Picking it up

In an effort to kickstart my lacking physical fitness, I’ve started taking the stairs out of home my home subway station.

You should know that the 181st A train is situated about 14 miles* below the surface of Washington Heights, so we not talking about one or two short flights up and out. (*it maybe a little less than 14 miles… but it may or may not be reasonably close to the center of the earth, five or take).

As I started up the stairs the other evening, I could see about halfway up an MTA worker was standing on one of the landings and woman one landing up from him, looking back in interest. The worker was holding some industrial-sized tongs, and a bag. The tongs looked large enough to extract a festering rodent from such a stairwell, and from the looks on his and the onlooking lady’s face- that’s what I assumed we dealing with. But I couldn’t see the floor of the landing from where I was.

I should mention that the stairway is divided by metal bars, railings, interconnected from top to bottom in a way that to switch between sides of the stairway after committing to one side is not something easily done or recommended. I’m not one to risk bodily harm, or extreme subway schmutz on my clothes (or both) to test my prowess on such a feat. I mention this because the lady watching the scene play out was on the other side of the stairwell, while the worker eyeing the whatever-it-is was in mine.

(You might think you know where this going- but I just said I wouldn’t try to climb over the railings, and I’m sticking to it. Even if meant some rat innards may soon be sticking to my shoe. So this not that story.)

As I near the landing in question, the lady’s attention remains as wrapt as the worker’s reticence to perform his duty. A few more steps, and just before the landing comes in to view I ready myself for carnage, maybe a rotten smell, or perhaps just a rat on its back, frozen in time and rigor mortis. Maybe it’s some human feces, that’d be tong-worthy, although i think I’d have smelled that one a few landings ago. Or perhaps just food mess of some kind- he would’t to pick that up with his hands- but would that have cause the woman to remain above and gawk? Well imagine my surprise, my relief when as I reach the landing what the worker is reaching for with his tongs is a discarded, seemingly used syringe and hypodermic needle. That’s not something you see every day- anymore anyway.

There was time when needles were commonplace in subways stations. That recent, but bygone era when you couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into some smack-riddled addict stumbling down the street. Now, I’m sure this wasn’t that at all. No, just a diabetic who, having overdid walking up the stairs, needed a shot of insulin to themselves the rest of the way up, and then in the process of put the needle in their portable sharps container carelessly missed and dropped it in the stairwell. That’s the story I myself, and the only thing I pick up is my pace to head up the rest of the stairs and into the night air.

In it to [help] win it!

As is the case with many, this year’s midterm elections have been a date circled on my calendar since November 9, 2016. The news has been pretty much all bad when it comes to politics, policy, and appointees with this current administration. And it fueled me to become more involved than I ever have in previously elections. I even signed up to volunteer for my local state senator’s campaign, something I had always said I was going to do but never had. I put a sign in our 4th floor window, and was ready to help out when I could. Well today that far-off circled day has arrived, and today I was signed up to pass out flyers and generally remind people to vote. And I have to say it was great and fascinating experience.

We’ve all been on the other side, walking down the street minding our own business when all of sudden someone is pushing something on you: sale, event, candidate. I generally do try and at least acknowledge these folks while making it clear I don’t want what they are selling. Today I was the seller, and people’s reactions ran the spectrum: from happy to receive to offended and spiteful. I’m lucky to live in NYC where the bulk of the people walking toward me are at least somewhat left-leaning and wanting change from our current political leadership. But even the with people who I was able to engage, the was a varying level of outward commitment to the process. There was a lot of “I’m heading there to vote right now,” or “I already voted!” But also some “Oh I won’t forget,” “I’m going later,” or “Sure, sure” - from which it was almost transparent who would actually be going to exercise their rights versus those who were just trying to say the right thing and escape back into anonymity. There were young people who said they weren’t yet old enough, people who apologetically said they couldn’t- not a citizen- but hoped everything would “come out good.” Some folks wanted to know just what candidates were on my flyers, others took it without looking, some grasped them excitedly and scanned them on the run, while others gave a “No thanks,” or a wave of the hand to signal not interested.

The ubiquitous “I Voted” stickers were proudly worn, and my cohort and I would thank people for voting which you could see really positively affect some of the people. And there were those who would turn it around and thank us for being out reminding them and others to vote. And of course, there were those who would flash the sticker like a federal agent and shrug us off, combatively using it as a “get-out-of-jail-free-card” to avoid any personal connection.

And only one- seemingly somewhat unstable- person was outwardly negative. She happened to be wearing a beanie with the Washington NFL football team’s name on it, so at least the shoe (or hat) fit. For the most part, the diversity and eccentricity of New York City was well on display, and my pride to be a part of it swelled.

And being a small part of the democratic process made me feel good too. In addition to the small amount of work I did for the campaign, my wife and I donated to candidates and causes far outside our geographic sphere in order to help in the only way it was possible for us to do. It feels downright, dare I say it- AMERICAN, but in the best way possible. Now will this America back these good feelings I’m sitting with as write this, or will disappointment be the outcome again tonight? Not much I can do at this point, but the fight begins anew tomorrow.

Anger at 17

Another September 11 is upon us. When I think of of September 11, I remember all the lives lost, all the acts of heroism, the immediate unity we all coalesced under. And I remember the awful time that followed here in New York City. The tragedy itself, the immediate grief, and the painful aftermath are all rolled up into one for me when September 11 is mentioned.   

Let me state for the record, I didn’t lose anyone on September 11. The closest I came at the time to even knowing someone who did was a co-worker at my new job (which I started on September 12, a day later than I was supposed to have) who lost her mother.

But I did live here. I lived through that time, as all of us did who lived and worked here. I remember the eerie quiet in the city the in the days just after. I remember the overwhelming smell that stuck to the back of your throat. The odd haze that hung over the skyline and down city blocks. How it seemed we were all walking around in a daze.

I don’t state this as badge of experience. I realize that my experience was not unique, that my direct connection could have been so much worse- as it was for many. My geographic proximity to the tragedy by no means earns me some sort of participation trophy. And yet, the phrase “never forget” drives me to anger. As if anyone one of us who waded their way through the aftermath of that awful day needs to be reminded to NOT forget. For a lot of us that live here still, we aren’t really afforded the option of forgetting. I remember September 11 every day. When I get on the subway. When a group of sirens blares louder than normal. When I see random National Guards armed with assault rifles posted in public places. When I look out my window at work at see a plane seemingly flying lower than usual. It always takes me back to that time. That any number of mundane daily activities, like going to work, can be putting yourself in harm’s way. So yeah, I don’t forget. I’ve never forgotten.

However, as I’ve stated, and apparently need to remind myself: this tragedy doesn’t belong to me by any stretch. Everyone is entitled to their piece of it, to their own pain. And while I am entitled to my anger, I don’t need to be angry at someone else’s grief. It doesn’t matter if you lived around the corner from the Pentagon or in North Dakota - this was a crime committed against America, against humanity. If you count yourself among either of those groups you get to process your pain how you want. If “never forget” is your tribute to the heroes, the lost- if it’s what you say because you don’t what else to say? You’re allowed. Because what else is there to say? Today should be about love and continued healing. I’m still working on that, I guess. And after seventeen years, I suppose that’s what makes me angry. 

Recorded Attendance

The lady bustled into the gymnasium just as the applause was dying down. The kids were holding their recorders in front of them, their beaming smiles from the adulation fading into a “Where do we go now?” expression. A man that had been standing in the shoulder-to-shoulder clump of people which made up the audience turned and noticed the lady and said “You missed it,” speaking over and through myself and another person. 

She made no attempt to get any closer to the guy, even though probably could have squeezed in if she had attempted. “I know,” she said back to him, in a manner that didn’t reveal one way or another how she felt about her late arrival. 

“I got it all on here,” said the man, nodding to the phone which he still held above head level, despite the fact that the show (and one would assume the recording) had ended. 

“How was it?” They were still speaking as if there was no one in between them (there was).  

“Awesome.” I searched his face for irony, as I’m not sure anyone had ever described a gaggle of school kids tooting away on recorders as ‘awesome’ without sarcasm involved- but there was none. He had been there for the brief recital, and it appeared he was going to make sure his commitment would be appreciated. 

“I’m just going to tell her I was there,” she said, judging by the crowed gym floor that she probably could have entered without having been spotted.  

Not so quick to let her off the hook, he replied, “Oh she could see. She was looking around.” It was said in a congenial tone, but with context it dripped with Chekhovian subtext. And I was still very much in the middle of it all. Quite literally.    

He turned back to the kids, phone still held aloft, although now I could clearly see it was no longer actively recording. She presumably caught her daughter’s eye, and gave a hearty thumbs up, beaming with manufactured pride. I looked down at my phone to see what time it was. 

Learning from felines

Having multiple cats, it’s interesting to watch them learn little behavioral things from each other. From a previous pair of ours, one of them always scatter TF away when someone arrived at the front door, and the other, when he first joined our household, would make a b-line straight for the door and whatever excitement awaited. After a little time, the new cat learned- most likely through the dire warnings of his feline sis, that the opening of the front door held nothing but terrors untold. 

Years later, we have another set of cats running our house, three now- one (Tabby) joining six months before the other two (The Nutter Brothers, Cashew & Walnut). And since, we’ve noticed a change in how Tabby behaves- she’s taken to lounging in positions and places previously unknown and untried to her before her brothers arriving. And they are good loungers, so she’s no doubt taken tips from them- despite the fact she may tell you they know nothing. (No you're anthropomorphically speaking about your cat)

The new hot spot has become a point of contention- for me. They’ve all taken to curling up on my shoulder bag that I take to work with me daily. It’s your standard messenger-y type thing, made of material that attracts and exacts the greatest magnetism and staying-power of feline fur. So of course that has become their favorite sitting apparatus- causing me much grief in the process of getting out the door: having to squeeze in a massive lint rolling session into an already crammed morning schedule.

I can’t say for sure which cat started it, and which of the others learned the behavior. It may have been the bag itself (no, now you're personifying your bag) . Really the only question now is how long it will take for the human involved to learn some behavior himself, and place the bag somewhere the cats can’t easily plop themselves down on. Until they find a way to get to it, which they will- they’re always learning. 

In praise of asking for help

We all have friends on social media who choose for one reason reason or another play out their daily dramas or grieve deeply or sort through their issues in the public eye. I find myself often rolling my eyes at such posts, but perhaps there is something to it. It's emotional honesty, whatever it's source or motive behind it. It's a certain fearlessness that whatever they are are going through, it deserves attention. They deserve well wishes, and pick-me-ups. They obviously feeling a great need for things, and they are basically unafraid to ask for it.

I'd say most of us, project a positive face. Smiling pictures, successes. No matter what's happening off-line. No one, I think, truly enjoys posting about how their child is having real anger-management issues. That their child deals with sometimes crushing anxiety about the the most routine of things. That, as a parent, these things affect everything you do, every decision you make - and can take a toll on even the happiest and most loving of households. Sudden outbursts of raw emotion seemingly out of nowhere can take your breath away. And when it comes from your child, this piece of your heart- this tiny, developing human that you'd do anything for - well, it breaks that heart in the truest sense. And then realizing that even as a parental unit you can't overcome this alone, that you need help, can feel utterly defeating. Like you've failed your child in being that steadying, guiding force in their life- and was it something you've done to have brought on this behavior? But pushing past ego, you reach out and get the help- because you want more than anything for your child to relish in her deserved strength. To be sure that there's nothing she can't do. But the help is work, progress is slow, and sometimes you can see a flicker at the end of the tunnel- sometimes not. Yeah, I don't think anybody enjoys posting about that kind of stuff.    

I'm not saying that it's all we want to read on Facebook, or the like- I want the smiling faces, I want the accomplishments and celebrations. But there is place for it- for emotional honesty on social media, other than anger (that's one emotion almost no one seems to have trouble expressing online these days). It's a way of reaching out into the ether to let that others know that if they are going though the same things, they aren't alone. The best thing about social media is the community it creates, but without some personal honesty to bring us back to earth, that same community can feel terribly isolating- a place where it's easy to "compare and despair," a wise lady once put it to me.

So I'll try and be a little more accepting to those reaching out. And I'll make an attempt, even if only once and a while, to be brave and ask for that pick-me-up when I need it.     

Hate group semantics

How necessary is the term, "white supremacist"? Doesn't "racist" pretty much cover it? As if some seeing some white person spewing hate, we're going to confused as to which race they feel is superior? Example: "Oh that hateful, racist white guy is WHITE supremacist!" Isn't there enough of a sample size for us to assume that this dude or gal feels pretty good about whites, and not so good about non-whites? (Sit down, Rachel Dolezal, we're not talking about you)

 "White supremacist" is supposed to carry with it such heaviness and menace, but to me it sounds like an intellectualization of deep seeded mental issues- cooked in a laboratory by mixing colors and root-words and suffixes. "Racist" I think covers it for me. (Yes I know there's a root word and suffix involved, don't interrupt)  

But wait - maybe we really do need sub-classification of hatred. Because of course you've got the Neo-Nazis, who pretty much hate everyone- even wide swaths of white people (especially but not limited to white people of the Jewish persuasion. [Tangent: Judaism is a religion, although many of the faith do indentify themselves as part of a race or people]). And now that we've gone down that dark road, why "Neo"? If they follow Nazi doctrine they are pretty much Nazis in my book, new-wave or otherwise. Or are we afraid that with out the "Neo" people are going think they aren't really Nazis because they aren't goosestepping in straight lines and wearing finely manicured staches about their septums? New-wave, old-wave, if it's especially cruel rave- it's still Nazi doctrine to me (with apologies to Billy Joel).

So. Now I'm thinking maybe "racist" doesn't cover it. A lot these people hate gays too-that's not a race (although if it was they'd win- trust me). If we wanted to make up words we could call them prejudists, or members of the ignorantia. Haters is too cute, ugly is on the nose but too general, and asshole is probably too general as well- I think there are plenty of people out there who are assholes but who aren't racists (in fact I'm pretty sure there those who may say I am one of those people). 

Hate-spewing bottom-feeding fear-mongering sub-organisms is what I'm settling on. It's not catchy, not easily hash tagged (#HSBFFMSO does have a hook to it though...), but it comfortably covers the bases for me. Otherwise we're left semantically sub-classifying these groups that aren't worth an extra ounce of extra thought on anyone's part. 

The Paddy's Over

We’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. For the rest of the year, I am myself, by blood, somewhere in the neighborhood of one-quarter Irish, give or take a few shamrocks. I’m a born fan of of Notre Dame Fighting Irish (my grandfather graduated from there in 1935), and I make sure to don a tasteful amount of green on March 17. I state all this to show that I have had, and generally do still have affinity for the holiday.

However, I work in Times Square - what some may call the “Crossroads of the World,” or the others “Armpit of NYC” - whatever you call it, it becomes the epicenter of post-parade amateur St. Paddy’s revelry: teenagers drunk on green beer, compounded in greater number by green-clad of those who think or wish they were still teenagers. The difference with this holiday is that those celebrating give themselves license- be it because of the stereotypical Irish proclivity for imbibing, or whatever- to start the party early. So by the end of the work day- and yes, a good number of us are indeed working when March 17 falls on a weekday- some are winding down, or at least taking a break so as to gear up for the home stretch.

While dodging drunken revelers for your 5pm commute is bad enough, there is one overlooked byproduct of the early wind down- and that is the (usually) late-night stabilizing meal. You know the meal, when you drunk so much, you are jones-ing for something else in your belly- anything to fill the void and soak up some of the alcohol currently taking up more than welcome space in your stomach. In NYC, there’s no end to perfect options for this: a hot from Gray’s Papaya, a big, greasy slice from most any pizza joint or even street-meat from any one of the many ever-present food carts.

When this ritual takes place at 3am, most others hanging about are more than likely in the same boat- focused desperately on restoring their sugar-balance before either hopping into a cab or the train, or back into the bar for more liquid nourishment- and therefore this behavior goes unnoticed. But when this activity takes place at 4:30pm on a Friday, for those sober of us making our way to the train, it is not a pleasant sight to behold. The shovelling, the lack of self-consciousness - in the light of day, it winds up reminiscent of something one might avert their gaze from on Animal Planet: ultimate carnage, the spoils of victory streaming down the predator’s face…

Not what pops into your mind, when you think of St. Patrick’s day. But once you’ve witnessed it, it’s not something that easily leaves you. Legend has it once you catch a leprechaun, to never take your eye off of it- when it comes to drunken folk dressed as leprechauns however, best to keep your head down, and think of the Blarney Stone and shamrocks.

Sláinte!

Nailing It (For a change)

There are fleeting moments- they are few and far between- where it would appear this parenting thing is working out pretty darn good. The other night, I had one of those moments stretch itself out for the better part of a couple of hours.

I've been recovering from a broken collarbone, and then surgery thereafter, so to preface this story, I've been feeling like a parent in absentia, between not physically being able to do stuff and being loopy on pain meds. My trooper of a wife has been working overtime, and had the opportunity to enjoy an evening at the theatre- so I am implored her to take it, we'd be fine.

On a normal Daddy-Daughter night at home, we'd order pizza for dinner end of story no discussion. But, due to the aforementioned pain meds, my stomach had not been all that great and therefore ramen noddles were on the menu. She's tried ramen before and has liked it, but that's no guarantee she'll agree to eat it, especially since it is what I am having for dinner.  But when I brought it up, she seemed almost excited to have it. Boom, score one for Dad - preparing ONE thing for dinner for the two of us. Unusual, but awesome.

I start to get things situated for dinner, and we have an awesome conversation that could have been ripped from a script of Friends or Seinfeld:

Her: Dad you know what's weird?
Me: What's that?
Her: Donald Duck, he doesn't wear pants- everyone else, Mickey, Minnie they wear pants, and Daisy doesn't either.
Me: Yeah, must be a duck thing- their tail feathers or something.
Her: Yeah it's weird.
Me: Wanna know something else strange?
Her: What?
Me: Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, but only Goofy talks and wears clothes, Pluto doesn't- he's Micky's pet.
Her: Yeah, wait- Goofy's a dog??? How did you know??

And so on. I seriously could have been sitting in a bar over-hearing this conversation. It's like I was talking to a person- not my little baby. No you're getting emotional.

I hadn't been wearing my sling for a couple hour, I thought I better put it on so I don't hurt myself in the kitchen. As I struggled a little to get it on, she asked me, "Do you need help?" WHAT? Is that... EMPATHY? This is new for my six-year old. My wife or I could be carrying six massive bags of groceries and she'll decide she doesn't want to wear her jacket and can't understand why we won't hold it for her. Needless to say, I accepted her help, and made a point of expressing my gratification.

Moments later, as I "cook" - she's wasting time and burning brain cells on the iPad, then all of a sudden she puts it down and says, "Dad, can we do homework?" She doesn't get her enjoyment of doing homework from me, but she really does like it. But since this occurrence happened on my watch, I'm putting it in the good dad karma jar. 

She offers to carry not only her own dish to the table, but insists on going back to the kitchen get mine as well. Who is this kid? We sit down to dinner, and not only did she agree beforehand to the ramen, but when in front of her she actually ate the ramen as well.  Again, not normal- she's a legendary terrible eater for us. Boom. 

After dinner we get our PJs on, pile onto the couch to watch the movie "Annie" (the Carol Burnett, Tim Curry one from the 80's, not any of the impostors that have arrived on the seen since). My kid. She requests I take my sling off, and switch sides so she can snuggle up close to me. I mean, honestly- it can't get more slam dunk as a father than that. And with the state of the world and my own body these past few weeks, I am going to claim victory when I can. 

Based in reality

A while back, I wrote about my daughter's connection to her stuffed animals, as it applies to gender. I still get corrected if I call Goldie the Octopus, or Blue Bunny "he" - they are girl stuffed animals (duh). One thing that's never been on the table is a deep emotional connection to any of her stuffies. From the time she could form sentences, anytime I tried to personify one of her fluffy buddies, she would look up at me and say, "It's not real Dad." I, of course, know that (we've yet to consult the stuffed animals themselves on the feel about it).

She tends to through phases where she's really into her dolls, and will want to bring one or more along when we are going out. The answer is usually, "No," especially if we are doing a lot of walking, because five minutes after being out my wife or I are pressed into carriage of the doll. But if we're getting the car, "Okay, sure- but it stays in the car when we get to Target (or wherever)."

So the other day, we three (K, the doll, and I) got in the car. I buckled K in and got up in my seat and realized she was fumbling in the back with the middle seat belt, and when I looked back K was buckling her doll in as well. Hm, I thought. Giving into the mystery, taking care of of her doll as is she were real. I didn't voice this, just a "We all set back there?" And we were off.

When got back in the car, I got K situated and realized the doll was just kind of lying on the passenger seat (she had been unbuckled when we were getting out of the car). So before getting in up front, I made may around the car to help get her belted in as well.

"What are you doing?" asked K.

"I'm just getting her all buckled in."

"Why?"

"I don't know I just thought maybe you wanted her to be." Then I added, "To keep her safe."

K never looked up from the piece of paper she was looking at, and offered, "SHE'S NOT HUMAN, DAD."

Point taken.

I still belted the doll in. Safety first.

Safety first.

Time(s Square) Travelling

A friend of mine posted a picture on the Facebook of the old Howard Johnson's in Times Square the other day, circa the good ol' days, complete with vestiges of pre-Guiliani ill-repute accompanying the Americana. In this day of Times Square looking more like a flashy strip mall, many folks pined in the comments section for that lost New York. More strip, less mall. Well if you're one of those feeling nostalgic, just mere steps up Broadway there is a little slice of heaven that might just feel like you've gone a bit back in time. 

There's a series of storefronts in the low 50's that recently housed things so unmemorable, that despite the fact I had probably walked by them a few hundred times, I can't now for life of me recall what they were. Fact is, they're vacant now- gutted on the inside, more than likely eventually to be snazzed up for some new high-rent tenants, to replace those others that wouldn't or couldn't pay the high rent anymore. The storefronts are glass, top to bottom, and there's nothing to block a fair view of the lack of action that has taken place over weeks of time. 

Here's where the old NYC charm comes into play- there are signs posted on each door letting passers-by know that what they are walking by is a war-zone: man vs. rat. Well, poison en loco man, vs. rat. "WARNING KEEP OUT POISON BAITED AREA" the signs read. Skull and corss-bones, the whole deal. Fantastic. So urban. I'm sure the tourists are tickled and take pictures. But the added whimsy to all of this, is that someone or ones, has taken the trouble to slide under or through the glass doors of a few of the storefronts, magazine pages taken from some of your finer pornography. I thought to myself when I first noticed things laying on the floor just on the other side of the glass, "That's not... is it?" And then after my eyes adjusted to the mid-morning glare, I realized I was indeed looking at very close up photograph of the very spot where so many are brought into this world. It was only then- after I took the time to (I'm not going to say stop and smell the flowers) take a gander that I realized the other storefronts also had some choice photos skillfully maneuvered through the doors and onto the floor just beyond. Excellent. There's your homage to a simpler time. Times Square. I almost felt like mugging someone, just because. 

Never you worry, fans of New(er) York City- just two blocks down on your left is a Starbucks and a drone shop. These days there's a lot of in-with-the-new in this little town, but there will always be shadows of days past, if you let your eyes adjust to the glare. 

Porn, downstage center.

Score one (or two) for Dad

I'm a carney hero. A legend, if only for a few fleeting moments.

My shining moments took place yesterday at Luna Park in Coney Island, where I won two successive carnival games for my daughter, and thereby winning her undying love for a total of at least five minutes.

First up was the "Frog Bog," a pretty standard carnival game where one uses a mallet to attempt to propel a rubber frog into a rotating pool of makeshift lily pad cup thingies. One of those, you'll never get it games. My daughter scooped up the mallet, and then said (in her six year old baby-talk voice) "Daddy do it," while handing it off to me. Well on my third attempt of three, my mallet struck the target with just enough force- no too hard, like my first go, not too soft like try two- and the rubber frog flung its way into one of those lily pads, immediately eliciting a monster hug and a squeal from my daughter. Feeling pretty good.

Then we walk over to "Stinky Feet," a variation of the classic shoot-the-water-into-the-clown's-mouth-and-pop-the-balloon game. It's another game that no matter how close you are to winning, that ugly kid at the end of the row always somehow winds up with prize. This version involved alternating targets on a cartoon-ish gentleman sitting in a bathtub, his (as we've been led to believe) stinky feet hanging out. The winner brings on the shower over his head. My daughter generally enjoys doing this game on her own, so I was getting her set up. I don't know if it was the alternating targets, or if maybe she just sensed greatness in her presence, but she told me to sit down and "Daddy do it" again. And daddy do it I did. With precision I moved the stream of water from foot to foot, to soap bar, back to foot... and when the bell rung, it was our bath guy that got the shower. More hugs and hero worship, maybe even a "You're the best Daddy ever" - a line usually reserved for when I allow her to do something that I have just previously told her she can not do. In any case, I win again, and my child's adoration is my great reward.

Her reward in both cases were plush somethings she'd more or less forgotten about by the time we got home. But my, albeit faded, glory shall endure- if not in her memory, at least in mine. And may it always be that simple to gain hero-status in my daughter's eyes.

Silver lining

I'm relishing this moment. It's before 7am and my wifey is out exercising. I'm not sure what if anything she ate prior to heading out, but the point is- she didn't use any silverware.  

You see for her, everyday is a race to use every single implement she can in order to complete the gastronomical chores necessary for the day. When it's my turn to do the dishes, my go to lines are, "Did you host a dinner party I wasn't invited to?" or "Did you borrow silverware from the neighbors today?" (These are good lines, in case you're wondering- and I authorize you to use them as you see fit.)

So I'll go to the drawer for a spoon- of course there's no spoons in the drawer. Need a knife? Well hopefully there's a clean one in the drain, or I'll have to do a quick wash of the seemingly dozens in the sink. 

It may seem like the easy solution is: more silverware! Never mind that more silver in our New York City dwelling would probably cause the floor in the kitchen to slant even more than it already does- but it would matter. It won't stop her. It will just mean more to wash at the end of the day.  

So, with my daughter quietly becoming one with the couch in the living room, the soft glow of Disney Magic eminating from the TV screen, I set about putting away last night's haul of dishes and silverware. And when I finish: All. Of. Our. Silverware. Is. In. The. Drawer. It's like a Bigfoot sighting, people. And like Bigfoot, it will quickly disappear into the mist- I get that. But for one shining(ish) moment the assurance that these things can happen... well I don't want to wax poetic too much. But, maybe one haiku:

Silverware all in.  

In the early morning light- 

I wink at Bigfoot.  

Overcoming Stuffed Misogyny

When K was a baby, my wife and I took it upon ourselves to name her toys and stuffed animals- because, I mean, they needed names: how else would they know when we were talking to/about them?

As she's gotten older, we've relinquished (although begrudgingly) naming rights to K. For quite a while, creativity was not paramount in naming an object. A baby was "Baby," a dog was "Doggie," etc. As her creativity has increased, so has her awareness and importance that these stuffed animals have specific genders- and generally she pitches toward her toy friends being female. 

So, when someone new comes on the seen (which is often as K forms no real lasting bonds with her stuffed comrades), my predilection is to call whatever it is a he. "What his name?" "Where did you put him?" Unless of course it's a pink cat, or if it's a rabbit with bows in its hair- then, I mean, of course it's a girl. I know. I'm unwittingly forcing my gender identification on these unsuspecting and undeserving stuffies.

For a while it went unnoticed- but now I'm being corrected. As in the case of "Sheepo" a little stuffed hamster, that came with its own little pet carrier and everything. K and I (and Sheepo) were on the train the other day, and I asked a question about "him." Realizing what I was doing, I checked myself by inquiring of Sheepo's gender. 

"She's a girl, Dad," K replied, "Otherwise her name would be "Hee-po."  

Boom. I got schooled. It was a hilarious insight into her reasoning process, and yet another step in the learning process of a father raising a daughter. I hope she keeps this sharp, comical edge to her- and that however she identifies herself in this world, she does so with confidence.