on short notice. I’ll go out on a limb and say that the wife was a bit anxious about finding the right person to watch our two-month old at home. Kate's arrival was timely, to say the least.
Kate came to us by way of an enthusiastic recommendation from one of my own high school besties who had employed Kate part-time to watch her daughter. Next, the wife set up an “interview” in which she prepared notes on index cards and positioned a hot lamp over a chair in anticipation of a thorough interrogation. Surprisingly, when Kate walked in, the two ladies realized they used to work together at a bar in Southie and it was all gravy from that point forward. The wife and I breathed a sigh of relief.
As the time between Greta and Kate went from days to weeks to months, mama bear and I were increasingly stoked. Kate is a registered nurse - awesome. She lives in Southie - nice. She is trustworthy and responsible - essential. She is wise beyond her years - bonus. She’s taught G how to say “dude” along with probably every other word in her vocab - wow. She is sweet, funny, totally grounded, and devours books faster than anyone I know. She also enjoys teaming up with the wife and ragging on me for my lack of contemporary music selections in the iPod. You get the picture. (Yes, I’m crushing on her but minus any creepiness.)
Most important of all, however, Kate has come to love Greta (or at least it seems to me) in a way that’s as close to being a parent as we could ever hope. And Greta, in turn, loves Kate like a third parent-slash-older sister, cousin, aunt, and BFF. When Kate enters the door, G-Sizzle usually howls some indecipherable noise of glee and convulses in joy. Kate hardly has time to even take off her coat before she scoops up Gigi and they start catching up on all that they’ve missed since their last visit together. That dynamic, to me, is more precious than say the novel Push by Sapphire. (Thanks Oprah.)
I happen to write this blog entry at the same time a strong possibility exists that we could lose Kate in the very near future. Considering her professional ambitions and her superlative qualifications for same, it was only a matter of time. While we absolutely prefer to be a stepping stone on Kate’s journey – and certainly not an obstacle – I admit we’re shamelessly holding onto her pant leg for as long as possible! Just as you do during one of G’s moments, Kate, please forgive us for kicking and screaming.
Now, as for our reincarnated Chinese Ocean Stater, she and her three parents will be basking in the rediscovered sun during our remaining week of residency in Southie. After that, the wife and I quietly hope we’ll be seeing you down in Cahvah. Whatever the future holds though, Kate, thank you so much for being G’s first besty and her original third parent. We couldn’t have asked for better. We wish you the best and thank you for all of the wonderful influence you've had in raising G with us for the last year. Oh, and by the way, G says "Tanks."
“Hiiiiii-eeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggg-ga.” To me, it sounds like what would happen if one combined 95% Mandarin and 5% Pawtucketese, then poured it over Bostonian English. Just saying. Moving on to the matter at hand…
As her mom and dad, the wife and I have taken credit for all of Greta’s breakthroughs and accomplishments in her first 14 months of life. I’ve come to realize, however, that accepting future praise without disclosing full credit would be like Brangelina or the Gosselins suggesting that they personally parent Maddux or Alexis for more than an hour a day.
In what is probably a long overdue post and confession of sorts, I finally have the opportunity to discuss one of the most important players in the T family parent team: Kate. Honestly, I'm ashamed it's taken me this long to introduce her to you because she plays such an enormous role in our small family's life.
When the wife prepared to end her maternity leave and rejoin the work force last spring, our original babysitter option fell through. We scrambled to find somebody on short notice. I’ll go out on a limb and say that the wife was a bit anxious about finding the right person to watch our two-month old at home. Kate's arrival was timely, to say the least.
Kate came to us by way of an enthusiastic recommendation from one of my own high school besties who had employed Kate part-time to watch her daughter. Next, the wife set up an “interview” in which she prepared notes on index cards and positioned a hot lamp over a chair in anticipation of a thorough interrogation. Surprisingly, when Kate walked in, the two ladies realized they used to work together at a bar in Southie and it was all gravy from that point forward. The wife and I breathed a sigh of relief.
As the time between Greta and Kate went from days to weeks to months, mama bear and I were increasingly stoked. Kate is a registered nurse - awesome. She lives in Southie - nice. She is trustworthy and responsible - essential. She is wise beyond her years - bonus. She’s taught G how to say “dude” along with probably every other word in her vocab - wow. She is sweet, funny, totally grounded, and devours books faster than anyone I know. She also enjoys teaming up with the wife and ragging on me for my lack of contemporary music selections in the iPod. You get the picture. (Yes, I’m crushing on her but minus any creepiness.)
Most important of all, however, Kate has come to love Greta (or at least it seems to me) in a way that’s as close to being a parent as we could ever hope. And Greta, in turn, loves Kate like a third parent-slash-older sister, cousin, aunt, and BFF. When Kate enters the door, G-Sizzle usually howls some indecipherable noise of glee and convulses in joy. Kate hardly has time to even take off her coat before she scoops up Gigi and they start catching up on all that they’ve missed since their last visit together. That dynamic, to me, is more precious than say the novel Push by Sapphire. (Thanks Oprah.)
I happen to write this blog entry at the same time a strong possibility exists that we could lose Kate in the very near future. Considering her professional ambitions and her superlative qualifications for same, it was only a matter of time. While we absolutely prefer to be a stepping stone on Kate’s journey – and certainly not an obstacle – I admit we’re shamelessly holding onto her pant leg for as long as possible! Just as you do during one of G’s moments, Kate, please forgive us for kicking and screaming.
Now, as for our reincarnated Chinese Ocean Stater, she and her three parents will be basking in the rediscovered sun during our remaining week of residency in Southie. After that, the wife and I quietly hope we’ll be seeing you down in Cahvah. Whatever the future holds though, Kate, thank you so much for being G’s first besty and her original third parent. We couldn’t have asked for better. We wish you the best and thank you for all of the wonderful influence you've had in raising G with us for the last year. Oh, and by the way, G says "Tanks."
Friday, March 26, 2010
Pack It Up, Pack It In
In the immortal words of DJ Lance, Brobee, Foofa, and our other friends from Yo Gabba Gabba land, “Goodbye, see you later, we had fun… and now it’s done… it was fun… now we’re done.” (If you know the song, please just imagine it playing in the background while the photo montage plays. Please also cue Toodie crying next to a tree because we’re leaving. Thanks.)
Knock on wood, we’ve sold our 861 square-foot condo in Southie that we’ve called home since November 20, 2006. That same night, I proposed to the then-gf in our empty kitchen - except the table, four chairs, and an empty pizza box - when our adventure officially began. We got married in 2007. We learned of the pregnancy with Greta in 2008 and welcomed her in 2009. Most recently, we discovered that male Baby T will be arriving this coming summer. Obv, lots of milestones for the T family at 410 East Third Street in just over three years.
Besides leaving the first place the wife and I ever owned (subject to whichever bank most recently bought the mortgage of course), we are also leaving Southie. At last count, the wife has lived here for something like 38 years. Technically, that’s not possible given her actual age, the fact that she grew up in Carver, and went to college in Vermont before returning home, but who’s going to argue with a pregnant lady?
For years, I’ve chuckled at commuters in panty hose or suits with sneakers walk/jogging very un-athletically to South Station as they hustled to make a train. At other times, I would smirk after seeing another commuter tightly gripping a steering wheel, teeth clenched, staring laser beams into the traffic light just waiting for a green, so he or she could floor it onto 93 or the Pike in whatever direction only to slam on the brakes and crawl home in lurches and starts for miles on end. In a few short weeks, I will become that sucker. Oof.
In addition to leaving behind either the red line subway, a number 7 bus ride, or my bike ride to work or downtown, there are many other treats about Southie that I will miss dearly: 4th of July; St. Patty’s Day; our roof deck; double parking with reckless abandon; walking distance to more bars and coffee joints than I can count; Castle Island; any of the beaches; liquor stores that deliver (even though I’ve only ordered twice, I swear); Rainbow Dragon; proximity to multiple playgrounds and parks for G within stroller distance; and affordable cab distance to most any location in Beantown.
On the other hand, a few of my least favorite things that I will not miss whatsoever: a single wall or floor separating the neighbors above, below, and next to us; shoveling out and saving a parking space; cabbies honking instead of ringing a doorbell; vicariously fearing parking tickets for our visitors; and moving our cars because of street cleaning on Thursdays.
Gotta admit, though, I’m looking forward to walking around barefoot outside again. And to starting my own veggie garden.
So, one chapter ends and another begins. City slickers no more, we’re off to the burbs. Thanks Southie. It’s been a great ride. Now get out of my way, I’ve got a train to catch.
Knock on wood, we’ve sold our 861 square-foot condo in Southie that we’ve called home since November 20, 2006. That same night, I proposed to the then-gf in our empty kitchen - except the table, four chairs, and an empty pizza box - when our adventure officially began. We got married in 2007. We learned of the pregnancy with Greta in 2008 and welcomed her in 2009. Most recently, we discovered that male Baby T will be arriving this coming summer. Obv, lots of milestones for the T family at 410 East Third Street in just over three years.
Besides leaving the first place the wife and I ever owned (subject to whichever bank most recently bought the mortgage of course), we are also leaving Southie. At last count, the wife has lived here for something like 38 years. Technically, that’s not possible given her actual age, the fact that she grew up in Carver, and went to college in Vermont before returning home, but who’s going to argue with a pregnant lady?
For years, I’ve chuckled at commuters in panty hose or suits with sneakers walk/jogging very un-athletically to South Station as they hustled to make a train. At other times, I would smirk after seeing another commuter tightly gripping a steering wheel, teeth clenched, staring laser beams into the traffic light just waiting for a green, so he or she could floor it onto 93 or the Pike in whatever direction only to slam on the brakes and crawl home in lurches and starts for miles on end. In a few short weeks, I will become that sucker. Oof.
In addition to leaving behind either the red line subway, a number 7 bus ride, or my bike ride to work or downtown, there are many other treats about Southie that I will miss dearly: 4th of July; St. Patty’s Day; our roof deck; double parking with reckless abandon; walking distance to more bars and coffee joints than I can count; Castle Island; any of the beaches; liquor stores that deliver (even though I’ve only ordered twice, I swear); Rainbow Dragon; proximity to multiple playgrounds and parks for G within stroller distance; and affordable cab distance to most any location in Beantown.
On the other hand, a few of my least favorite things that I will not miss whatsoever: a single wall or floor separating the neighbors above, below, and next to us; shoveling out and saving a parking space; cabbies honking instead of ringing a doorbell; vicariously fearing parking tickets for our visitors; and moving our cars because of street cleaning on Thursdays.
Gotta admit, though, I’m looking forward to walking around barefoot outside again. And to starting my own veggie garden.
So, one chapter ends and another begins. City slickers no more, we’re off to the burbs. Thanks Southie. It’s been a great ride. Now get out of my way, I’ve got a train to catch.
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