Two Years Later

Two of Grandma Kirk's three leprechauns, above.

My Grandma Kirk passed away two years ago, this Wednesday. In that time period, she has assumed a celestial watch over three great-grandchildren, not just the 4-week old peanut she met shortly before her passing.

Since she's been gone, there is a lot about my grandmother that makes me reflect.

On the deeper side, I have just one major regret. The last time I saw Grandma, she was in her hospital room smiling and laughing with other family members. Even with her health ailing, I couldn't believe that she might not pull through. She always came out on top before. It dawned on me for a second that I might not see her again. But either due to denial or naivete or haste, I neglected to tell her exactly how much I loved and cared for her before I left. Even though I know she knew then and cosmically knows now, my failure to seize the moment still haunts my insides a bit today.

On the lighter side, I can still hear in my head the exact way she said my name. Even though I asked my relatives to stop using my nickname when I was too "old" for it at about 12, I never minded when she continued to call me "Denny." She just pronounced it in her way. Perhaps the thought of hearing her pronouncement of my name induces some type of a Pavlovian response that anticipates imminent spoiling, or grandmotherly love and affection.

There is so much more about which I could write, but I'd rather just post what I wrote back then because it still rings true and reading it makes me feel a bit better. Love you Grandma!

"Ireland's Gift to my Family" - March, 2009

My Grandma Kirk used to call me "pet" when I was a little boy. The memory warms my heart. If something made me cry like my brother breathing on my side of the back seat, she might say, "What is it pet?" in a sweet voice that still hinted of her Dublin roots. Obviously, I wasn't the only pet of her seven grandchildren, but I relish that I was first.

Grandma's wit often escaped me as a child such as when she'd say "You're in the will!" after I did something to amuse her. I always thought it was some kind of Irish saying that meant "Good job!"

Even as a 20 year-old, Grandma's humor flew over my head. We were on a vacation together (known as "Kirkfests") when I was off socializing with some ladies. At some point later, I rejoined our family and Grandma asked innocently "Chasing the birds, Denny?" My literal interpretation of her comment must have been apparent in my facial expression because she politely explained that she wasn't talking about the birds that fly.

Grandma and Grandpa never miss a birthday, a Christmas, or any other important event without at least a card and a gift. Never. Ask Grandma if she's ever attended any of her grandchildren's graduations and she could probably lead the band in "Pomp and Circumstance."

Recently, my aunt relayed a story to me that she and Grandma were at the beauty salon when a conversation arose about whether she had any great grandchildren. If I remember correctly, her lighthearted response was something like "Why do you think I've been holding on?"

A few hours after Greta Jane was born, I called Grandma to tell her that her new title was official: she was a great grandmother. She gleefully exclaimed that our little Gigi would have to call her "G.G." It was a special and private moment for me.

Pauline Cullen Kirk passed away peacefully yesterday in the warm company and thoughts of her loved ones. My grandmother's warmth, wit, thoughtfulness, and generosity are only a few of the indelible impressions she left on me just by being herself. I will miss her dearly. But rather than dwell on the sadness accompanying her departure, I choose instead to focus on the happiness of her presence.

Two weeks ago, we shared our last special moment when I introduced Grandma to her great granddaughter. On any given day, the situation may not have been particularly significant from the perspective of a passerby: an elderly woman holding a newborn child. But in those precious few minutes, I didn't care about anything else in the world. And for that, I am so grateful to G.G. that she waited to see us before she moved on. We love you Grandma. Rest in peace.

Two Reasons to Shop On-Line

Before I get to the typical stuff, I have a brief public service announcement. Two married friends of mine from way back in the day, live in New Hampshire where they are raising two great kids. Their oldest is a beautiful, sweet, smart little lady named Taylor.

Not long ago, she was diagnosed with a lesser known autoimmune disorder known as PANDAS. To raise awareness and help educate those who are unfamiliar with the condition, her dad asked me and his other buddies to forward information about PANDAS. And here we are.

Take a look at http://www.pandasresourcenetwork.org/about-pandas.html. The site is worth a glance by parents and non-parents alike. I never heard about PANDAS until her diagnosis.

And for those wondering about Taylor, she is fighting the fight and making her parents proud every day. Send some good vibes their way - we are proud of you, too, Taylor!
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Walking into the supermarket the other day, I spied three or four attractive twenty-year olds sitting at a small table outside the entrance. They were Stonehill students raising money for some kind of charity trip to Central America. They smiled as I approached. A rusty, creaky part of me formerly known as "game" suddenly cranked into gear from a chamber buried deep within my bodily archives, probably next to the boiler room. I smiled and smoothly exclaimed how I love their radio station. Was that a wink I just saw from the cute blond, my kryptonite? Did the pretty brunette just blow me a kiss? Suddenly, my inner Barry White was dusting off like Chester Copperpot's cobwebbed boat sailing out to sea. I smoothly pulled three or four mangled singles out of my pocket (it was a miracle I even had cash) and dropped them casually into the coffee can. You know, like I was wealthy and the money was worthless to me. Just as I was preparing to say "Sorry ladies, I'm married. I couldn't possibly accept your invitation for a pillow fight in our undies back at your sex dungeon," the blondie said "Thank you, sir." The impact of that last word landed like an overwhelming thud. All machinery ground to an immediate, noisy stop and I walked defeated through the automatic doors to pick up milk for the house...
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This morning, THE WIFE was expecting some of her GFs for a play date at the Gawaine money pit otherwise know as our house. Like a good team player, I volunteered to help with the frantic effort of making our abode look decent before anyone arrived. She was appreciative and mentioned that she actually needed to go to Target. I told her I'd handle it.

Now, let me interrupt by saying that I think I'm a humble man or at least I intend to be. So I say the following only for purposes of explaining my perspective.

I've managed to survive law school. I've passed a couple bar exams. I've tried a couple cases. I've even taught some college courses in my life. To some, that would be sufficient proof that I'm capable of at least putting my pants on correctly in the morning. But judging by the way THE WIFE explained to me what she needed from the store, you would have thought I was Australopithecus or wrote "tiger blood" on our grocery list. Or maybe I'm just over-sensitve. Anyway, here's a brief re-cap:

Her: (with total shock and/or disdain) "Why are you offering to go to Tar-jhay?"
Me: "Um, because it's two minutes away, you only need baby wipes and milk, and I will get it done much faster than you."
Her: (shrugging with almost zero confidence) "Okay."
Me: (quietly wondering if I was missing something)
Her: (suddenly worried about my anticipated product selection) "Well, make sure you get 2 percent organic. We're done with whole milk now..."
Me: (eyes rolling)
Her: "And double check the date before you buy it. Remember that time when you..."
Me: (annoyed and biting my tongue because I've got a morning free pass coming in one hour)
Her: "Hmmmm, did we need anything else? Make sure you bring your phone in case there's something I forgot."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "So when you walk in, the wipes will be on your right in aisle-"
Me: (scoffing) "Um, Shell, I think I can figure it out, okay? I'm on it."

I arrived there about ten times as fast as it would have taken Old Lady T to drive at ten and two with an inevitable stop at Dunkies. Grocery aisle was well marked with the gigantic "Grocery" sign that was visible from 5,000 feet away.

Selecting the milk wasn't an issue. But then there were like 80 varieties of products to wipe a kid's ass and I started to sweat a bit. Do I get the sensitive Huggies or the extra thick Pampers? Do I get a 3-pack, an 8-pack, or a 47-pack? Damn, I needed clarification! No way I was calling home though. How could there by so many options? Defeat was not an option.

Even with 2 customers at 8 in the morning, of course red shirted, khaki pantsed peeps were nowhere in sight. I went with the 8-pack. Pampers. Conventional. No bells and whistles.

So it's been about twelve hours since I got home. So far, so good. I stashed the wipes in our downstairs bathroom next to the changing station. Anytime I had to change the kids, I did it upstairs so as not to bring any attention to my selection. Hopefully, I can keep it going tomorrow. Duh - winning!

Messy Messes of Emesis

I'm in a funk, there's no other way to put it. The frequency of my blogging kinda reflects my recent moods. I think the combination of my undiagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder and the kids being sick since earlier in the month have given me a case of the poopy pants that I just can't kick. February always makes me consider why the hell I live in New England because I.fucking.hate.winter. I don't like being cold. I don't like being indoors. Snow is cool for about 3 days and then I'm all set. I much rather prefer to go commando and wear flip flops every day. I want tan lines near my eyes where my sunglasses should be. I want sand in my scalp, not dandruff. I want to work on my new garden, not snow blow the driveway. I know, I know, "weah, weah, weah" but let me vent. I feel better already. Just a bit more complaining and I swear it's done.

To re-cap the infirmary chronology, Greta got sick before G-man. First and only (knock on wood) ear infection of the winter for her. I forgot how awful those are. She got over it in about a week and a half. (Just realized I forgot to administer her dose of antibiotic tonight - sweet, now I'm preoccupied.) While it sucked to witness her in pain and discomfort, it was just as bad to see her personality totally morph from mood swing to mood swing. If puberty is anything like that, I'm relocating to a tent in the backyard.

Gusto is still fighting some mystery illness. He has an awful cough, but he hasn't had a fever at all. He's had a boogie nose for like two weeks. His mood fluctuates a lot and he mostly just wants to be held. He's not himself. He's also been puking about every other day. It's weird because it doesn't seem like a flu per se, but it's not just a little cold either.

By the way for those keeping score at home, this winter, the over-under for cumulative pukes between Greta and Gus is somewhere around twelve and a half. And how many of those landed anywhere near a toilet or sink, you may ask? Absolutely none. I'm not talking about little, formula spit-ups by Gus either. I don't even flinch at those. He and I will be mid-sesh with a bottle, I'll pat his back, he'll spit up a bit, a stray burp shrapnel will plop into my eyebrow, I'll rub it in to straighten out a few of my renegade brow hairs in the vicinity, and we continue. That's nothing.

When August actually vomits, on the other hand, the projectile spray encompasses an area greater than a fire extinguisher. For most of those explosions, THE WIFE was the unfortunate bystander. Last night, though, he got me good. My guard was down. When that ominous cough started, I shoulda been sprinting immediately towards a toilet, a trash can, a boot, anything. Instead, I half paid attention and patted his back. Next thing I now, warm thick formula exploded in waves over my shoulder and on my neck in varying directions of our entryway to the house. Think Lard Ass and blueberry pie a la Stand By Me. We stood there for a moment. Me dazed, he triumphant. Eventually, I shrugged and stripped the both of us down on the spot. Post-puke, he was all smiles and giggles as we ran through the house - white diaper/undies only.

Moving on. Feeling better. A couple bright spots and discoveries lately, truth be told. First: WSHL 91.3 FM. I stumbled upon the Stonehill radio station, a few weeks ago. What a pleasant surprise. Of course, there are the occasional, inevitable, embarrassingly immature broadcasts by awkward nineteen year-old know-it-all dee-jay tandems discussing private jokes that seem hilarious only to them, but overall, the music selection is consistently original and most of all, enjoyable. I'm listening right now on my bedside clock radio, as a matter of fact.

Speaking of the clock radio, Greta's arsenal of new moves, combined with her increasing confidence to dance unabashedly in front of her circle of trust (me, WIFE, Augey, Nana, Pep, Mimi, "CC", cousin Sophie, cousin Johnny, and Auntie Steph), is one of the highlights of the day for me. Generally, we jam out as a family of 4 at least once per day: before dinner in the kitchen, after dinner in the kitchen, or before bed in mummy's and daddy's bedroom. The shoulder shimmy, the Nana a/k/a Elaine move, the jump around on tippy-toes, and the newly-added, spin around on the floor like Marty McFly channeling Hendrix - I wish you could witness just one of the moves but G-sizzle's sight of anyone outside the circle watching is enough to paralyze her for hours without speaking, unfortunately.

One other note on little Miss G - and I have no idea if this is early, late, expected, right on time or what, but it made me so proud irregahdless - earlier this week, we were getting ready for her bedtime. Typically, that means she'll run around in the hallway between her room, her brother's room, and our room in a last ditch effort to procrastinate going to bed for however long she can pull it off. During this time, she also often hides in my closet. So that night, I decided to don the headlamp and read books together under my ties, suits, and dress shirts hanging just above our heads. We closed the door. I switched the spelunking gear on. Meanwhile, Greta had snagged a bunch of flash cards that are bent and torn and beat up from weeks of circulation, to go along with Good Night Moon and Oink or whatever else I had brought in to our hideaway. Anyway, out of nowhere, she started to count the number of cars in a flash card. One, two, three - all the way up to nine! Totally unprompted. I was shocked and very impressed. I didn't know what to do so I hugged and kissed her and told her she was "Gorgeous Greta the Great Genius!" like I used to chant when she was a baby. (Sorry, but normally every number is 2, every color is pink, and every letter is L-M-N-O.) Whatever annoyance or frustration that was leftover from a dinner of "NO!" to every question or request just evaporated in an instant.

And, like Kaiser Soze, "as mysteriously as he arrived, he was gone," my poopy pants seem to have disappeared. Thank you all for being my therapist. Check's in the mail. My parkah (or park-er for you massholes) is retiring for the season. Good day and good night.

Just Hibernating

It's a lame excuse but whatever creative bones exist in my body have been dulled by the seemingly unending shitty weather. The past few weeks, if I muster up the strength to write even just a personal e-mail, it's late at night after the kids and the wife are in bed. The house is finally calm and quiet. No tantrums, no television blasting noise, no domestic emergencies. I treasure those few daily minutes of tranquility so dearly that I usually toast to myself with a glass of wine or whiskey. But lately I've either bypassed those moments and went directly to bed, or my brain was too fried to write anything half interesting.

Irregahdless, here's a brief re-cap of the recent happenings in our neck of the woods other than clearing snow from the driveway and staying cooped up in the house every day. We've experienced leaks of varying amounts in basically every window of the house, which explains why one may see half-soaked and half-frozen beach towels laying around random sills on any given day. We were shrugging it off and hoping for the weather to improve but things got worse before they got better. One day, we found water dripping through our kitchen ceiling, which was sweet. I reported the damage to our insurer. The adjuster recommended a company that clears snow and ice from roofs. After I spent a couple hours dangling from a ladder with a shovel and hammer in my hands, I opted for the professionals. A few days later, as two guys chipped and shoveled icicles and pieces of shingles from our roof, they broke one of the sky lights. More sweetness. At this point, I'm just waiting for a pipe to burst or a tree to crash through the living room. No sense getting all worked up about it, so I segue to the kiddos instead.

Gigi is turning two next week and I scratch my head at the speed in which that's happened. She is going through a phase (at least I hope it's only a phase though we're going on two or three months now) when she either says absolutely nothing or cries when anyone other than me, the wife, her grandmothers, or her babysitter walk into the house. It bothers me partially because I fear she's painfully shy but mostly because the people who don't see Greta often don't get to witness her constantly expanding personality and vocabulary. For example, Greta is big into "hiding" right now, which she announces to us before doing it and usually amounts to one of four situations: 1) kneeling under the kitchen table; 2) in my closet sitting on my safe (you know, for our jewels and stacks of cash) below the shirts and ties; 3) under a desk in our kitchen; or 4) she's closed her eyes and thinks she's become invisible. It never gets old to me.

She also loves to walk around on her tippy-toes before and after her repertoire of dance moves and shoulder shimmies. When she wakes up from her nap, and I ask what she dreamed about, she says almost every time "Frosty, Santa Claus, and Mrs. Claus" a full seven weeks post-Christmas. She sings "kinkle kinkle little stah." She even gives kisses and hugs unsolicited every once in a while. She even tilts her head and looks at me with a convincing charm when she's trying to get out of eating something usually. She has me wrapped around her finger already. I could go on and bore with every detail, but I'll close out the topic with one last story. A few weeks back, the wife and Gigi had a girls' day out shopping complete with a restaurant lunch. Thinking she had Greta thoroughly impressed, the wife asked who her best friend was and she answered correctly, "Daddy!" Yes! Score: Me (1) Shell (O).

As for G-man, he's kicking ass and taking names. He's rolling around like a tumbleweed, sometimes ending up unhappily against a chair leg. His head and neck strength are improving every day. We torture him constantly with tummy time, but he takes it like a champ until he's exhausted face down on his belly screaming for someone to come get him. The nice part about Gus being able to keep his head up (aside from not using the N.G. tube!) is he can sit in a high chair where he's still trying to decide if he likes cereal yet. And G-man also had his first co-ed tub while sitting in the bath seat this week. He smiles at anyone who hugs, kisses, or cuddles with him. He babbles "da-da-da-da" every once in a while, which Greta likes to imitate. We are constantly encouraged by his advancement, which still seems to be very consistent with a typical kid. We're grateful.

Meanwhile, I'm getting a little older, fatter, and wrinkled in my large forehead every day. I know I can't beat the age thing. As for the spare tire, once the temp creeps up over 20, I'll don the running kicks and get back outside. Regarding the wrinkles, do guys really put lotion on their faces? Or should I just accept that my dome is morphing into a raisin? These are the things I think about when I'm stuck inside waiting for the snow to melt. If it snows again, and you see me on the roof with a hair dryer and blowtorch, please tell me to get down. The hibernation is almost over.

Playing the Field

Bare chested and dripping wet, he stood by the pool. "Come here often?" he asked quite un-smoothly.

She was crouching with her back to him. Her skin glistened beneath the sunlight passing through the natatorium's opaque ceiling. So happily focused on patting her little girl dry with a towel, she did not hear him advance. Once realizing the presence of someone behind her, she turned around quickly and asked "Oh I'm sorry, did you say something?"

He hesitated. "Uh. Nothing. Just, ah, see you next week," he said nervously while hurrying away holding his own daughter's hand. And ... SCENE.

No, that was not an opening from Danielle Steele's most recent paperback featuring a shirtless Fabio lookalike on the cover. It was a re-enactment of me with Greta at the pool trying to pick up a married mom last month. (The audience laughs.)

Seriously, a couple weeks ago, I tried to ask out one of the moms at Greta's swim classes. But I couldn't muster up the guts. (Nervous laughter now.) What can I say, I'm rusty. I haven't blatantly hit on a girl since I tried unsuccessfully to french THE WIFE in the Seapoint parking lot back on St. Patty's Day, 2005. (The audience fidgets. "Is he drunk?" someone whispers.)

What? Oh no, it's not what you think. I'm not Tiger Woodsing pre-Thanksgiving/Escalade/golf club-through-the-window. Not at all. THE WIFE put me up to it. I swear. (The audience begins to buzz with gossip. "Do they have pink flamingos on their front lawn?" "Oh my god, that's why they drink Menage A Trois!" The crowd begins to riot.)

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Please, folks, settle down. And... SCENE.

Okay, so the real story is Greta has a friend that she met at a playground in town named Ashley. I met Ashley's grandmother, who watches Ashley on Mondays when I do my Mr. Mom thing. Anyway, whenever Greta went to the playground, she always asked if we'd see Ashley and oftentimes, she happened to be there. Fast forward months later to G's swim classes at the Y and sure enough, Ashley's parents have enrolled her in the same class. THE WIFE and I rotated every week who took Greta to class. I happened to go to the last class of the session. Before I left, THE WIFE told me how she really liked Ashley's mom and wanted to see about hanging out sometime since we haven't really made any friends since we moved to Easton so I should ask her about getting together some time. (That's the truth, I swear.)

When the moment came at the end of class to ask for Ashley's mom's number, I just couldn't go through with it because it felt so, well, weird. I was suddenly transported to junior high again, with my jeans pegged, trying to muster up the courage to ask a girl if she wanted to go out with me for the first time. Except this time, I was 35 and 80 pounds heavier, asking another married couple with a daughter to go out on a play date with me, my wife, and our kids. Enter, the married with kids, living in a new place dating game.

Shell and I are fortunate to have different, great circles of friends. Of course, the tightness of each circle varies but we've both got our own besties from home, from the schools we've attended, from our jobs past and present, etc. - basically wherever we've left a print somewhere. In most all of those instances, we were not yet parents. Those bonds and friendships naturally began as we became drawn to those with similar interests. Granted, some of our friends experienced similar paths as us at their own pace, but none paralleling the exact dynamic we currently have in terms of having kids period, the same number of kids, or the same ages of kids.

But now, having relocated to a totally new community, we've started our most recent chapter of our life together, which obviously includes the kiddos. The four of us are, in the truest sense, the new kids on the block. So by extension, the courting process of meeting new friends has officially begun. And I can't help but notice how much the experience resembles - well - dating. Hear me out.

When one dates (and I distinguish from simply being out on the prowl barhopping for you virile, adventurous singeltons), one generally seeks a mate with similar interests, similar values, similar roots, similar goals, etc., right? The match one seeks when single all transcends to the match a couple seeks when married with kids. You want someone who seems like you. You also don't want someone who pursues you too hard and by the same token, the other side won't be into you if you're too interested. It's almost a game that borders on arrogance because one obviously has certain "standards" for lack of a better term, but at the same time how the hell do you ever meet anyone if you think your shit don't stink?

Am I really this serious or selective about just making new friends? Of course not. To me, it's never too late to embrace a connection I've made with someone new. That's how everything started with my oldest friends in the first place. We've just had the benefit of meeting earlier in our lives and sharing the crazy experiences that help to mold our bond together.

The reality is that dating - fortunately - is separate and distinct from the genesis of a friendship. In the search for your life partner, spouse, whatever you want to call him/her, everyone carries around the scars and/or baggage of failed relationships past. Maybe that ex cheated on you, broke up with you in a text message on your birthday, or you could never get past that Seinfeld-ian tragic flaw that all your friends laughed about after you broke up. There's a million reasons why old relationships never worked out. So you left the ex behind, the ex left you behind, or you both went separate ways.

Luckily, when the opportunity arises to begin a new friendship, you don't have to ever give up your old pals. You're just looking to add to your posse. And if your entourage remains as is, so be it because it's probably a pretty damn good one.

So I guess that's where we Ts find ourselves currently. (Thinking.) Hmmm, maybe there's a social networking web site lurking here. I think I'll friend request Mark Zuckerberg and see what he thinks.

Well, until we figure out the match.com for married peeps with kids, THE WIFE heads back to the Y tomorrow for a new round of classes. Perhaps she'll have more balls than me and ask out Ashley's dad...

The First of Many

My parents, THE WIFE, and I stood together in the living room on Christmas Eve. The kids were asleep. We had toys to assemble. And it was already eleven o'clock. My parents were calm. They've been there before. My dad's reaction was unsurprising and amusing. "Ah. (pausing) You got a dry red? Merlot?" I ran to the basement and snagged a bottle of Chuck Shaw. We got to work - on the wine and the toys.

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From ages 18 to 33, I appreciated the time spent with my family during Christmas of course. But the supposed magic or aura of the actual holiday gradually decreased with time. The religious aspect never did it for me. The songs stopped appealing to me. The movies ceased moving me. I'm indifferent about cookies. And though I loved giving presents, I rarely enjoyed receiving them. I don't think I was necessarily a Scrooge by any means, but the holiday hype was more bothersome and irritating than enjoyable.

Then, Greta was born. Last year, she was too young to have any palpable reaction to the festivities. But this year was a whole different story. All of those fun things about Christmas that I forgot re-emerged and reintroduced themselves.

We kicked off the season by riding on a Polar Express train ride excursion with both of the kids, her cousins, and the little ones of THE WIFE'S Carver neighborhood friends. The kids were all dressed in their pajamas. After caroling, dancing, and looking at lights, we got off the train and strolled around. A little reception hall had hot chocolate, face painting, and a place to make ornaments. Greta was eating it up.

The highlight of that night was when Greta walked right up to her new BFF Frosty the Snowman. She waved at him fearlessly while beaming with adoration. It shocked me because our experience with Santa the year before didn't go as smoothly. Granted, Frosty was probably a stoned teenager on break from college underneath the costume, but I was grateful nonetheless.

A week later, we put up the tree. G loved hanging the ornaments, which she dangled almost entirely on one branch at the very end. Classic.

Of course, the tree stand I used was too small, which caused the tree to fall over twice the next day breaking several ornaments, making Greta cry, and resulting in my curse-filled, frantic drive to Lowe's, but Greta and THE WIFE were relieved as the tree rose again this time with something like 20 more strands of lights. (Still standing, by the way.)

While her fear of real-life Santas continued like the Real Wives of Beverly Hills fear normal sized lips or faces that move, Greta became a huge fan of cartoon caricatures or small version models of St. Nick. Rudolf is cool but probably only because of his resemblance to Bambi. We even waved at baby Jesus together when passing by the town center's Nativity scene.

After a few weeks, the seasonal songs began to take reawaken my Christmas cheer's soul. Listening to Gigi sing Jingle Bells or Frosty the Snowman comprised the best five seconds of my days leading up to the big event. Greta only knew the first four words of each song but it's all I needed to hear.

Then, the other little things also began to impress: the outdoor light displays of any quality (the inflatable jobs are her fave), Christmas cookies (she baked some with Mimi), wrapping paper, and even just playing in the snow. I hadn't paid any attention to these things since Teenwolf was dunking on the Dragons or Gizmo got fed after midnight.

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On Christmas morning, Greta's new trampoline, toy kitchen, and chalkboard/drawing easel sat freshly assembled. (The Grandparents and parents gratefully sipped their coffee or tea.) All three gifts seemed to be big hits, though the trampoline probably had a slight edge. As Gigi bounced gleefully, I understood why my parents were so quick to accept our invitation to sleep over. I think I felt that old-school Christmas magic again.

My only gift to Greta - a set of hers and hers ice skates (a pair to Greta and a pair to THE WIFE) - got pushed aside immediately after opening so she could go back to the trampoline. Poetic justice! That was fine by me, though. I was just happy the kitchen's appliances all beeped properly. Now if someone wouldn't mind telling Greta that the decorations and tree have to disappear for a little, that would be great. Thanks.

Have a happy and healthy 2011 everyone!

Wakeup Call

Perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by three-plus months of encouraging doctors' visits, I didn't think much about Gus' visit for x-rays this past Tuesday. G-man has been consistently impressing his cardiologist, endocrinologist, primary care physician, physical therapist, and basically anyone related to him by blood, marriage, and friendship. Granted, he's had a loud kind of breathing sound since he was born, but Gus has been growing at a fine pace and his personality has been more animated than ever.

The quiet hero of our family is definitely Michelle. Both of us have amazingly compassionate employers and supervisors, but my job keeps me on a random road schedule that is difficult to predict - so our matriarch somehow handles every single medical appointment for the kids, while balancing a full-time job. Fortunately, we both went to Gus' recent consult at the Children's Hospital DS Clinic, so I was well aware of the reasons behind the referral to have him swallow barium with his formula. They wanted to be sure he was not aspirating when he ate. In other words, was formula getting into his lungs when he swallowed?

I knew the outcome of the swallowing study the second I heard Michelle's voice when she called. "Okay, temporary setback," I thought. So we just have to thicken his formula. No big deal. Wrong. He would return as an in-patient on Wednesday. Here we go again.

It's funny how easy it was for me to forget about all of the potential complications that could arise due to Gus having DS. After so many weeks of development that paralleled pretty much all of our "typical" experiences with Greta's first four months, I became naively confident that no other medical issues would arise with our little superstar. But there I was, packing a bag and panicking that I might forget some critical piece of clothing or toy before we left for who knows how long.

Of course, I wasn't upset in any way towards the G-man at any time whatsoever. But the unexpected news about another potential obstacle to our quest for Gus to have a clean bill of health alarmed me. What was all this business about feeding tubes? Our little guy was fine. These doctors gotta be overreacting, right? I was at stage one already: denial.

And, frankly, the interruption to our family's daily routine frustrated me. Why Gus? Why us? Hasn't he and we been through enough already? Who would watch Gigi while we were gone? Both Shell and I couldn't have had busier weeks with our jobs. Plus, we were re-entering the hospital world where the promptness of scheduled visits by doctors were as reliable as arrival times by an MBTA bus or subway. Fucking A, man. Now I was at stage two: the self-pity percolated.

Then, we got to the hospital. I looked around us. Worried and caring parents abounded with children of all ages enduring a myriad of disorders and illnesses that spanned a vast range of severity. Reality check. Forget about the small stuff that was seemingly important. Focus on Gus. Listen to the doctors. Ask probing questions. Be sure to understand what they're saying. Make educated decisions. Be a good father and a strong partner to my wife.

After our admission, we immediately became reminded of why Children's Hospital is so great: the nursing staff. Shannon and Ann were yet more all stars in the Hall of Fame cast that has cared for the G-man during both of his stays at Children's. And, to their credit, the doctors seemed to be appearing much more frequently than I unfairly stereotyped. Everybody - literally - was again phenomenal. Very empathetic. Extremely patient. Totally assuring.

As for the cold facts of Gus' situation, Shell and I have different understandings of what is causing the aspiration. Without dispute, he has laryngomalacia - basically, a narrowing in the passage between his mouth and stomach. Doctors have also said he has a floppy airway. (I think they mean the same thing. Shell thinks they are two different issues.) Irregardless, somewhere in Gus' airway, it apparently allows formula into the lungs when it should only be air. This creates a higher risk of pneumonia and long-term lung damage, among others. Consequently, he has a nasogastric (NG) tube for the indefinite future.

The NG tube is a small tube that goes through Gus' nose into his stomach that gets hooked up to a pump for every feeding he has (about 5 or 6 a day.) Fortunately, we can feed him one ounce of formula immediately before activating the pump so he won't forget his eating reflexes. The good news about the NG: it's relatively easy to put in and pull out. Plus, other than the annoyance of its placement through the nose, the tube isn't anchoring into anything internal or external.

The bad news about the NG: it's relatively easy to pull out. Vegas already posted an over-under line for Greta's first successful removal of the NG at one week. I'll take the under.

Not surprisingly, Gus' mom is already a champ at installing the NG. After installing one for practice, Shell got called into duty in the middle of Night 2 when Gus yanked it out in his sleep. But what else would you expect from a mom who, although she trusts dad's abilities entirely, insists on sleeping over to be present "in case anything happens"?

There is a possibility that the NG tube could be replaced by a gastrostomy tube (G tube), which goes directly into his stomach through his belly, but for the time being he seems to be handling the NG okay. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

We got the green light to go home on Friday and rejoin Miss Greta where she was being thoroughly spoiled by her Mimi, who came to the rescue on extremely short notice. As was the case in July, everything worked out, just not in the way we originally expected.

Triumphantly, Gus, Shell, and I exited through the lobby into the chilly frenzy of pedestrians and traffic of Longwood Ave. As we passed by Santa Claus and an elf standing idly on the sidewalk, I nodded with a smile whereupon Saint Nick extended his hand and said, "Here you go, dad. Happy Holidays." Expecting to see a coupon for 10% off at Dunkin's or the like, I was shocked to find what appeared to be a $50 bill in my hand. By the time I inspected the gift for authenticity (it's bona fide) and turned back to thank the philanthropists, they were gone.

While astounded to be the recipient of such an unexpectedly generous gift, we were much more grateful to be going home with our still perfect baby. Happy Holidays, everybody!