Richard C. Lewis's blog

Surprise Ticket

2012-01-20T20:32:00.002-05:00

This is going to be one short blog but with a big piece of news, at least for me.

I've got a ticket to the NFL's AFC Championship game this Sunday.

I feel like the boy Charlie who discovers he had a golden ticket to enter Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. Maybe even luckier. I mean, out of the all the fans here in New England, all those rabid Patriots fans, and I have snared a ticket to Patriots v. Ravens?

Holy cow!

I really had almost nothing to do with this. Somehow, magically, my friend Av knew some people who, equally amazingly, either have season tickets or know some others who do and aren't going to the game. They aren't going to the AFC Championship game. Go figure that.

And since Av somehow knows these people, he found out they had an extra ticket. He told me several days that it looked pretty good that he would be able to go.

Then, around lunchtime today, I get a text from him. It read:

"My man, it's Av. SHALOM! I'm going to the game on Sunday..."

I was happy for him. He adores the Pats.

The text continued, "and might be able to get you a ticket. Stay tuned."

Trust me, I stayed tuned.

No more than a half-hour later, Av calls me: "You want to go to the game?" he asks.

I should've said, "You want my first-born?" OK, I don't want to go that badly.

But pretty close.

So, there you have it. I will be at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough on Sunday afternoon, cheering lustily for the New England Patriots as they take on the hated Baltimore Ravens.

My sister, her husband, and one of their children will be sitting at home, dressed in their Ravens jerseys.

Eat your hearts out, Niccolinis!

And... GO PATS!

Oopsy Order

2012-01-12T21:59:00.005-05:00

We have a subscription to a possible pornographic web site. Let me explain how it happened.

This morning, Nathaniel was playing in his room as Michelle put our younger son, Isaiah, down for his morning snooze. When she entered Nathaniel's room, she noticed he had her phone. She asked why.

"Lamby has an owie on her bottom," Nathaniel said, pointing to the stuffed sheep's underside (stomach), which had been stained with some kind of liquid.

Michelle inspected the stain and asked again, "But why do you have my phone?"

Nathaniel answered, "I had to get it to call Doctor Tina," referring to our pediatrician, Christina Dierolf. "But she wasn't home," he added, still clutching Michelle's cell phone.

The phone suddenly beeped, indicating an incoming text. Michelle took a look.

The message read: "Thank you for subscribing to Sprint's 'Babes Unlimited.'"

Frantically, Michelle sought to figure out what had happened, and, instead, navigated her way to the site's first offering, a picture of a provocatively posed woman.

I swear I did not put Nathaniel up to this.

Michelle called me in a panic, asking me to call Sprint and cancel the subscription. I've got to say I was a little stunned when she told me we had just begun a subscription to scantily (if at all) clad women.

Sheepishly, I made the call. You bet I made great pains to blame it on our three-year-old son.

Let's hope this is not a pattern!

Seven Years

2012-01-07T14:08:00.003-05:00

New Year's Eve is a special time for many people. A time to close the books on the year that was (for better or worse) and throw open arms to the year that will be, hopes and dreams attendant.

For Michelle and I, New Year's Eve is also our wedding anniversary. On New Year's Eve 2004, we got married in Iowa, so it's now been seven years of matrimony. Lots of ups, a few downs, lots of joy, some tension (hello, children!), many laughs, a few tears. A wonderful voyage so far. I know this is simplistic, but I've always likened marriage to rowing a boat. You get where you want to go if you are rowing in unison. Or, you don't, and you remain mired in the same place. For most of these seven years, Michelle and I have rowed synchronously and harmoniously. I feel blessed that we are on the same page on most matters and share the same values, especially the core ones. Like others, we don't agree on everything (cleanliness, the NFL and timeliness with performing chores come immediately to mind), but we are of one mind on the things that matter most. And if we do disagree, we talk about it. Most of the time.

We sing from the same script with our children, which is vital, for obvious reasons. Uniform, consistent rules and behavior in parenting is essential to raising children who are loving, kind, giving and respectful. We try hard to be fair and balanced with our boys and to instill in them the values we think are essential for them to one day be happy, adjusted, productive and successful. At least we hope we know what we're doing.

I remember the first time I met Michelle. Actually, it was the first time I saw her. I was working at a daily newspaper in Ames, Iowa, and I had walked into the newsroom on a Saturday morning. Usually, no one is there, and I had gone in only to nab a copy of that day's paper. Instead, the general manager had someone in his office, seated, with her back to the newsroom. All I could see was this long, gorgeous red hair. Boy, did I love that hair, for the fleeting moment that I saw it.

And that was that. Or, so I thought.

Maybe a week later, the woman with the flowing red hair appeared in our newsroom, and from there, haltingly, a relationship was born. A relationship greased by nights out with newsroom friends, visits to a honky tonk-like spot with odd characters crooning country tunes and watching Iowa State games (her alma mater) in person or on TV. This was October 2000 and by the time January rolled around, I was out of there, on to the Associated Press bureau in Rhode Island. It seemed like this little romance would end there.

And then a funny thing happened. We spoke almost every night on the telephone (no cell phones yet, folks). We didn't agree to do anything of the sort when we departed. It just happened. And those chats were easy, unforced, unhurried, seamless. We visited each other about every five weeks. And our relationship, which seemed as if it would be dashed against the rocks of distance, flourished.

In June 2002, Michelle, her brother, Matt, and I drove from Iowa to Rhode Island. Michelle was moving to New England, to join me. It was major leap for her, leaving the only state she had called home, leaving her family, leaving her friends, to be with me. I'm pretty sure I didn't fully appreciate the magnitude of her decision, not how hard it must have been to decide. But I'm glad she did it!

In the spring of 2004, I proposed to her. You can read that story here (the byline is wrong, by the way). And by the end of the year, we were married.

And now it's been seven years. Wow. Two children. A home. A family. An interconnected life. A marriage. A future together.

Sweet.

Dawn of a new year

2011-12-30T11:06:00.008-05:00

Well, a new year is just about upon us. That means a time to reflect on the year that was and the year that will be.

First off, we are blessed and have much to be thankful for. We have two great, healthy and growing boys, we have loving families and friends, we own a house that is not underwater, we are never in want for food, and although there is inevitably something we'd like to have or somewhere we'd like to go, we have so much already. We have our faith, thanks to a neat church with fun, caring people. We have much to sustain us. Life, on balance, is good.

Not that there aren't trying moments. If you ask me without thinking to come up with two words to describe 2011, I would probably say fatigue and patience. Fatigue, and I mean the overwhelming kind, is a direct result of overseeing, guiding, managing, teaching, loving, nurturing, counseling, disciplining, nursing, shushing, bathing, picking up after, cleaning up after, running after, and repeating many of the same steps over and over and over again. It is nonstop, and it is taxing.

Hence, the fatigue. Yet in this fog of too little sleep and too much stress is a bounty of rewarding moments, small and large. In Nathaniel's world, the changes in 2011 have come fast and furious: New words and phrases – "That's disgusting," "You're silly," "Santa Claus" and the consequences of being naughty. New songs, many of them learned at school – "the clean up song," which goes: "Clean it up, (cluck tongue twice), clean it up/ you can make it fun to do, and your friends can help you, too/ clean it up, clean it up." A new way to sit, "Crisscross, applesauce," to deter him from squatting in the inverted "W" position, which is supposedly bad for hip development. New books – The "Little Critter" series, Dr. Seuss and others. Increased coordination: Shooting a basketball by holding the ball over his head and aiming it for the hoop, learned after watching one of Uncle Matt's players shoot a free throw in a game. New dance moves: from pirouettes learned by watching dancers at a downtown holiday festival to break dance moves learned from who knows where. This is just a taste of all that our 3-year-old picked up in 2011. I can only imagine that the learning will only accelerate in 2012.

As for Isaiah, the list may not be as long, but the advances are equally noteworthy. He can bounce a ball and corral it with admirable coordination. He can "sprint crawl," meaning that he can hustle floor bound nearly as quickly as some can walk. He can take a few halting, wobbly steps at a time. He can eat – boy, can he eat! Isaiah packs away as much as Nathaniel and frequently, even more. He stuffs so much into that little mouth of his that his cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's. Sometimes, he packs food in so rapidly that he chokes himself. I'm not kidding. With the synchronized rhythm of both hands moving food to mouth, it's like watching an assembly line of eating. The kid packs it away, and he has the belly to show for it. And, when the feeding has ended, Isaiah is always the most content person in the room. He beams, he laughs, he coos. Like his daddy, few things make him happier than having conquered a good meal. At 1, I would imagine that the appetite will remain in high gear in 2012. We can expect a slew of other milestones from our youngest in the new year.

I am glad to be a witness to it.

Happy new year, everyone!

Christmas in Iowa

2011-12-25T17:31:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas, everyone, from Iowa. We're in the Hawkeye State yet again for this special time, celebrating a very important birth with Michelle's family, Midwesterners through and through. Like many other parts of the northern United States, this Christmas seemed to sneak up on us, fooled by a stretch of unseasonably warm weather in December. Even here in Cedar Rapids, there is no snow on the ground on Christmas in as long as many can recall, which has underscored the oddity of it all. Despite the relative warmth, it's always great to know there's a time when family travel home to reconnect and enjoy each other's company.

This Christmas has been especially gratifying, because our boys are having a ball with their cousin, Kenley, who comes courtesy of one of Michelle's brothers and our sister-in-law. Kenley is about a year and a half, between Nathaniel (3) and Isaiah (14 mos.). She and Nathaniel have just reached the ages where they recognize each other and play together, albeit intermittently and with regular bouts over each other's toys. Still, it's a start to a beautiful friendship, and by next year, Isaiah also will be in the thick of it. Watching the cousins is clearly a highlight of visiting.

So, while it may not feel necessarily like Christmas, I would suggest that the warmth of family and the joy of cousins frolicking to and fro are largely what Christmas is all about. And we have that in spades.

Two Birthdays

2011-12-17T14:20:00.012-05:00

Well, that was quite a break. Not really sure what happened there. There was Thanksgiving, then my birthday (on a Wednesday ... ugh) and who knows what else. Life intervenes, like a sodden guest who staggers into your home each night. Oh yeah, and the whole family is sick. What fun!

Yes, the sickness bug has the Lewises in its clutches. These times are trials, really: The children unable to understand why they feel so crappy. The parents gnash their teeth as the little ones spin out of control, trying to keep themselves composed amidst grand, theatrical and emotional unraveling. It's a tightrope.

I think we've negotiated that thin line pretty well in previous episodes. Or, perhaps my memory is blocking out the unpleasantness of it all. Anyway, this wave has seemed particularly intense. As evidence, I offer my wife.

For the past two days, when I have arrived home from work, Michelle has bolted from the house. The first time, she took off to the grocery store. The second time, she took off early to her job, which normally she would wait until the last possible moment to go in. The reason? The children, sick and cranky, are driving her mad.

It's uncharacteristic behavior from Michelle, who is as stalwart and stoic as they come. So, Nathaniel and Isaiah really must be doing a number on her. The thing is, it just seems as if they have colds, no fever for either at any point. But they've been miserable, and for the days that Michelle has been home alone with them, they've made things miserable for her, too. Isaiah has been clutchy, wailing if he is not being held at all times. Nathaniel is wrapped in this death spiral in which the worse he feels, the more he resists sleeping. Remember my point about not being able to understand that you're sick? Natty doesn't get it that the best thing he can do for himself is rest. So, you have little mister cling-on and little mister hyper-erratic. Take your pick. Better, take 'em both.

Compounding all this, we're desperately trying to get them better (and ourselves, too) before we make our annual, Christmastime road trip to Iowa. That's 22 hours in the vehicle, folks. We don't want crying children.

Well, that was a lot of pissing and moaning. Let's end this post on a happier note, shall we? With that, here are some oh-so-fun pictures from Nathaniel's oh-so-fun outdoor birthday party with a bounce house that we bought at discount. Isaiah also had a fine birthday, feted with cake and ice cream and family. His bounce house birthdays are to come.

Natty bouncing

Bouncing with neighborhood friends

Let him eat cake

Isaiah at one

Concert with Daddy

2011-11-10T13:38:00.002-05:00

Nathaniel celebrated turning 3 on Saturday. More on his party, and the absolute joy I felt in helping to throw it, in a later post, when we get pictures and video.

The following day, Sunday, I took Nathaniel to a concert. It was a bit of a gamble. About a week before, I spied an ad in a local monthly about "power drumming" groups on a tour from south Asia. The pictures showed individuals and groups smacking what looked like bongos and congas. Since Nathaniel sees me do this with the musical ensemble at church and loves drums (and music, in general), I thought it would be nice for him to see how professionals do it. But I wasn't sure whether this would be the proper setting.

So I called the group that was organizing the concert in Providence. The nice lady on the other end of the line didn't have much information, but she did direct me to a web site called caravanserai, which showed me some of these performers in action. I still didn't know exactly who was coming, but the ticket prices were reasonable and there was an intermission after about 45 minutes, which gave me the option to cart Natty home if he was bored by then. So, I went for it.

On Sunday evening, Daddy took Nathaniel on his special night out. We got to the amphitheater just in time, found some seats and settled in. The first performer was a gentleman from Pakistan, I believe, who sat squat legged on a slightly elevated platform covered in carpets and two small bongo-like drums. He used his fingers almost exclusively to pound out beats and sounds, a rhythmic thrumming like you might do on your desk, but much, much more sophisticated. To my surprise, Nathaniel enjoyed the performance, standing the whole time and dutifully clapping energetically after each piece. I say surprised because while the drumming was indeed exceptional, I figured a 3-year-old would not be terribly impressed by a sitting man playing with his fingers. I was wrong.

After a brief pause, two long-haired gentleman from India came on to the stage. They were dressed in light robes and one of them was barefoot. The drums they held were enormous, fat tubes hanging around their waists, positioned parallel to the ground. Each struck the drum from both sides; in one hand, each held an instrument that looked like a sickle and in the other what appeared to be a drumstick. They began playing, and, well, they had Nathaniel from the first beat. He stood there, transfixed, as the drumming intensified, and one of the men began spinning, faster and faster, until the oversized drum was swinging tautly suspended from his waist, gripped by centrifugal force. Then, as he was spinning, the other drummer inserted the strap of his drum into the spinning drummer's mouth, and now the guy was spinning and pounding on one drum, while the other was flying behind him.

Let me tell you, it all made for great theater, a spectacle so intense that I thought Nathaniel's head was going to pop off. He was swaying to the beat, rhythmically clapping his hands to the drumming. Watching him, I couldn't help but smile widely. My boy was having so much fun!

What did you think? Pretty cool, huh? It was even better live. Nathaniel was pretty jazzed after that, so I decided we'd stick it out through intermission and see the next act. That was quite good, too, featuring a group of singers, percussion and an instrument that sounded somewhat like an accordion. Enough to keep Natty's attention, for the most part.

Afterward, I asked him if he liked it. "Yeah," he replied softly, still caught up in the moment.

So, I'm here to report that concert night with Daddy went swimmingly. You know, Nathaniel likely won't remember going, but I will, and it was a fine, fine night with my oldest son.

Days later as Michelle was driving the boys from the children's museum, she asked Nathaniel what "fun thing" he'd like to do after quiet time. "Go to a concert with Daddy," he said.

Guess he remembers it after all. And fondly, at that.

All Home

2011-11-02T19:26:00.003-04:00

Last Saturday at 6 a.m. a group of wanderers all but fell into the house, wrung out from the road.

My family was home.

Indeed, Michelle, ably supported by her sister, had driven with the children non-stop from Iowa back to New England. Their trip, thankfully, was uneventful. But it may not have been.

That's because, as those in the northeast U.S. surely know, that a rare October snowstorm was bearing down just as the gang was journeying eastward. I didn't even know about this Nor'easter until I was watching the national nightly news. Concerned, I went on the web and checked out the forecast at various points along Michelle's route. It did not look pretty, at least if you're driving. The midsection of Pennsylvania, for example, was expected to get up to 10 inches of snow. This, it goes without saying, would make for some tough sledding, especially for a sleep-deprived crew.

I checked the forecast for upstate New York. To my surprise, it called for clouds, with only a 20-30 percent chance of mostly rain. Heartened, I called Michelle. She, her sister and the boys had just passed Cleveland. In just several miles, they could veer north and hop on to Interstate 90.

It turned out to be a good move. Pennsylvania got dumped by snow. Meanwhile, upstate New York stayed nice and dry, and our gang motored on through, unimpeded, although bone-tired, to our little bayside town.

I was so, so happy to see everyone. It is hard to describe how much I missed them. I felt this odd sensation the full 10 days they were gone, truly as if a piece of me had been physically ripped from my being and taken away. I only got that piece of me back when they returned.

Despite the joy, everyone came back in varied states of illness. Which means that not only were the boys antsy and out of sorts from their long trip, but they were a little strung out from coughs and colds. The honeymoon doesn't last long, now does it? And, yes, by Monday, I had succumbed to the germs, coming down with a nasty cold myself that I think I'm just coming out of.

Whatever. I'll take the cold and the cough – so long as my family remains after delivering them. I am that glad they are home.

Dazed in a maze

2011-10-25T21:09:00.004-04:00

I'm officially a week alone in this 'ol house. Michelle and the boys are, by all accounts, having a grand time with grandmother, great-grandmother and aunt, as well as a visit from another aunt, an uncle and a cute button of a cousin. So far, they've been to visit great-grandmother's house, a century farmhouse with a big barn full of larger-than-life farm equipment like tractors and combines that fairly blew Nathaniel's mind. Tonight, he informed the tractor was so big that he had to climb stairs to get into the driver's seat.

How cool is that for a 3-year-old?

I can't describe how happy I am that he, his brother Isaiah, and of course mommy Michelle are enjoying themselves so thoroughly, and that all those family folks are enjoying them being there. I also can't describe how utterly lonely it is to patter around an empty house. So far, caveman Richard has foraged well for grub; I've cooked hamburgers, tacos with a chicken, bean, green chilies and onion mixture that I cooked in a skillet, eggs and bacon, salads and cereal. And fruit – apples, grapes and bananas. I have yet to go out for a nighttime meal. Not bad, huh? (Cue the applause – and the back patting). So, while I've survived just fine, thank you very much, it's been little more than that. Damn, I'm bored. It doesn't help that college basketball hasn't started.

Michelle did leave with me some tasks (I think she called them fun things to do), and so far I'm on schedule to get them all done. I refinished a dresser for Isaiah, mowed the lawn, stored the window A/C units and other chores. I've even kept the house fairly clean. In fact, the dishwasher is running as we speak. (pat, pat on my back) And to top it all off, I didn't watch a single play of professional football on Sunday. I actually had too much to do. I'm not kidding.

I also have not frequented any watering holes. Even on Saturday night, which would have been the time to do it, I failed to journey to a bar and soak in some local color (and college football). I might have, except I was stuck in a corn maze, of all things.

I went to the corn maze with a church youth group that I help lead. We arrived just as the sun was setting and hopped on a hay ride, which ferried us to the maze. Two boys chose me as their chaperone and into the maze we went. I was ill-prepared for the adventure. I brought no flashlight and was wearing a light jacket, even though fall had definitely arrived in New England. All went well at first; I let the boys pick the paths, each alternately saying, "I like this one" and away we went. After a while, I took note of the setting sun and smugly set my internal compass based on a tree line to the north, a cell phone tower to the west and a clearing to the east. "No problem," I thought to myself. "I know from what direction we entered the maze, and I know what direction we need to get out, and I know what direction we'll be heading at all times. Piece of cake."

Satisfied, I continued to let the boys lead the way, choosing paths on a whim. We stopped and read the signs, full of all sorts of corn facts. We stopped at the hole punch stations and dutifully punched our cards, the goal being to get all four punches and be entered in a raffle. It was a lovely, crisp fall evening, the boys were joyously gallivanting around, and I was happy. A nice way to spend a Saturday night, after all.

We snaked our way northward in the maze and then headed west, which I had surmised we needed to go before turning south and then south by southwest to exit. And then things got more complicated. We saw a sign and headed down a path. Within a few minutes, we arrived back at the same sign. "Aw, we went in a circle," one of the boys said. So, we tried another path. After some twists and turns, there we were again, at the sign. I scratched my head. "OK," I said, "Let's go this way," and off we went. Some more twists and turns, and again, that sign. We tried another path, and, again, the same result. Another path. Same sign. Another path. Sign. No matter what direction we took, we could not escape that sign. Dumbfounded, I just stared at the sign, looking at the paths and trying to figure out if there was any path we hadn't took. The joy had been erased from the boys' faces, replaced by exasperation. "Where should we go, Mr. Lewis?" they asked, expecting me to magically extricate ourselves. But I had no clue. I was stumped, annoyed and mildly pissed. "How hard can this be?" I thought.

I took stock of our place in the maze, the direction we ultimately needed to go to exit and set off on a southwest path. After much meandering, I'll be darned if we didn't end up again at that bloody sign. The boys started whimpering a little. I was flushed with embarrassment and more than a little pissed. Then, I saw an older man loitering nearby, and I asked him how we get out. An employee, he looked at me and said, "You're in the cow's mouth." I just looked at him, mouth agape. "What'd he just say? I'm in the cow's mouth?" He looked at me and said matter of factly, "You need to circle around the mouth to get out."

It was then that I realized that I had a map in my pocket. The map, if you can call it that, is a sketch of the maze. On it is written, "Do not rely on this map. It does not accurately represent the maze." I took the instructions at face value. Now, I realized that I should have been consulting it all along, at least to get a clue where we might be. I found the mouth, guessed at where we were relative to said mouth, and off we went.

Back to the sign. Again.

We ran into that sign at least twice more before, miraculously, the cow spit us out like a sour cud. Consulting the map, we needed to get into the steer's left eyeball, find the eyelash that leads us out of the cow's head and then negotiate through some flowery-type arrangements to get out. Somewhere after we extracted ourselves from the eyeball, we got lost again. The night hung heavy in the air. The boys were trudging along at this point, no longer bothering to take the lead in picking the paths and complaining that their legs hurt. I wasn't feeling much better. I also began feeling twinges of dread that I may not be able to get us out at all. It was during this phase that I started hearing faint shouts of "Mr. Lewis!" Mr. Lewis, hold up your light!" My dread deepened; not only were we lost, but we were so lost, lagging so long behind the other groups, that they were worried, too. My heart began to race. Worse, we were now running into clots of people who were hopelessly lost as well. They wore an awful look of resignation. One guy seriously studied his map and declared he knew exactly where we were, and where we needed to go. Needless to say, we followed this leader. After a few false turns, his shoulder slumped a little. A false prophet. We left him as he raised himself back up and declared he now had figured it out.

We took some more false turns. We returned to a bench after several mini expeditions. We sat down on the bench, defeated. Finally, we got up and soldiered onward. Somehow, we stumbled on a path that looked new. It was deserted. Could this be it? We heard the desperate voices of those other groups, zombies searching for the exit. We moved forward; after maybe 20 yards, we came to a sign.

"Congratulations!" it said. We didn't bother to read on. We sprinted the hell out of there.

Isaiah turns 1

2011-10-20T19:54:00.002-04:00

It's official, folks. Isaiah, our darling little red-headed boy, is one year old today. Happy birthday, little guy!

In some ways, it's hard to imagine he's one year old. It seems like he's been in our lives for so much longer than that, and thus should be older. Same way with Nathaniel, actually, now on the cusp of three. It seems like he's been around far longer, so much so that it's hard to imagine how life was before he arrived. Still, I can't believe he's almost three already. Where has the time gone?

Back to Isaiah. Our little man is progressing nicely, thank you very much. He is getting quite comfortable with standing upright, and even has been able to balance himself without support for a couple of beats. He's quite close to becoming truly bipedal! His fascination with balls remains strong; in fact, Isaiah is quite adept at bouncing a ball to you, and when you bounce it back, he will invariably corral it. Hate to say it, but he is far more coordinated than Nathaniel was at that age, and I dare say he'd give his older brother a run for his money now. He's got a great tuft of light red hair now. Most of it is centered on the top of his head, so that it looks like he's wearing a red pelt, or has gotten a toupee. The sides and especially the back are still pretty wispy. Unlike Nathaniel, I think he will keep the reddish hair for a while, much like his mommy has.

Things are a little weird, because I had to wish Isaiah happy birthday from afar. Michelle and the boys are in Iowa, visiting an aunt, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, another aunt and an uncle. Awesome. I'm staying at home, and, boy, is it weird to come back to an empty house. I'm so used to being greeted with shrieks, smells (of dinner) and sass (in a good way, mostly) when I walk in the door that the silence that accompanies my return is that much more pronounced. Downright eerie.

And boring. I swear I never thought I'd use that word when greeted with the prospect of time at home alone. Liberation, yes. But boredom? Are you kidding me? Yet, like so many things, expectations can vastly outstrip reality. You might have thought I'd go bar-hopping or something. But really that doesn't hold much appeal anymore. If anything, it'd make me feel even more lonely, miss my family even more.

Don't get me wrong: There is one upside: I will sleep in on Saturday morning. I can't wait for that.

Booty-shakin' music

2011-10-07T22:00:00.004-04:00

Two quick stories here.

The first has to do with the odd, impromptu performances we give for our children. You know, those times when you just ham it up for no reason, much to your children's delight – or horror.

One such time occurred a couple of evenings ago. We were just finishing dinner, and the boys were a little anxious, stuck in that void between the excitement of the beginning of dinner and the joy of post-dinner playing. For some reason, the KC & the Sunshine band song, "Shake your Booty" popped into my head, and I just went with it. I popped up and began waggling my skinny can.

Nathaniel watched me with a bemused look on his face. Then he said, "Daddy, that's so disgusting!"

I didn't know he knew that word. And I sure didn't know he knew how to put it in the proper context.

The second story also revolves around music. Michelle has practically begged me not to share this story, but I can't help it, even if it is to my embarrassment.

Every day, the bus I ride goes down the main street of a quaint little town lined with Mom n' Pop stores, like an apothecary, a pancake joint, a shoe store and a coffee shop. Also on this main street is a dusty store selling used music. It's called In Your Ear, which is appropriate enough, as it pertains to music and also to some crusty New England-style greetings. I've ling been intrigued by this place, but never had the energy, or perhaps the gumption, to interrupt my ride and check it out.

Well, one day I did. It was as dusty on the inside as on the outside. And it was cluttered. On one wall was a collection of CDs, some new, most used, in admirable order. I browsed through these. At the back of the store, stuffed in no apparent order, was a batch of cassette tapes. Let me repeat that: cassette tapes. Remember them? That thin, brown ribbon that if you played a tape long enough, would twist or break? Or squeak because it had become so frayed? Yes, this shop had a whole mess of 'em.

Seeing boxes of cassette tapes made me very, very happy. That's because this old throwback still drives a car with nothing more than a cassette player. So, I browsed, gleefully, through those boxes. And what treasures I found: AC/DC Live, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen and some John Lee Hooker. OK, I got some CDs as well; I mean, I'm not that behind the times. Until I (gleefully) tell you my purchases: Rush "Moving Pictures," Jimi Hendrix "Axis, Bold as Love" and Nirvana "Live in NY."

Total for all that classic music: $50.

Now, that's priceless.

Book backtalk

2011-09-27T16:40:00.005-04:00

Sometimes, I wonder whether our dedicated reading to Nathaniel is backfiring.

Lately, we have been reading a book called, "Sam and the Firefly." In a nut, it's about an owl named Sam, who befriends a firefly named Gus and teaches Gus how he can write in the nighttime sky with his light. Gus, ever the miscreant, then uses this newfound skill to wreak all sorts of chaos, such as causing cars to crash and airplanes to collide.

Sam is horrified as he witnesses this spectacle, and he lets Gus know it. To this, Gus replies, "Let me be, you old hoot, you old owl."

In the end, Gus does something good with his firelight writing in the sky, and so the meaning is he's learned that it's better to use this talent for good than for bad.

We figured that would be the message that Nathaniel, our nearly 3-year-old, would have gotten, too.

Yesterday, as I was driving him and Isaiah home, Nathaniel began screaming. These were ear-splitting shrieks, uttered for no other reason than to annoy Daddy. I asked him to stop. He let forth with another screech. I told him to stop. He shrieked again, and then hurled at me: "I will scream if I want to. Let me be, you old Daddy!"

Wonder where he got that from?

For good measure, Natty Lou underscored his resistance to authority by screaming again, even louder than before. And, for the first time, I pulled the car over with a screeching halt, turned around, glared at him and told him if he didn't stop, he'd sit in that car for a long, long time.

He got that message. At least for now, my words carry more weight than a book.

School Days

2011-09-20T21:01:00.006-04:00

A quick post, this one. Nathaniel has just finished his first week of school. Well, his week is really just two days. But he made it, although I have precious little to report, as we know very little about what he did.

We know so little because Nathaniel has been so beat that he's a verbal vegetable by the time he's been picked up and transported home. The little information we have comes from the daily activity log provided by his teacher, Miss Stacy.

Day #1: Nathaniel "played with Magnatiles, enjoyed playing outside and listening to 'Ira Sleeps Over.'" He ate apple straws and drank milk during morning snack, polished off his bagged lunch and gulped down some Cheez-its and water in the afternoon.

Day #2: Nathaniel listened to the book "Froggy Goes to Camp," played with building blocks and talked about what made him happy as part of this week's theme of being in touch with your feelings. The best description, however, was this: "Nathaniel also enjoyed showing us his dance moves."

Now that's the boy we know and love.

He also napped, by george – for the first time in weeks. He must have been exhausted.

We snapped some pictures on his first day (see above). We think they really express a range of emotions balled into one: the innocence, the nervousness, the competing tension of angst and excitement. Looking at these photos, it's clear Nathaniel had been thinking for a while about this day. He alternated between silent and chattering repeatedly, "Are we going to school?" on the way.

When we arrived and went inside, Nathaniel turned oddly silent. He looked around and seemed somewhat intimidated by his surroundings. When one of the teachers tried to engage him to play with some blocks, Nathaniel sat still as a statue, just nodding. After a few minutes, though, he began to relax. Michelle was the last one to leave, and as she bade him goodbye, he gave her a kiss and turned quickly back to playing kitchen.

That's our boy, too. He had been talking about school for a long time, and now he's there. And it looks like he'll be happy, too.

School

2011-09-18T15:20:00.004-04:00

There are moments in a child's life that a parent marks as important. A baby's first word, crawling, walking, and other milestones. They're important because they mean a child's made a major developmental leap, physically or mentally.

Tomorrow, Nathaniel starts school. This is one of those moments. It's not formal school, per se, but he will be immersed in a structured environment and receive formal instruction for the first time. There will be playtime, nap time and I would imagine general goof-off time, but the pre-pre-school's basis is on teaching the children who attend.

Nathaniel has been looking forward to this day for months. In fact, the idea of going to school served as his primary motivation to be potty-trained. Now, still about two months shy of his 3rd birthday, our little guy is pretty close to being fully versed in the business of doing your duty in the bathroom. The credit goes mostly to him. He was driven to learn to do his business in the potty, knowing that the reward would be to go to school (and the lollipops along the way).

As a parents, it is a bit bittersweet. I was thinking about all this at church this morning, as I watched Nathaniel playing the piano – not badly, I must say, with perfect posture at the bench to boot. He suddenly seemed bigger to me, more grown up. No longer could I mistake him for just a toddler. He had a veneer of maturity that made it hard for me to see him other than a little boy, forming his own views and opinions and full of hopes and promise. Where had the last three years gone? How did my little boy suddenly seem so grown? So, in a way, I'm as excited as he is about school – the beginning of the opening his mind and his imagination to all that scholarship has to offer. But I'm just a bid saddened, knowing that a phase in his life is ending, never to return, except in my mind.

Watching your children grow is exhilarating and heartbreaking at the same time.

Goodnight Irene

2011-09-04T17:38:00.011-04:00

You all may have heard a hurricane swept into New England last weekend. It raised quite a stir, from the frenzied pre-landfall reporting to the unexpected flooding Irene produced in Vermont and upstate New York.

Around here, Irene summoned up some impressive winds and waves, and even gave me a chance to play reporter again for a day. (You can read that story here.) I ventured outside about 1 p.m. on Sunday, about four hours after the most powerful elements of the hurricane had swept through. I was bowled over by what I saw: stately trees snapped in half, innumerable branches strewn in the streets and on sidewalks. In some cases, the leafy debris was so dense it blocked my path, and I had to find another route. A 40- to 50-foot tree had fallen over a few blocks from our house, and it appeared to be lying on some power lines. First responders had blocked passage on the street with yellow caution tape. Not much further away, on the main street that runs through our quaint downtown, at least one massive tree had given up the ghost, taking a pole and several power lines with it. Just up the block was part of a two-by-four, some cables still attached, hanging in a web of wires overhead. It looked as if a projectile had been fired and been ensnared in a web.

Here's a video of what I saw downtown:

Four blocks of the main street had been blocked off because of the downed wires, some of which danced with each gust of wind, like a puppet to a techno beat. I walked on, down toward the water, just a few blocks away. There, I watched the water boil, wave after foaming wave churning their way northward into the town harbor, and splitting their guts against the rock walls. I was awestruck. The bay was angry, impetuous, whipped by the lashes of its slavemaster, the wind. Standing near the water, the droplets washed over me as if I were standing in a summer rain. The marinas were vacant; the boat owners had moored their vessels in open water. I get that now. Why would you subject your craft to slamming against a wooden pier that may come unmoored when you can tie it in open water and let it rise and fall with the current, no matter how strong?

Here's a video from the harbor.

I returned from my walkabout about 2:30, I think, and despite the carnage I had witnessed, all was well chez nous. Michelle had planned well for a power outage; she had filled the bathtub (in case we needed water to flush), she had filled up many containers with drinking water, she had cranked up the cold settings on the refrigerator and freezer, she had stacked the freezer with frozen Tupperware to keep it cold as well, and she had moved some easy eats to a cooler. Thanks to her, we were ready, more or less.

It didn't seem necessary. Irene was dying down by the afternoon, albeit with some gusty last breaths. At one point, Michelle and I looked at each other: We were in the clear, we thought, and we were talking about breaking down our storm preparations when ... the electricity went out.

OK, the power is out. No worries. In fact, it was kind of fun! For the next two days, I'd submit we partook of quite the adventure. Neighbors checked in on neighbors. We dined two consecutive nights with our friends across the street, the St. Angelos. Feasted, really. Pancakes, turkey sausage and fruit salad the first night and spaghetti with meatballs, sausages and grilled zucchini the next. Clearing out your fridge does have some advantages.

Come nightfall, an eerie calm fell over the streets. It was dark (naturally) everywhere you looked, the inkiness spoiled only by darting shafts of beams from flashlights or headlamps. Inside homes, lit candles gave off a charm and warmth that lights fail to deliver. Wandering outside with a glass of red wine in my hand, I looked up and was bowled over by the starry skies above. I saw constellations I didn't even know existed. I even saw the faint wisps of the Milky Way. It's astounding how the ambient glow of even small towns can blot out the night sky, and take us further away from the natural world.

Anyway, for four nights, we were tossed back in time – when simpler things – a book, conversations with family and friends – held sway. Before 9 each night, we were bushed; it felt like midnight, and we headed to bed. I understand now why, before electricity, people rose with the sun and accomplished much of what they needed by nightfall. You simply can't do that much in the dark.

At 3:30 a.m. on Thursday, amidst the roar of generators all around, Michelle nudged me awake. "Notice anything different?" she asked.

On my back, I opened my eyes. Light streamed down on me. Still groggy, I blinked a few times before I made the connection.

Electricity had returned. Hallelujah. I never felt so grateful for something I've taken mostly for granted.

Money, Money, Money

2011-08-23T21:09:00.002-04:00

Haven't filed in a while. I'll take the convenient excuse that I returned not long ago from a trip to North Dakota to "play" with Michelle's two brothers, one of whom lives in the Peace Garden State (sounds hippie-like, doesn't it? The residents must be confused with, say, Rhode Island, or some other super-liberal state). I'll detail that trip once I load some photos.

This post has to do about a little boy who's wising up to the concept and value of money. This past weekend, I was doing some cleaning in the kitchen (at least that's how I imagine my activity there) when Nathaniel came up to me brandishing a quarter.

"Daddy!" he said. "I found your money."

"You did," I said. "Where did you find it?"

"In a drawer."

"Which drawer?"

"Your drawer," he answered, without the slightest sense of guilt.

I considered whether I should reprimand him right there for rummaging around in my things.

"Oh. Then it's my money. Can you put it back in the drawer, please?"

"No," Nathaniel responded without a moment's thought. "I'm taking it to the bank."

The calculus: Start your investment by taking someone else's money and putting up none of your own.

Pretty shrewd, kid. I'll give you that.

Nap Time

2011-08-08T14:11:00.005-04:00

I am at home today enjoying a holiday that few others get. In case you're unaware, today is Victory over Japan Day, and Rhode Island is the only state in the country to still recognize it. State and municipal offices are closed. Brown University is closed. Private businesses are open. Even federal offices are open. Yes, it is one strange holiday.

Since Michelle works at a private company, she went to work, and so I am watching the children today. We've had a nice, relatively relaxing time so far. We started the Day with Daddy with the usual 6:30 a.m. wake-up call from Natty Lou, who wandered into our room and crawled into bed with us. This has become a ritual since Nathaniel began sleeping in his "big-boy bed" a few weeks ago. His room adjoins ours, and while there is a door between our rooms, there is no lock, which means that Nathaniel can wander into our room anytime he wants. We've considered a few ways to keep him in his room during his naptime. One option was to put a latch on his door. We immediately ruled that out, because we felt that he may look at his room as some sort of punishment, rather than a tranquil, restful place. We decided to put a gate between the rooms, which prevents him from coming into our room – although he could scale it – but allows him to see in our room, so he doesn't feel "locked in." We hope we're sending the right message.

We don't put up the gate at night, although we have entertained that idea about every morning Nathaniel comes into our room and wakes us up. When that happens, we try to coax him to cuddle with us, a ploy – I admit it – to keep him in the bed, so we can sleep a little longer. It rarely works for long, for when Nathaniel is awake, he is ready to take on the day. He initially gets under the covers with us, but after a few minutes, he usually says, 'I'm hungry,' and no matter how hard we try to convince him that his hunger pangs could wait another half-hour or so, once he gets locked on a thought, he won't let it go.

And so it was this morning. He let loose a tremendous pee in his potty (TMI?), and I led him downstairs for breakfast – Daddy's signature jalapeno-infused scrambled eggs and cantaloupe. As he was finishing, Isaiah and Michelle came downstairs, and the little one ate some pureed pears and Cheerios. Nathaniel has been a wild man lately, even more energetic than usual, and we're not sure why. I think it's because he's not getting enough sleep. His naps have been really erratic. Perhaps it's the transition to his bed, and the fact he's no longer contained, as he was in the crib. He's never been compliant with napping anyway, so his ability to move around may be exacerbating his general resistance to afternoon shuteye. Whatever the case, he's been challenging lately. Knowing that, I wanted to get him outside and running as soon as I could in the morning. So away we went, to the playground on the water.

We stayed there for a little more than an hour, and then got on to one of Daddy's favorite activities, which is eating. The bagel shop downtown in our fair bayside town is always a favorite destination. Nathaniel gets a blueberry or cinnamon-sugar bagel with cream cheese, and I'll splurge on a sesame bagel with fresh lox, capers and cream cheese. Yum! I had the rare forethought of bringing a bottle for Isaiah, kept cold in an insulated container, and a pouch of pre-made organic sweet potatoes and white beans. So, we all dined in style, a pleasant late-morning meal.

By the time we finished, it was about 11:00 and time to shove on home. Isaiah was due for a nap, and Nathaniel needed to follow soon thereafter. Failure to meet these unscripted deadlines penalizes children and parents alike. The children get knocked off their routines, and that means pain for the parent, because they turn into emotional wrecks. It's an incredibly fine balance.

Anyway, I thought I had everything going to plan. I got Isaiah up to nap, and armed with a bottle, he promptly fell asleep. Nathaniel, against his nature, relented without little fight for his quiet time, too. I came downstairs, and I thought I had it made.

Anything but. About 45 minutes later, Isaiah popped back awake, and he has been a nightmare since. He won't fall asleep. In fact, he's screaming right now, in the middle of the afternoon, when he normally is dead asleep. It's painfully obvious he's exhausted, so this outburst should be short (I hope.). About a half-hour after I left Nathaniel, I went into our room to get this laptop. I opened the door, and to my left, I noticed Natty Lou's door was open, though I had closed it before. Just as I was about to close it, I looked down. There, right next to the gate, was Nathaniel's outstretched form, his head resting on his blanket. He fell asleep as close as he could get to us. How sweet. I guess he loves us, after all.

Ball boy

2011-08-07T13:48:00.006-04:00

Isaiah loves his balls.

Let me rephrase that. Isaiah loves basketballs. We have two basketballs in our house, one a small, bouncy inflatable and another a mini regulation ball. We have a hoop in the house. It's one of those that looks like the real thing, with a net, a post and a clear plastic backboard with the painted square to aim those bank shots.

I love playing with this hoop. Scarcely a day goes by when I don't launch a shot. The hoop is located in the playroom (itself converted from our dining room), and it faces the den, which means I can back up into the den and hoist long-distance 3s. I've never been a long-range marksman, but what really makes the shot difficult is we have a low-hanging light in the playroom, right in the path of most shooting angles to the hoop. A made 3, therefore, needs to be a graceful shot without too much arc (or else it will hit the ceiling) and with enough precision to avoid smacking the hanging light and incurring Michelle's wrath. It's a miracle the light has remained intact, and that the hoop remains in the playroom.

Back to the balls. Nathaniel has not shown more than a passing interest in either basketball. It's more of a stop along his daily rip-roaring tour through his toys. If you can imagine the toys to be like food in a cafeteria line, the basketballs would be something like broccoli and carrots. Yes, he'll put some on his plate every now and then, but they wouldn't be his first choice, not by a long shot. It shows in his shooting as well. When he does interest himself in a basketball, he'll grab it, clutch it in both hands between his legs and fling it in the vaguely general direction of the basket. On a few occasions, the ball has made it through the hoop; however, usually, it's caroming off the ceiling, his toy shelves, the buffet ... or that hanging light.

Isaiah is not shooting buckets, but he's sure more interested in the basketballs. Like with other toys, he approaches the balls with a studious bent. He eyes them carefully, then reaches out, touches it, rolls it slowly. He taps at it. Now that he can crawl, he'll nudge it and watch intently as it rolls away. Sometimes, he gets in a sitting position and grasps the ball with both hands, either slapping at it and smiling or laying his hands on it, like a preacher baptizing a child. His emotion is so Zen-like, it's as if he's trying to decipher the ball's meaning.

He's especially fond when I sit near him and dribble. His little red head will bounce up and down in time with the thump of the ball on the carpet. Then, I'll roll the ball over to him, and he'll clutch it greedily and slap down hard on it with his hands, attempting to mimic the dribbling. When he gets too exuberant and the ball slips out of his grasp, he'll look at the ball and then at me, his face nearly expressionless, as he calculates the next move. "Do I want the ball that badly that I'll crawl over to it? Or can I wait out that big guy there who's sure to fold and get it for me?

Can you guess who usually gets the ball?

Lazy summer afternoon

2011-07-30T13:07:00.004-04:00

Aaaaaah, a lazy Saturday afternoon in the summer.

The boys are napping, and Michelle is taking a well-earned break, her head resting on a pillow. It's just me and the coffee for now.

We've seen some pretty big moments around here in the last week. First, Isaiah has learned to crawl. Well, mostly. He's figured out how to prop himself up on all fours, his little arms outstretched as if he's about to rip off some pushups. His legs are curled and tucked in, like a frog that's poised to leap. And he's rocking in that position, which generally means he's cuing up to crawl. It's that last step that's eluding him for the moment. But he is moving. He's doing it for now by dropping to his stomach and using his hands and arms to pull himself forward. The motion bears more than a passing resemblance to soldiers shimmying along the ground. Yet Isaiah's leg motion is not as coordinated; they're mostly just flailing around. That last bit of coordinated effort, of combining the leg motion with the arm motion, is just not there. Yet. It's only a matter of time.

And then the fun really starts.

Progress also has been made with Isaiah's older brother, Nathaniel, who's on the doorstep of turning 33 months. That is, he's getting ever closer to turning 3 years old, which would mean he could go to a more structured day care/school. To enroll, however, you need to be potty trained, and on that front our little guy has made amazing strides this week. With patient supervision, monitoring and cheerleading from his mommy, Nathaniel has been pooping and peeing regularly in the potty. The last couple of days, he's barely needed any prompting: Suddenly, he'll run upstairs, do his thing, come down and announce he either pooped or peed in the potty. Then, either Michelle or I will go for confirmation, dump the contents into the toilet and let Nathaniel do the honors of flushing it "down the tunnel."

For each potty pee, he gets two goldfish; for each potty poo, he gets a lollipop. Michelle had started out with giving him a piece of gum for each potty poo, but Natty kept swallowing them, no matter how many times we preached to him to throw the gum in the trash when he was done with it. He just didn't get it. You mean it's not food? Then what is it? he seemed to be thinking. I can't blame him for being confused. Gum is kind of weird that way.

Nathaniel has been on such a roll with the pee/poo potty that we've had him in his big boy pants (i.e. underwear) for the last few days. So far, so good, save for one especially messy mistake. We're all really proud of him. For a few months, we've had isolated incidents when he would pee or poo in the potty. But he's been really regular, so to speak, for the past week. It really appears as if the light bulb has gone off. There's more work to be done, and for all we know he may regress some. But we're sure happy he's on his way.

Clammin'

2011-07-23T13:46:00.010-04:00

The heat has arrived in New England. For more than a week, I've watched and read news reports of the searing heat wave gripping much of our nation. My dad, who lives in Texas, has told me of the epic drought in the Lone Star State, a stretch of rainless days that's gone so long that mature oak trees may die, and neighbors around the lake are entertaining trucking in water, so they can get their boats in. We mercifully had been spared the heat; whenever I looked at the map, it showed this balloon of red that reached to the north, west, and east (and of course south) but never expanded enough to encircle New England.

That changed yesterday. According to the National Weather Service, the thermometer hit 100 degrees in Providence, and it was 103 in Boston. I was startled when around 3 p.m. I checked the temperature in our little bayside town, and it was 99 degrees. We're just not geared for this. Most homes, ours included, do not have central air conditioning. Instead, we have window units interspersed throughout the house. They don't get used too often. But they're sure getting a workout now. It's amazing what a difference there is between 90 degrees and 100. Maybe it's perception, but I don't think so. I can function at 90. I'm a blob at 100, a torpid mass, chugging water, normally robust appetite way down. Welcome to global warming, my friends; this is just a foretaste of the misery to come.

OK, consider all that a preamble. The main story for today had to do with my first foray into clamming. Ta da! After more than a decade of living in the Ocean State, I finally did what most Rhode Islanders would consider a requirement for living here. Last Sunday, after church, Nathaniel and I headed over to T.J. and Maureen's house. (you can read more about them in the previous post.) We walked to the shore of the Kickemuit River (which locals call the "Kicky"), which was at low tide. That's the best time, as it turns out, to go clamming, because you want to go a ways out in the river – about two to three feet deep in water – to dig out the clams. To ferret them out, you dig your hand or toes into the sediment, which is a loamy mud. The clams, are nestled in there vertically, so you're feeling around for a pointy end, rather than the breadth of the shell. When you locate the pointy end, you dig around it and pull the clam out from the muck. Voila!

T.J. and I collected some three dozen clams in roughly an hour, a pretty good haul. And most of what we harvested were big clams, which locals call quahogs. Their shells are a black-silver, whereas regular clams, which locals call soft-shell, are whitish. In fact, I've been told that "clamming" is digging for clams near the shore, where the soft shells hang out, while "quahogging" is digging for clams in the water, where the quahogs burrow in. I don't know why.

On Tuesday, I took my batch, about a dozen in all, stuck them on the grill, and waited for the shells to pop open, which means the quahogs are cooked. I dipped them in butter and soy sauce and let them slide right on down. Now, that's good eatin'!

Thanks, quahogs. Thanks, Rhode Island.

Family Times

2011-07-16T14:26:00.009-04:00

It's a sun-filled summer weekend in Rhode Island. This morning, we trekked over to an arts & crafts fair in Tiverton. A beautiful day to stroll amidst the artists' booths, gnosh on some cookies and listen to a (presumably) father-son guitar duo. They played very rootsy, folksy music, the kind I imagine people heard at the Newport Folk Festival in the 1960s and 1970s, right after musicians first began plugging in. The boy looked like he was 12, and man could he play! Nathaniel was smitten by the music; he nodded his head up and down, ever so slightly, in rhythm to the music and swiveled his hips to some of the up-tempo songs. He really loves music, and it was a nice treat for him (and us) to see it live.

Our neighbors and us are heading over to a former neighbor's house for a steak and margarita extravaganza. I'm mixing the Mexican candy, and T.J. is in charge of marinating and grilling the steaks. It's church tomorrow morning, as usual, and playtime of some sort in the afternoon. For us, that's a jam-packed weekend!

Michelle has faithfully uploaded photos, and so, without further adieu, here are some:

This is from the carnival that comes to town every Independence Day weekend. Daddy pushed off from the top, thinking he needed the extra momentum to make it down the slide. We almost got more than we wanted, as we went airborne!

Our families streamed in from six states to witness Isaiah's baptism. Here's his first bite of his baptism cake.

Michelle's brother, Matt, and our neighbor, Bob, give the July 4th sign.

The crew at the Independence Day parade.

Lighting sparklers at our neighbor's annual backyard extravaganza

What a weekend with the family! Next year, again?

Celebration Week

2011-07-08T12:09:00.003-04:00

Whew, what a week!

Our house played host to myriad activities revolving around Isaiah's baptism and our nation's 235th year of independence. Hooray! (Go USA!)

When you have family strewn all over the country like Michelle and I, it's a rarity to get everyone together in one place at one time. Save for two individuals (Rob and Kate Niccolini), we were blessed and grateful that everyone from our families came into our humble little town to witness Isaiah's entrance into the Lord's kingdom and to take part in the host of events and parties thrown around Independence Day.

I won't give a detailed accounting of everything that happened. I'll post a slew of pictures soon to illustrate that. The best I can say it just how rewarding it is to see family and friends and to be together. At some point, you realize that the best times to be had are with those closest to you – by blood, extended family or by friendship. And the best thing you can offer is yourself. Strip away all the events, fireworks, parades and other stuff, and what you have is people being together, talking, laughing, playing, joking, deepening the bonds that keep us bound.

We are blessed that through some unfathomable luck of the draw, we were born into the richest country on Earth. We want fir little, and we have a lot. We have the ability and the means to conquer distance and see each other. We can congregate for special occasions, such as Isaiah's big day.

How lucky we are. God bless America.

Preparations

2011-06-28T16:20:00.005-04:00

It's a big weekend coming up. We welcome family from Michelle and my sides – 13 in all. They're coming from six states – North Dakota, Nebraska, Texas, Georgia, Iowa and Maryland. They're not coming to see us; we're not that interesting. They're coming for baby Isaiah's baptism this Sunday.

It's a blessed event, to be sure, and one we know our families are excited to share with us. But we figured to maximize interest, we pinned the date on the July 4th weekend, when our little town goes absolutely zany in its display of patriotic fervor and parties. It's such a festival of entertainment centered around our nation's independence that people come from all over to take it in.

We're lucky in that respect. We live in a town that is not only bayside beautiful, but holds one heckuva fun fiesta each and every summer. The offerings include nightly concerts in a park by the water, a carnival on the town common, backyard barbecues and a restaurant, bar and nightlife scene that, for a few days at least, would rival a mid-size city. In the seven years we've lived in this town, I've always been struck at the kaleidoscope of activity, the fever that grips everyone around July 4th. It's amazing.

Another draw to this time – and certainly of interest to some in our families – is the annual, traditional party that one of our neighbors holds. The affair is a really nice mix of extended family (theirs, of course), friends and even folks who wander in. The hosts are just great, colorful people who value time spent with others above all else, which explains why the annual July 4th party is so important to them and has become such a tradition. And then there's the backyard fireworks that culminate the evening. We're not talking sparklers here; these pyrotechnics are the monster, exploding bursts of color and sound that municipalities shell out for special events. It's like watching an Imax film from the front row. Except you're looking up, and you need to watch out for falling debris.

I'm failing to fully describe the scene, neighborly and across town, that marks this time. Granted, Isaiah's baptism and the reception we'll hold in his honor trumps all this weekend. But it doesn't hurt to have other attractions to reel family in.

8 Months

2011-06-20T21:09:00.005-04:00

Baby Isaiah turned eight months old today.

Sure, it's significant, because each month is a cause for celebration when your child's less than a year old. But this one is special also because we've seen some pretty big changes in our little gut since he turned seven (months, of course). In those 30 or so days, Isaiah has been sitting up pretty much under his own power. His core is gaining strength, and he can sit upright, look around and flap his arms without tumbling over. The sitting upright posture doesn't last long – usually several minutes or so – and when he reaches for something in front of him, he hasn't quite figured out how to use his arms to help prop himself back up. He can do it, but it isn't smooth and takes considerable effort. Still, he's got the idea, and a new world has opened up for him, much different than the world from when you're just lying down.

He's also squawking like a madman. By nature, Isaiah is calmer than his older brother, Nathaniel, and more deliberate in his actions. Michelle and I have been discussing this. Whereas Nathaniel would spy a new toy, grab it, and either fling it or shriek at it, Isaiah will study it, then reach out and touch it, running his fingers over it. Very tactile. It's as if he's getting the toy's pulse. He observes before he reacts, whereas Nathaniel simply acts. No approach better than the other, mind you. Just different.

That cautious approach to objects holds true except for human faces. Isaiah is surprisingly quick on the draw when he gets within range of a nose, mouth, eyelid, ear or any other facial protrusion he can get a grip on. I have the scratches to prove it. Even then, however, when he latches on to your face, you can see that he's really concentrating on what he's doing, as if he's taking mental notes. So that's a nose. It has holes that I can stick my fingers in! And that's a mouth, with these rubbery, stretchy, red ledges I can grip and pull! Cool! I like faces!

Anyway, you get the point. There's a real fascination with faces. Isaiah, our cool, calculating little cucumber. Happy birthday, little man!

Feeding the Birds

2011-06-11T13:52:00.005-04:00

There are many activities that excite Nathaniel. Wrestling on the bed, helping mommy prepare meals (he's the sous chef.), throwing balls around the house, skating, (trying to) ride his tricycle, banging his drum, playing his kitty piano, and on and on.

I should mention that tops among all things that Natty Lou likes to do is anything that involves being with our neighbor, Caleigh. But that's a story for another time.

The story for this post is another activity that Nathaniel enjoys, and that is feeding the birds.

We have three bird feeders in out backyard. Two of them are the long, vertical feeders that hang from shepherd hooks. They keep squirrels out by sliding downward and closing the feeding holes. Sometimes, though, the squirrels are able to scale the shepherd's hook just enough to latch on to the feeder, and while it slides shut, the apparatus is shaken so violently is spills some seeds. A few squirrels have figured out how to take a flying leap from the fence and latch themselves on to one of the feeders. To those who succeed, the reward is like the coins that tumble out of a slot machine when the jackpot is hit – a whole bunch of seeds come tumbling out.

The third feeder we have is a mesh sock of sorts that we hang from a tree branch. This sock holds thistle, or nyjer seed, and is there mostly for the finches. I'm always impressed how the finches find the sock, even when it's partially, or mostly, hidden among the tree leaves. We always have steady visitors to the hanging buffet.

The problem with the sock, with its little holes, is that it tears easily. I'm not sure whether the rips come from the finches or from sparrows that, when the other feeders are empty, sometimes will try to alight on the finch bag. But whoever it is, the sock shows tears from the first time it's hung. And they're not cheap, either. So, to save some money, I patch the holes up with duct tape. It looks a tad unsightly, but the birds aren't going for appearance; they're going for the food. Unfortunately, the duct patches last for about one feeding, meaning that when it's time to refill the bag, the duct tape has been worn off or is so covered with seeds that it won't stick anymore. So, another round of patching is needed. And so on.

OK, Nathaniel's role has been to help me fill the vertical feeders. I give him a middling grade in this endeavor, but not for a lack of trying. We use a plastic cup to pour the seed into the feeder, and that does take a fair amount of precision and control. Nathaniel, exuberant as he is, hasn't quite got the touch. So, I help guide the cup toward the feeder opening, and he pours. About half the cup goes in the feeder; the rest hits the ground.

Much more entertaining for Nathaniel is the filing of the finch bag. We need a ladder for this job, and Nathaniel loves that, because that means he gets to run to our neighbor's yard, where we borrow the ladder. After some extracurricular dashing around, I can usually wrangle Natty to accompany me to our yard, where I climb up, get the finch bag and refill it. At least it should be that easy. Of course, it isn't. Nathaniel wants to climb the ladder, too. At the beginning, he'd only climb a couple of rungs and tentatively at that. But now, he scrambles all the way up, some 7-8 feet off the ground.

The birds arrive soon after we finish, as if they've been watching us, waiting for us to go inside. That's where Nathaniel, will stand, nose pressed against a window. "We have food, birdies!" he'll call out.

And, inevitably, they come.

Parade Time

2011-05-30T12:15:00.002-04:00

Happy Memorial Day, everyone!

Like many others, I have long treated Memorial Day as one of those holidays where I sit back, relax and do whatever. A few years ago, before Nathaniel was born, I got off my duff and witnessed a ceremony in our small town to honor our nation's veterans. I was touched by it all – the solemness of the occasion and the sincere gratitude that those in attendance showed to our military, past and present. I stood next to an elderly gentleman decked out in his World War II uniform, standing stiffly at attention despite an unrelenting sun.

I was really glad I went.

So, this year, I gathered up Nathaniel and Isaiah and wheeled them downtown to see the parade. I had read in the local paper that it would kick off at 9:30, so I hustled on down, only to find out that the parade wouldn't reach the downtown for a while. No problem: A change in plans had us at the bagel shop, where Nathaniel got a blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and I a works with lox spread. And an orange juice. Yum. We picked a spot along the street where the sidewalk runs above the street, and there's a wall that you can sit on and dangle your feet toward the street below. Nathaniel, ever the friendly sort, found another boy, a 3-year-old named Liam, to run around with, which allowed me to down my bagel and play with Isaiah. All was going fine, although the parade took longer to make its way to our area than I imagined, and Nathaniel, bathed in sweat, was on the cusp of being played out. Thankfully, just as he was fidgeting madly in my lap, a police cruiser came by, blue lights flashing, and signaling the start of the parade.

This parade is a short one, about 20 minutes long, and is really like a dress rehearsal for the main event a month later, the famed Fourth of July parade. Still, it was fun – music from the local high school marching band and a team of colonial re-enactors, and blasts from a cannon and a group of musket-wielding gentleman in old time getup. You could hear the cannon blasts from several blocks away. As it approached, I could see a blend of fascination and terror in Nathaniel's eyes. I knew the blast would be loud, and so I told Nathaniel to put his hands over his ears, as I held my hands over Isaiah's. BOOM! The cannon blasted right in front of us, and Nathaniel's eyes widened into beach balls. Then he scrunched up his face and began crying.

He wanted to go home. I thought about it for a second and decided we'd stay, not because I wanted to subject him to more noise, but because I figured he'd enjoy the others parts of the parade. And he did. And when the muskets came round, three times in all, I held Isaiah and Nathaniel hard against my chest, with my hands clasped over each's right ears. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! We survived the blasts and enjoyed the parade.

All in all, I think the boys had a good time. And I feel good that I did something to pay tribute to our men and women in uniform. God bless them for their service.

Woobie timeout

2011-05-29T09:58:00.002-04:00

Nathaniel has a favorite blue blanket that he calls "woobie." It appears the name comes from the movie "Mr. Mom," in which a child call his blanket by the same name. Michelle started calling Nathaniel's blanket "woobie," we think, and the name stuck. Just as many people call a pacifier a "binky," do a lot of parents also call children's favorite blankets "woobies?"

In any event, that's not really the point of this tale. In about the last two months, we've introduced Nathaniel to the concept of "timeout," which, as every parent knows, is the equivalent of the nuclear option to disciplining young children, provided you don't include force in your repertoire. Michelle says she's used timeout on Natty Lou about three times, and I'm about the same. So, we haven't employed it often, and I think that's a good thing. Just like the nuclear option, the use of timeout is effective more as a deterrent; the more frequently it is used, the less potent it is. At least that's how I view it.

Nathaniel has become really upset the times we have used timeout on him. One time, Nathaniel was pretty strung out from his day at daycare and took issue with me paying attention to Isaiah, even though all I was doing was carrying the car seat to a spot where I get Isaiah out of it. Natty whapped me on the butt, not hard, mind you, but he did it. When I whirled around, he had this kind of satisfied smirk on his face, like "Now I've got your attention!"

Oh, yes, you did, my boy. I picked him up, told him he was in timeout for hitting, and marched him upstairs. The poor little bugger, already pooped from his day, burst out into a torrent of tears and wailing. It was heartbreaking and comical at the same time.

As I said, this has happened pretty rarely, and we try hard not to use timeout as a threat, either, again because it would dilute it. The message has gotten through, though. We know this, because Nathaniel put his woobie in timeout the other morning.

He came downstairs and told mommy, "Woobie hit me."

Michelle said, "Oh, no!"

Nathaniel then said, "He goes in timeout" and promptly marched the poor blue rag upstairs to his room. He returned without him.

No doubt woobie was crying.

A little later, Michelle asked, "Is woobie still in timeout?"

And Nathaniel said, "No, he's nice," and went upstairs to fetch him.

Woobie had learned his lesson.

After Nathaniel had come back downstairs, he was holding woobie and slapped himself with the blanket. He then said, "Woobie hit me." Then he held woobie and looked at him sternly, and said, "No, woobie, no hitting. You're in timeout." And he marched him back upstairs.

Several hours later, Michelle was in Nathaniel's room and saw woobie.

It was in the hamper.

Aunt Rose

2011-05-24T20:41:00.003-04:00

Last post I said there would be more about that 94-year-old aunt. Here's the story:

Aunt Rose lives in a garage that's been converted into an apartment in our day care provider's house. Every time we pick up our children, we can smell her cooking. Some days, it's pasta with a meat sauce, or cabbage or other specialties. And the local news was on – always. So, when I pick up the children, I get a whiff of a meal and the brief window into the news of that day.

The first time we visited Sue, or as Nathaniel calls her, "Sue Sue," we met Aunt Rose. When Sue introduced us to her, she said, "This is my aunt Rose. She doens;t have any kids and never got married, and she asked if she could live here when she got older."

Without missing a beat, Aunt Rose said, "Not a lesbian."

Even more interesting than that, at least to us, is Aunt Rose lived in our house when she was a girl. That would be some 80+ years ago in a house that is a little older than 100. We bought this house in 2004 from two sisters, both elderly, one of whom was in her 80s and had lived there since she was married in her 20s. She had raised a family there, and her husband, who tended to a garden in the very spot where we have our largest one, died there.

So, we have a pretty long historical chain to our house that goes beyond a written record. It gives our house more life, in a way, a breathing history of sorts that we are now adding to.

There are more stories to hear about this house. We hope Aunt Rose gets better, so we can hear more from her.

Who's the boss?

2011-05-24T10:20:00.003-04:00

A major disruption this morning. Hustled the boys to day care, only to arrive and find out that our provider needed to rush a 94-year-old aunt to the hospital (more on that later). She did call the house, but I never heard the phone in the mayhem that is our morning ritual.

So, I had to turn around and return home with the boys and wait for Michelle to come home to relieve me. Soon after I got home, I called my supervisor to let her know I'd be out this morning.

As I was finishing the conversation, Nathaniel took a break from his yogurt to ask, "Who are you calling, daddy?"

"My boss," I replied.

"That's mommy," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Indeed. Michelle's indoctrination of the men and boys in her family is working well!

First word (sort of)

2011-05-23T21:54:00.002-04:00

Last week or so, around the time that he turned seven months old, Isaiah said his first word: "Da da."

I didn't hear the first utterance. Michelle did, and so I heard about it when I returned one day from work. I remember Michelle telling me how Isaiah says it over, followed by shrieks of joy, like a rebel yell. I believed that he was uttering his first words but I was less convinced by the vigor behind them.

Until I heard it myself. Many times, Isaiah starts off slowly with a soft string of "da, da, da, da" that kind of floats in the air, at a level a little above the whisper. Once he's warmed up, though, the words get louder, more emphatic, the bursts of "da, da, da" more forceful and staccato-like. Now he's humming along, and he's finishing his "da, da, das" with a screech on the last "da," followed by gleeful, wild yelling. Sometimes, he gets so wound up it's downright scary. He sounds like he's going mad. And then you look at him, and you can see that he's just so pleased with himself.

It's really fun to watch him get all revved up. When he says "da, da," his mouth drops open so violently that he looks like some wooden puppet whose lower jaw has become unhinged, only to snap back shut, before suddenly opening again. His jaw muscles are sure getting a good workout.

I'd like to think that he is talking about his daddy. Advantage father, right? Well, it's hard to know whether he's calling for me. Really, the evidence points otherwise. Isaiah blurts out "da, da, da" when I'm around and when I'm not around. He'll yell it when he's alone in his crib. He's shrieked it in when he's riding in the car. He lets it go when he's twisting around on his blanket on the floor. So, who knows, really, what's going in his head?

The good thing is something is going on in there, enough to propel him to want to let all of us know about it.

I can't wait to hear more.

Budding writer?

2011-05-16T16:48:00.005-04:00

Nathaniel may be blessed (cursed?) with the writer gene.

Here's my proof:

On a normal weekend day in our household, Nathaniel approached his mother, Michelle, and said to her, "Mommy, you're not cute."

Good sentence. Grammatically correct. Strong. Direct. Introduces suspense. A cliffhanger, introduced.

He actually paused a beat or two and then said, "You're pretty."

What flair, what flourish! What a surprise! What a payoff!

Two sentences rolled into a short story that any writer can appreciate. Well done, young scribe.

Arrested Development

2011-05-10T11:08:00.004-04:00

Home with a sick Nathaniel today, so an unexpected opportunity for a quick post, while both are napping.

We'll turn to Isaiah today, who hasn't gotten nearly his fair share of publicity. Unfortunately, he probably won't care much for this story, for it has to do with his latest checkup at the doctor.

Before anyone gets too concerned, our six-month-old is just fine. Healthy and happy. Smiling and waggling. Flopping and rolling. (although he can't roll from his tummy to his back again) Talking and screaming. Delighted whenever his big brother gives him attention. Observing and taking notes of all that's around him. In short, progressing as he should be.

You may recall that Isaiah had shown remarkable growth at his three-month visit, sprouting some 3 1/2 inches since his birth. That, we were told, put him in the 85% percentile for height among his peers. I was overjoyed; Nathaniel had never broken 35% for either height or weight, so I had pinned my hopes that at least one of the boys had inherited my "tallness" gene (if you count 6'1" or so as being tall). Don't get me wrong, we're not fixated on these percentiles; I'd like to think I'm smart enough to realize they are quick and dirty averages for parents to get some sense of their child's development. And each child is different. My father grew something like 5 inches when he was in junior college. I didn't fully develop until my freshman year in college. So, I know these things are relative.

But they are indicators, and so I was heartened (maybe overjoyed is too strong an adverb to use) to hear about Isaiah's height ranking. Then came the six-month checkup: Isaiah had grown just a half-inch – a 1/2 inch! – from three months to six months. His percentile had plummeted from 85% to 35%. He was back in Nathaniel territory. And I was heartbroken. OK, not quite that sad, but let's say mildly dejected.

A little later, our pediatrician walked into the room. Examining the chart, she said, "Your child is a runt."

A runt.

He's not big.

He's not tall.

He's a runt.

And that's the way it is.

Ouch.

When Michelle told me this, I about swooned. Cue the seven stages of grief. Then she told me how her grandfather (on her mother's side) was 5' 2" when he finished high school. He, too, had a growth spurt, and ended somewhere in 5' 9" territory. But he never shook his nickname, Shorty.

Now past denial and into acceptance. Past acceptance and into fantasy-like hope. Isaiah, like my father and I, will have late-stage development, only his growth spurt will be something like 8-9 inches. He'll end up 6' 4" – a strapping, robust chap.

I must be dreaming.

Of course, I also hope that I'm smart enough to realize this doesn't matter in the scheme of things. Isaiah is whole. Isaiah is healthy. Isaiah is (or at least appears to be) normal. Isaiah is perfect.

No matter how tall, or short, he turns out to be.

Bossy Pants

2011-05-05T21:27:00.004-04:00

Our older boy, Nathaniel, is by all accounts, a big-hearted, kind and energetic soul. On Mondays and Tuesdays at day care, he runs around like a banshee, a smile permanently plastered on his cherubic face. He always waves bye to his day-care friends an usually has hugs for each. He adores his provider, whom he calls Sue Sue, and regularly bursts into tears when it's time to leave.

Everyone thinks he's so nice, and in general they're right. But lately, our little guy has been feeling his oats, a little too sure of himself. While still adorable a large part of the time, he has been slipping more and more into a new role, Mr. Bossy Pants.

What I mean by this is Nathaniel likes to order us all around. Mommy, Daddy, baby brother Isaiah, the animals in his bed, and anyone else who happens to be in his verbal line of fire. They are pawns in his game of Who Can Get the Upper Hand. And it's a game that Nathaniel doesn't like to lose.

Some are pretty innocuous and could be seen pretty much as invitations to interact and play:

Tickle me, Daddy!

You color with me! You draw! Draw Elmo!

Chase me, Mommy! Now, I chase you!

Hide, Daddy! Now I go hide!

Close your eyes, Mommy! Now, open them!

But lately they've entered the realm of outright orders:

Don't sing, Mommy!

Don't speak, Mommy!

Sit down! Sit here! No, don't sit there!

Mommy, get up! You get up now!

Don't pat your stomach, Daddy! (Daddy pats his leg instead.) Now, don't pat your leg!

Even when it's meant to be nice, it still feels akin to an edict:

Play with me! This is said in a sharp, bossy voice, like a commandment My will be done.

Ah, yes, our little preacher from on high. Mostly Michelle and I shrug and just take it. It is pretty amusing, after all. But we are taking mental notes, keeping track of how long this phase lasts and keeping tabs on the type of orders and whether they escalate in quantity or get plain nasty. Then we'll put a stop to it.

And our little general will be back to being a subordinate again.

Six Months

2011-04-20T20:37:00.002-04:00

Isaiah is six months old today. Hooray!

To commemorate the occasion, let me tell you some things about the little bugger.

He's cute. OK, most babies are. Duh.

Let me be more specific. He's cute because:

• He has a smile as wide as my home state of Texas

• He has dimples

• He has a veneer of hair that is either light blond or light red, depending on the light

• He smiles and coos madly when I hold him up in the air

• He smiles, coos madly and stares intently at my mouth when I chant to him, "Ba, ba, ba, Ma, ma, ma, Da, da, da, La, la, la, HA, HA, HA! (This is my thoroughly unscientific way of helping him form his first words and to distinguish between words that sound alike and that require you to use your mouth differently. On the latter point, try it, and you'll see that you use different muscles in your mouth and your tongue differently with about every word.)

• He even smiled and cooed when he was beset by an ear infection, a cough and conjunctivitis in both eyes.

• He is a great counterbalance to his hyper kinetic brother, at least so far.

• He wiggles and waggles with delight every time he sees his brother.

• He slept the entire night last night, as if he knew it would be the best present he could give his mommy and daddy.

As if on cue with his birthday, the Japanese cherry tree started to bloom today. It's a beautiful sight, a riot of little cupped pink flowers spouting in all directions from our tree's haphazard branches. The bloom is confined to the upper branches so far, and I guess because the tree is on the north side of the house and the sun is still relatively low, the upper areas get the most sunlight. I wish I had been noting the first bloom of this tree since we got it five years ago. It would be an interesting, although wholly unscientific way, of knowing whether springtime blooms are occurring sooner as is the trend with climate change.

But that's a story for another day. The story for today is all about Isaiah. Six months, folks. Wow. Can't wait for the next six!

First Planting

2011-04-17T20:13:00.002-04:00

A whiff of spring blew in this weekend, and that means one thing: Time for planting.

It's our version of outdoors of spring cleaning. In our seven years in this house, we have ringed our premises with several flower gardens, a vegetable garden and two raised-beds vegetable gardens. Cleaning out all those plots and getting the soil ready for new flowers and food is a lot of work. Did I mention the compost pile? Yeah, that baby needs attention, too. There's good soil there, you know, and we turn it over with the new season to get that rich supplementary soil for the main vegetable garden.

Now that the calendar had turned to April, we could feel the tug of spring, the lure of being outdoors. So, on a cloudy, windy, chilly Saturday, Michelle and I were out there, laboring away, as the boys napped inside. Michelle cleared the leaf cover we had put in the circular garden around the lone tree we had left standing from the area that had been, for all intents and purposes, the neighborhood dumping ground. (An aside: As I dug in the compost pile, I found a metal circular saw piece and an old film reel. The surprises never end.) I turned the compost and wheeled over several barrows full of soil for the vegetable patch. I then borrowed a motorized rototiller from our neighbor, Bob. This contraption, Bob told me, is from his grandfather, and is at least 60 years old. It's rusty, yellow and cranky to start, but the 'ol geezer keeps on chuggin' along. And it did the job yet again this time.

Soil tilled, and time to sow a row. It's early in the season still, so the best bet for now is lettuce, and we opted for black Simpson, or something like that. There are so many varieties that I can't keep track what we like and what we don't. That's Michelle's domain, and thankfully she's good at it. I planted the black Simpson and hours later, the rains came.

Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.

A Cough and a Crash

2011-04-14T20:32:00.006-04:00

It has been an eventful week.

To start, I can't help but to harp on the sickness thing. No sooner had Isaiah passed through his first bout of illness that he contracted the croup (spelling?) and began barking like a wheezing hound. He sounded OK during the day; scattered dry coughs coupled with spasms of hacking. By evening, however, it would come full-on: near-constant storms of coughing. Within days, Isaiah was practically hoarse, emitting feeble cries amidst the coughing attacks. He sounded pathetic, and I'm sure he felt just as bad. He wasn't getting any sleep, and we weren't either. And come daytime, we had the lovable tempest that is Nathaniel. Combine the two, and the strain on everyone was intense. For perhaps the first time, I thought I would lose it. I had to mouth to myself to be patient, to refrain from overreacting, repeating it to myself over and over, because I was afraid that if I didn't keep that thought ever present, I might snap.

It was a weird feeling to be fighting so hard to control my emotions. I think I was that exhausted by it all.

By last weekend, it looked as if Isaiah was leaving his croup behind. That, coincided with the time that my mother and her friend, Gene, rolled into town. Things were really looking up: A nice family visit and the children were more or less healthy for the first time in months. The day after they arrived was a Sunday, and after a day of church, some gardening and playing in the house, we went to dinner at a great local seafood restaurant in our town's harbor. This little place serves up local catch, and it is terribly tasty stuff, served unpretentiously in a homey, friendly atmosphere. We had a wonderful time at dinner.

You may wonder why I'm telling you all this. Families go to quaint joints all the time for a meal. What gives here? Well, I'm just trying to set this all up a little.

As dinner was ending, Nathaniel was losing his mind, as what generally happens when he doesn't take a daytime nap. So, as we left the restaurant and headed for the car, I put Nathaniel down, so he could run a little. "Keep an eye on him, mom," I said, as the little bugger darted forward.

In retrospect, I had given my mother an impossible task. Here, go chase the 2 1/2 year old. Good luck. Ever game, Mom bolted after Nathaniel, afraid that he would run into the parking lot. She evidently reached for him, missed and fell. Hard. On her face. Hard. Knee struck pavement. Face struck pavement. Then hands struck pavement. Hard, hard, hard.

We all ran over to her. My mom was face down on the pavement, as if she were snacking on the pebbles. She looked up, and her face was streaked with blood. Blood on her nose, blood on her chin, and a lot of blood coming out of her mouth. One of her front teeth was dangling from her mouth, precariously so, like a frayed piece of rope. Her upper lip was gutted open as if she were a hooked fish. She was a mess.

Off to the emergency room we went. By the time we got there, the shock of the crash was starting to wear off, and the intense pain was setting in. Mom was moaning as we ushered her into the ER and she was falling asleep as the first nurse examined her. That was the telltale sign of a concussion, we were told. So, we wheeled my somnolent mother into the main area of the ER. After about 45 minutes or so, a physician assistant came in and examined Mom. Three front teeth were damaged, and something had to be done with the dangling, fourth one, he said. He injected some local anesthesia into the gumline and unceremoniously shoved the front tooth back in.

It was after midnight before we got the go-ahead to leave. After a stop for a cocktail of pain medications, I took Mom and Gene to the hotel and drove home. Poor Mom. What had promised to be a fun visit now became a trial of imprisonment in a hotel. I was so tired the next day I could scarcely function.

Fast forward a few days, and the 'ol Mom is on the mend. She still looks like hell, but at least she's no longer a sabertooth, and her nose is now rose colored, instead of a deep purple. Her lip is black with scar tissue. Yet her spirits were up, and we all went out to dinner. We even walked through the parking lot without incident.

This time, I held Nathaniel's hand.

A quick postscript: This is my 100th post. I guess I could call it a milestone, but considering two very long hiatuses that I took, my excitement is greatly tempered. I hope I get to 200 a lot quicker. There are so many stories to tell!

Sickness Redux

2011-03-31T19:31:00.003-04:00

When will it end?

No, I don't mean winter, which has seemed longer than usual and even as it snows outside as I write. I mean the weeks upon weeks of sickness that have hung over our family like dollops of mucus.

It really seems like someone has been sick for as long as I can remember, perhaps extending as far as Isaiah's birth in October. A little more than a week ago, it seemed like we had made it; spring had arrived (on the calendar at least), and the clocks had been booted back an hour. There was more sun than we had seen in months, and everything just seemed as if it were looking up. But now we've slipped back into our old, ill ways.

And this latest slide has been a precipitous one. Isaiah awoke on Wednesday with his eyes so puffy it looked like he has gone 10 rounds with Muhammad Ali. So, Michelle carted him to the doctor. Isaiah had hit upon an unusual trifecta of sickness – conjunctivitis in both eyes, a cold and a double ear infection. Talk about your cocktail of maladies.

Amazingly, the little guy has made barely a squeak despite being barely able to see, much less hear or breathe. Michelle said that on the morning she took him into the doctor, he even managed a weak smile for her. Maybe it was his way of reassuring her that everything would be alright.

The next day, Michelle carted Nathaniel to the doctor for a checkup from an ear infection he had been diagnosed with two weeks earlier. Nathaniel, we now know, will need a third set of tubes in his ears to relieve the fluid that has pooled there. While the fluid is not infected, he is on some kind of medication to keep it from being infected before we can get him into surgery for the next set of tubes. Poor guy. The tubes do help, there is no question about that. But I really don't like the fact that he has to be put under anesthesia for the procedure. The last time he was put under, I held in my arms as a technician put the mask over his face. He looked at me with his big, blue eyes. I saw a flicker of panic, and then it seemed as if he were questioning me: "Daddy, why are they doing this to me? Daddy, will I be alright?" It was absolutely gut wrenching, and I hoped then that I wouldn't have to go through that again.

But now I know there will be another time.

I can only hope that Isaiah doesn't have the same fate with his ears. He was healthy for the first four months, give or take, but he's making up for lost time now.

And, I don't feel so great myself. Where's my blanket?

Baby Run

2011-03-21T20:48:00.004-04:00

Isaiah got his first run in this weekend.

OK, so it was a ride as his daddy labored for eight miles. But it was his first time in the baby jogger, and he really seemed to dig the time. It was a Saturday morning, and the sun was shining brightly, an altogether beautiful beginning to the day. Birds were flitting back and forth from feeder to feeder, and I saw some finches hanging from the nyjer seed bag dangling from a tree branch. The grass, while brown from being covered for weeks by a blanket of snow, was showing signs of rebirth, a soft hue of light green on the blades' tips. I put on shorts and a light pullover, and then I wrapped Isaiah in little white bear outfit with ears on the hoodie. I used a beach towel and Nathaniel's name towel (thanks, Lee Ann) to prop Isaiah in the jogging stroller and belted him in. It was a snug fit, with barely any need to loosen or fasten the straps. He was made to be in there, I thought.

I got outside and began my run. The bike path that runs along the water is about a mile from our house, and that's where I headed. It's scenic, as you might imagine, winding along the town harbor and then following next to the water or poking a tad inward amongst the trees. And, it's pretty flat, which is a lot to like when you're pushing a stroller. As we got on the bike path, I felt the wind for the first time. It was a steady headwind from the north, and I got a little nervous, as I hadn't thought about covering Isaiah's hands. At least I had the presence of mind to wrap him in a blanket, so I was reasonably confident that his body or his feet weren't getting chilled. But we were running directly into the wind, and there was no screen for his face. I thought about turning around, but I figured I'd encounter the wind with any other route. So, I kept going, running ahead of the stroller (while holding on with one hand, I might add) to make sure Isaiah hadn't frozen. He was awake, and never made a sound. Not a grunt, a grimace, nor a fuss. He just sat there, and well, I'm not sure what he did. I like to think he admired the view as much as I did.

The best thing about running into the wind is that you turn around, and you get it on your back. So, by the time I turned around, I knew it would be a nice ride back home. Isaiah seemed to know it, too. Some folks who were heading the opposite way got glimpses of the little guy, and judging by their smiling faces, he must have appeared to be content. I think I heard another couple remark how sweetly he seemed to be sleeping.

What a trooper on his first foray in the baby running stroller, in a mid-March chill. I sure hoped he liked it as much as I liked having him along.

I can't wait to do it again.

Sisterly Visit

2011-03-13T11:24:00.004-04:00

My sister is visiting us this weekend.

Perhaps that's not big news when family or a relative comes to town. But with my sister, it's special because of what she brings and what she has left behind.

Let me explain: My sister has a husband and three children, ages 9 to 15. She loves them dearly and supports them entirely. You won't find her checking out on them. She is locked in to their needs and their wants, their joys and their sorrows, their victories and their losses. She knows everything that is going in her household, because she is involved in everything that goes on in her household. Not in a micromanager kind of way, but in an "in the know" kind of way.

So, for her to willingly leave her family behind to see us and our two children is indeed something special. A little sacrifice on her part, to strengthen the bonds between our families. She's getting something in return: Lots of cuddly time with baby Isaiah, who's never met a face he won't smile at. And Nathaniel, of course, who within five minutes had warmed up to his aunt and begged her incessantly to join him in everything he would do.

My sister brings a lot of love and a healthy dose of parenting perspective, too. As far as parenting goes, she's the veteran, while I'm the neophyte. Michelle complains that I listen to my sister more intently for parenting tips than I do to her. I hope that's not the case, or the vibe I'm giving off, but maybe it's subconsciously acknowledging the wealth of wisdom that my sister has.

Take this, for an example: We've been giving Isaiah some antibiotics to treat an ear infection. We use an oral syringe to give him his medicine. Every time I stick the syringe in his mouth and plunge the stopper to deliver the medicine, some of the liquid shoots out of his mouth or dribbles out the side. It all means that Isaiah isn't getting the full dose. My sister watched me do this, and told me that if I stick the dropper in the far reaches of his cheek and dispense the medicine, he will involuntarily swallow. She was right. It worked perfectly. Not a drop of the pink stuff oozed out. I excitedly showed Michelle what I had learned; she looked at me and with a hint of exasperation said, "That's what I've been telling you." Oops. I honestly didn't remember that she had.

I need to come up with a way to make me think that whatever Michelle is saying is coming from my sister in the parenting stuff. Maybe that seems weird. I don't know. What I do know is it's a joy that my sister is here, little sacrifice at all. We thank her and her family for it.

Unexpected Moments

2011-03-08T06:03:00.004-05:00

This is a rare, unexpected moment of bliss.

I arose in a grouchy mood at 5:25 a.m. because Isaiah would not sleep.

Mondays and Tuesdays are days when Michelle goes to work. That means I get the children up, dressed, fed and off to day care before hustling to catch the bus to work. It's an hour of hectic, frenetic activity in which I keep a mental checklist for how the routine should go seamlessly and then watch as it all unravels.

This morning appeared to be no different. Isaiah, despite Michelle's best efforts to leave him in a content, slumbering state of mind when she exited the room, was agitated. He tossed, he turned, he swiveled, he arched his back, craned his neck. He exhaled mightily, fussed, groaned and finally cried. It was clear he would not drift back to sleep, so that meant I needed to get up, even though I didn't want to.

So, up I got and stumbled downstairs to heat a bottle of mommy milk. Glass bottle of the good stuff in fridge? Check. Fill coffee cup with water and warm the water in microwave? Check. Put bottle in coffee cup, so milk can warm? Check. Wait five minutes. Try not to fall asleep while standing. Check temperature of bottle. Reheat water in coffee cup and repeat subsequent sequences. Once I had deemed the bottle (and the milk) sufficiently warmed, I trudged upstairs to roust Isaiah from his crib and give him a bottle. If all goes swimmingly, this will top him off, so to speak, satiate him enough, that he will ease off contentedly into slumber. And I can then turn my attention to his older brother, who by then should be stirring.

I walked into Isaiah's room, and lo and behold, not a peep from the crib. I crept in, tippy toe, looked over the rail, and there he was, on his side, asleep. Well, I'll be. I crept backwards, slowly, taking care to avoid the creaks in the floor, and gingerly closed the door.

Fifteen minutes later, still no sounds. It's still, and it's silent. I have a cup of coffee (Dean's Beans, Arctic Sunrise – I highly recommend it.). For a precious few minutes, it's just me and my thoughts.

Bliss, my friends. A rare, unexpected moment of bliss on a Tuesday morning.

What's in a name

2011-03-06T13:32:00.004-05:00

How did Isaiah get his name?

I wish I had a clear and compelling tale on that one. It's not quite as straightforward as Nathaniel, shall we say. With Natty, Michelle and I liked that his name was rooted in New England nomenclature, which, since we live in the region, gives him a sense of place. We also thought it was unique, without being kooky or contrived. Further, we liked any diminutive form of the name – be it Nathan, Nate, Nat, Natty or whatever else someone can conjure. And we couldn't think of any derivative that a mean-spirited child could dream up that could inflict verbal wounds. Meanwhile, his middle name is Ames, which is where Michelle and I met in Iowa. Another ringing sense of place.

Looking at the defense above, I guess we thought about his names a lot more than I had realized. We're pretty satisfied with what we did, and we hope Nathaniel will be, too, that he will love his name.

Isaiah's name doesn't have as rich a story. I will say it did come organically, just as Nathaniel's name did. In other words, we consulted no baby books, nor did we bounce potential names off family or friends. We definitely did not survey athletes, celebrities, U.S. presidents, pop magazines or other familiar depots of naming ideas. I admit that I would look at the births section of our local newspaper to see what names were in vogue, but I did not consciously consult it for ideas. Michelle and I would lob a name at each other from time to time and await the other's response. It was pretty easy to divine which names were either immediately tossed (Oliver, Abijah, Duane, etc.) which ones received a tepid response (Henry, Paul, etc.) and then those that we both liked and made a so-called finalist list. (I won't share them with you, since you never know.)

Isaiah, it's safe to say, was one of the names we both liked. I'm not entirely sure why. I've liked the ring of the name for a long time, and, well, it just seems like a fitting name for an athlete. Don't get me wrong, I am NOT buttonholing him or Nathaniel into sports in any way. I will be happy with whatever they pursue (especially science), so long as they use their minds and they're contributing to societal progress or the common good in a meaningful way. Michelle, I believe, initially was lukewarm to Isaiah, perhaps because of my thinly-veiled athletic infatuation with it. She likes it now, and it helps that it's unique and has been around for at least the last 2,000 years, as a book in the Bible will attest. It's a name that has stood the test of time.

Isaiah's middle name, Paul, is a nod to family. Michelle's grandfather on her mother's side was Paul, and he was a genial, honorable man. The quintessential typical Iowan, I'd say – a farmer who worked hard and made little fuss, doted on his daughter and listened to his wife.

So, that's how Isaiah got his name. We hope he loves it, too, because it all came out of love for him.

Two Boys

2011-02-21T07:14:00.005-05:00

Yesterday was a birthday of sorts. Isaiah turned four months old.

Surprise! Never heard of him? Well, that's because I hadn't told you. Shame on me.

So ... Isaiah Paul Lewis was born on Oct. 20, 2010. He checked in at 19 3/4 inches and 8 lbs.., 3 ounces. A smidge taller than his older brother, Nathaniel, and about seven ounces lighter.

I have no idea whether the comparison means anything. What I do know is that at his three-month checkup, baby Isaiah had shot up to 24 inches in height. That's more than four inches in three months. At that rate, he'll be a seven-footer in no time! (And daddy can retire.)

Seriously, I'm guessing someone missed an inch or two in the measuring at birth or later. So, maybe 'ol Isaiah was taller at birth, or he's not really two-feet tall after all. In any event, assuming the three-month measurement was mostly accurate, Isaiah is in the 85th percentile for height among his peers.

That makes him quite unlike his brother.

Nathaniel, for all his great qualities (including a lovely yawn I just heard), is not breaking any records in the height and weight games. Since he was born 27 months ago, he's never eclipsed the 30th percentile in either category.

That's all fine, of course. Despite the fact I've written so much about height and weight in this post, I'm not fixated on them. Really. Deep down, I realize these are simply gauges and are not a foolproof oracle of my children's dimensions come adulthood. But I admit to being curious how my children are "faring" vis a vis others their age. I guess I can't help it.

Isaiah and Nathaniel seem to be different in ways other than physical stature. Nathaniel is more in the mold of a windup Energizer Bunny; he jumps around the room, grabs his blanket and screams into it and loves the 1-2-3 game in which he's launched on to the sofa, bed or any other soft surface. Last night, he ran at least 50 laps from the kitchen through the bed room and the playroom. Along the way, he added a snow hat, then mittens, then a scarf, and eventually a teddy bear and a little red doggie. Around and around we went – first with daddy, then Nathaniel recruited mommy and baby in his circular jogging. At least he wore himself out before bed.

Isaiah seems much more placid. Granted, he can't run or jump yet, so all this observation may be a little premature. But he's definitely not as excitable as his older brother. Isaiah is perfectly content to rest in your arms, to snuggle on in, for stretches at a time. Nathaniel, while always affectionate, never went for the cuddling. He simply had other places to be, other things to do. Isaiah, by contrast, will just hang out and watch. That is, until you try to put him down, and he screams like he's been stuck with a needle. (More on that in another post)

This early contrast in personality is really neat to watch. Could this portend two brothers who are distinctly different, polar opposites, if you will, in disposition and action?

We'll just have to wait and see.

The Presentation

2010-03-16T22:12:00.005-04:00

Mention the word "presentation," and I immediately think of food.

That's the way I am, I guess. I imagine a thoughtfully conceived and artfully conveyed plate of tri-colored tortellini alla panna or perhaps an artsy rendition of enchiladas.

But with Nathaniel's arrival in our family, I've had to rethink the meaning of the word.

That's because Natty has become a big fan of a game in which he presents himself. Not for eating, mind you, but for tickling, snuggling, snuffling, growling, blowing, squealing, thigh squeezes, toe tickles, tummy rubs, you name it. It goes like this: I'm sitting on the sofa, and Natty wobbles up to me and extends his arms upward, gesturing for me to lift him on to the sofa next to me. He then starts bounding along, from one end to the other, a madcap, happy-go-lucky amble in which it looks as if he'll careen right off the sofa at any moment. When he gets to the opposite end of the sofa from where I'm sitting, he stops, turns around and eyes me. Then he puffs his chest out and leans back against the sofa, his head tilted so far backwards it looks as if it will pop off his shoulders. He spreads his arms away from his body, leaving his torso completely stretched out and exposed.

This, my friends, is the presentation. Nathaniel is begging me to scooch over and play with him. He wants to be tickled. He wants me to bury my head in his midsection and nibble at him. He wants me to bounce him, hound him, twist him, turn him, wrestle with him, turn him upside down, toss him, and whatever I can do that tickles his little fancy. And, naturally, I oblige.

What happens next is pure joy. Shrieks of delight from the little guy. Shrieks of delight from his father. Giggles from Natty. Snorts of laughter from his father. Pleas for more hand-to-head combat from Natty. Ready acceptance by his father.

We play this game almost daily. And it never gets old. I can't begin to describe the gushing of good vibes I get when I have any excuse to nuzzle my son, but when he actually is begging for it? Rapture, folks, rapturous.

Watch the video (coming soon – technical issues). See what I mean?

February is a cruel month

2010-02-27T15:12:00.002-05:00

Yes, February has been a cruel month for the Lewis/Murken clan. Again.

Last February, Nathaniel was wracked with a series of ear infections that caused him nearly uninterrupted pain and his parents nearly uninterrupted misery.

In July, he got the magical mini lug nuts in his ears otherwise known as tubes, and he was pain and misery-free. Until February.

Readers of this blog no doubt know about Michelle and my succumbing to some strange, awful virus that emptied our insides. That marked the beginning of February. About midway through the month, Natty got irritable, he began pawing at his ears and his nose resembled a spout that drained gooey, yellow liquid. His breathing sounded like a decades-long smoker.

Yes, he was congested, head, nose, ears and all. It was only a matter of time before he wouldn't be the only one.

Next was Michelle. Her signature sound has been a cough that raises itself from the dead when we hit the bed. She unleashes her cough in a rapid-fire, quadruple, stutter-step cascade with an emphasis on the last hack, kind of like a "Huhhh, Huhhh, Huhhh, HUHHH!" She hacks her way through the night, arising in the morning with a crappy night's sleep to show for her efforts. Me, being the light sleeper that I am, suffer by proxy.

Then Michelle got congested – really congested. She said it felt like having glue pumped into her head. You couldn't find her without a tissue in one hand and a tired, miserable look on her face.

About three weeks into the month, I got it. Actually, it began last Friday, as in eight days ago. It all began when I couldn't stop myself from coughing. It felt as if someone had stuck a feather in my throat, and I couldn't dislodge it. Enormously frustrating.

By Monday, the cough was a foul, deep-throated beast. By midweek, it was joined by a swelling of seemingly all my glands. I felt like my head was a balloon, and some evil being was blowing mucus-filled air into it.

That pressurized feeling has worsened in the last few days where I now feel as I if I am living underwater. I haven't tasted food since Feb. 19. I remember important dates like this, and everyone knows about it, because I've whined to all who would listen. Only yesterday did I finally resign myself to the fact that my taste buds would remain MIA until the cold came under control.

Please let it be soon.

So, my take on children, is, yeah, they're great. You know I wouldn't trade Natty and the joyous times we've had with him for anything. (so many and it's just the beginning!) But man, the germs he captures and carts home. It's just downright cruel. It sucks. I'm sick of it.

I like winter. I really do.
But please bring on spring.

Sleeping Baby

2010-02-14T19:47:00.003-05:00

Is there nothing better than a baby sleeping in your arms?

Tonight, I put Nathaniel to bed. Usually, as I lay him in his crib, he cries, babbles or plays with a doll called "Baby Tad," a stuffed frog through which you can program up to six minutes of bedtime music. This night was different.

As Natty tipped back his bottle of milk, I read him a book about a boy's visit to the doctor in Italian and another about Elmo and Valentine's Day (that one in English). I really like reading the Italian book, because it allows me to brush years of dust from once learning the language. (And it's simple enough that I can understand it.)

I then turned him toward me to pat his back for a burp or two. He smiled sweetly at me and fingered the books we had just read lovingly. Then, without warning, he sighed and placed his head sideways against my chest. I held him.

He has done this before, but usually he gets bored, or antsy, and I put him in his crib. This time, however, he stayed where he was, head against my chest, arms dangling loosely by his side, legs curled up, and his little butt tucked up in my palm. His eyes closed. He began to breathe more deeply. Then he started snoring – tiny puffs of snores through his nose.

He was sound asleep in my arms.

Truly there are fewer feelings of fulfillment than this. I love him.

(P.S. – Another new post is below.)

Waves of Sickness

2010-02-14T15:34:00.005-05:00

It would be an easy excuse to say the reason why I haven't posted in nearly a month is because we've had waves of sickness course through our little clan. So, instead of apologizing, let's get on with the story.

It all started on an early Monday morning three weeks ago. I woke up at about 1 a.m. with what felt like a ball of fire that had been dropped into my stomach. Then came a series of cramps, each stronger than the last, and before I knew it, I was up, out of the bed, and making a mad dash for the bathroom.

Some time later, I returned to bed, thinking my little crisis had been averted, that the cauldron in my tummy had subsided. But less than an hour later, the fires in my gut returned, and I was again sprinting to the bathroom.

Well, each hour for the next ten hours, I would repeat the bed-to-bathroom dash. Each trip I would alternate between vomiting and the other conduit by which your body expels unwanted stuff. I felt as if I had been poisoned. Towards the end, I was dry heaving over the toilet; my body had violently jettisoned all contents, and there was nothing at that point except bile.

As I lay like a heap of bones on the bed, Michelle appeared to have been unscathed. She got up and left for work. Yet within a few hours, she was stricken, and she returned home to repeat - in some measure – the same dance I had done.

I was knocked out of work for two days, and even though I returned on Wednesday, I was a shadow of myself. I ate exactly one bowl of chicken noodle soup over three days, and I didn't have an appetite until the fifth day.

One day during that week, Michelle brought home a copy of a local paper that said a prep school had been closed for the week due to an outbreak of a sickness called "norovirus." We had never heard of it before, but the symptoms matched ours: vomiting, diarrhea, chills, nausea, stomach cramps. Lasts 48 hours or so.

Apart from being miserably sick, I would say the hardest thing about the ordeal is we still needed to tend to Nathaniel. Miraculously, the little bugger had dodged the virus. So, while Michelle and I lat moaning on opposite ends of the sofa, Nathaniel was prancing about, urging us to play with him. And that was just the bit of it: Of course, we still needed to feed him, bathe him, change him, dress him ... the typical checklist of tending to a child.

We endured, as parents do, even when they feel worse than lousy. As we recovered by the weekend, it became Natty's turn to get sick. His appetite plummeted, and his demeanor turned quite cloudy. He pawed at his right ear, and his breathing became wheezy. In short, he got sick.

Thankfully, he didn't contract the norovirus, or whatever it was that we had. But for two weeks now, Nathaniel has been out of sorts. He's been to the doctor twice. He's on his second prescription of ear drops to relieve the gunk lodged in his right ear canal. (The tubes are still in, thank goodness.) We gave him a mist twice a day to loosen his congestion, and he's on antibiotics to ward off a potential infection in his head, nose and ears.

He's been a handful, but it hasn't been his fault. It's just been more trying with Michelle and I also being sick. But things appear to be looking up: Just yesterday, Nathaniel returned to his sunny self, and his appetite roared back with a vengeance. He's eating everything we're putting before him. Michelle feels better. I feel ... I mean, I felt better until today. My stomach has been boiling again.

I think I need to get to the bathroom.

Walking Proof

2010-01-19T21:20:00.004-05:00

Forgive the short post for now, but here's one of the first videos we got of Nathaniel walking. He's progressed a lot since, and he's now speeding his steps, so much, in fact, that he's tumbling all over the place, like drunk staggering out of a bar at closing time. It's as if his mind is moving faster than his legs can take him. That's where I want to go – now! Dang, why can't my fool legs get me there?

Meanwhile, we're witnessing some spectacular tumbles. Forward face plants. Backward butt landings. Sidelong, twisting turns that look like a pirouette gone awry. Eat carpet, little man. Each time, though, he bounced right back up and tries again.

You know, you can see the joy in his face with this walking thing. He really, really digs it. As Michelle noted, he relishes in seeing the world from this new vantage point, and he's now trying to grasp all of it at once. (She said it more eloquently, but you get the point.)

A month ago, Nathaniel was a crawler. Now, he's a walker. The transition has been incremental, I guess, but it still seems stunning when I think of it in its entirety. No wonder he seems amazed by it all.

Walking

2010-01-11T20:15:00.003-05:00

Nathaniel is walking.

I'm a little late in letting you in on the news – about a month, in fact. So, let me catch you up on this monumental development.

Natty's walking saga began, as it does with probably all babies, with an accidental step or two as he went from clinging to one object (say, a table) to another object (like his miniature shopping cart). He had no idea what he had done, but Michelle and I sure knew. With a knowing glance and nod, we figured it would be just a few days before our little boy was strutting around the room.

How wrong we were.

For out of those "Oops! I walked" steps came a string of days when Natty did nothing else but crawl. I'd like to think we're generally laissez faire kind of folks, but after a while, we got impatient and wanted to see Nathaniel repeat his fancy little trick. So, we'd stand him up and coax him to walk toward us. We were mildly successful at our ploy. Mostly, Nathaniel would drop immediately from his contrived standing position to crawling and scoot over to us, a big grin flashing across his face. "Look, Mom, I'm here. I made it!" he seemed to be saying. He had no idea that we were trying to get him to attempt another form of locomotion.

So, we gave up. Better said, we shelved the idea of rushing the little guy into bipedalism. He'd learn eventually, we figured.

Eventually took some time. Yet, suddenly, we noticed him taking two, then three steps all by himself. We also noticed he was doing this with some regularity, mixing in occasional steps even as he mostly crawled. So, we started coaxing him again. Gently. No pressure, kid. We just want to see what you're capable of.

Days before Christmas and a time when we'd be visiting my sister and her family, Nathaniel set his personal record by taking seven upright, stiff-legged steps to Daddy. We cheered. We clapped. We roared with delight.

And he reverted to crawling.

At my sister's house, however, the walking bulb finally went off. Nathaniel began walking more, not only stringing steps together but at times making walking his first choice of movement. I think it was because he watched his three cousins, and, admiring them greatly, wanted to mimic what they were doing. Plus, with sets of cousins and relatives in different rooms, I imagine he wanted to keep abreast of the action in as many places as possible. No matter, it appeared to be a decided change in mentality. Our little boy seemed to want to master walking.

Watching a baby walk for the first time (and times) is a mix of comedy and dread. The comedic part comes from watching the movement; in Natty's case, he looked like someone on stilts. His legs were stiff and he lurched from side to side. As he took each step, he looked perilously close to listing over. If one sway was too exaggerated, down he'd go. Or, he'd accumulate too much forward momentum and down he'd go.

Those falls aren't particularly forbidding when you're a couple of feet off the ground and cushioned with fat and diapers but to a parent, it can be scary. After all, who wants to watch a child fall and possibly get hurt? So, that's the dread I'm speaking of.

The kid-on-stilt phase lasted in earnest for a couple of weeks. This weekend, it really looks as if Natty Lou has opted for walking over crawling. We watched as he walked through the kitchen into the dining room (converted into his playroom), hung a right and walked through the playroom and into the den, stopping at the coffee table for a well-deserved congratulatory hug. You can see his confidence going with each series of steps. Yes, he's still stiff-legged, and no, he's not running, but he's much more fluid in his walking than he was even a week ago.

This time, there is no turning back. Our boy is walking, determinedly. Video to come soon.

The Year That Was

2010-01-05T22:27:00.003-05:00

When I think about 2009, a lot of it seems a blur.

You know when in the movies, the director will evoke time passing by showing the pages flipping on a calendar? That's kind of how I felt in many instances last year.

Of course, the year was not without so many blessings and outrageous joy.

It was also a year turned inward, where my attention and affections were cast mostly upon wife and son (and dog, intermittently). I would say that Michelle and I are close, but Natty Lou's arrival tightened those bonds even more. It really felt like a nuclear family, and my perspective of home changed as well, I think.

Not sure how to explain that exactly, but I guess the best way to say it is I was perfectly content to just plant my fanny on the sofa in the evenings, on the weekends, and just be with our little clan.

That fanny planting never lasted long, however. There were always things to do, and the chores mushroomed with Nathaniel on the scene. I've written about many of those things already, so I'll go sparingly on the whining. Suffice it to say that a child's addition to a home presents a whole new dynamic to the family relationship. It brings such happiness, such wonderment at the creation of life and witnessing a child progress from a wholly dependent being to a caring, playful, tempestuous, yelling, giggling, cackling, blabbering, kicking, flailing, cooing, head banging, riotous, comedic person who, you never would think, actually wants to copy what you do and say. Natty Lou has been all that – and then some.

A real highlight had to be our week-long stay in Block Island with Michelle's brothers, sister and a sister-in-law. We couldn't have asked for crisper, more pleasant days to gaze from the back deck toward the shimmering Atlantic and Long Island, which appeared so close you think you could have swum to it. We hiked, we biked, we played games, we cooked gourmet meals (including lobster boiled in water straight from the ocean), we happy-houred, we swapped stories, we watched movies, and we simply hung out with ourselves and Natty. We couldn't have imagined a better trip.

We capped the year by traveling on Christmas Eve to my sister and her family's house. Unlike the first time the cousins saw Natty, this time they could play with him rather than simply cradle a blob-like being. Nathaniel basked in brotherly and sisterly love and attention. You could see how much he wanted to emulate them. I'll have to put up a video that shows Natty's seizing of the familial stage one night. It's a keeper.

So, here we are in a new decade, having ended a decade that no one seems able, or willing, to name. So be it. I'll take it. For me, the past decade ended just great. I can only hope this one will be as rewarding and fulfilling.

Insulation

2009-12-16T20:54:00.004-05:00

It was a long time coming, but we have finally received our first dose of frigid weather.

We live in an old house, built in 1900, refurbished (by us) in 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 ... and counting ... and I know when the cold hits because you can feel the puffs of frosty drafts in different areas of the house. Mind you, our house is no sieve. It's insulated pretty well, as far as I can tell. I checked the attic, and it's dry, with lots of puffy, yellow insulating material. The previous owners installed double-paned storm windows before they sold the house to us. Still, you can feel places where the cold seeps in, slithering along the floors with chilly tendrils. I can feel a draft just now, as I'm sitting at our kitchen table. And I know exactly where it's coming from, the cracks of space between the baseboards and the wall. In the dining room, now Natty Lou's playroom, we have a light switch plate located at the base of stairs where there is a small opening that the plate doesn't quite cover. You can feel a little draft there. In the den, where the hardwood floor doesn't quite meet the wall, you can feel a draft there. We have little carpeting, which is a good thing, although that means a cold floor in the winter. Especially with an unfinished basement below.

Yet by far the most serious chink in our house warming (get it?) strategy is with the window in the stairwell. It's one pane, an old pane, a pretty pane, irregularly shaped. There's still rope on the sides of it that was used as a pulley of sorts to open it back in the day. So, you could say it's got some historical, or perhaps nostalgic, significance. That window happens to face west, where in many cases the direction from which the coldest winds of winter blow. We can hear that pane rattle when the wind gusts. And I can see those heating dollars just sail on out...

So, this year, I tried to address that. I bought some of those plastic sheets and tape job kits at the hardware store. Perhaps you know about them. There supposed to be simple, and indeed, the instructions are so minimal, they're displayed by way of cartoonish sketches on the back of the box. It's plastic sheeting and two-sided strip tape. All you need is a tape measure and scissors. Any fool can follow those and follow cartoons, right?

Well, as with many things in life that come with fail-safe directions, the task is anything but simple. I started with the two windows in Natty's room. The idea was to further insulate the room, to add an extra layer of protection against the cold. I surveyed the window. OK, I can do this. I started to unspool the tape. Then, I realized that the blinds we have in his room, which I think are Roman blinds, the ones that are cloth-like and accordion into a roll as you pull on a string and unfurl when you let the string out, well, those have brackets that have been drilled in at the top. In other words, the brackets (and the blinds) block me from being able to seal the window frame at the top. That is a problem.

My solution was to tape the plastic sheet over the window and go as high up the pane as I could without interfering with the blinds and the brackets at the top. So, the plastic sheeting goes about 4/5 of the way up the window. This may sound to you like I solved nothing with this setup, but here are my thoughts: a) cold air drops, so whatever comes in will dive down the window into the plastic seal and b) the heavy cloth blind catches any cold air that would escape from the top. Of course, I have no way of testing my theory, but it makes me feel that what I did wasn't completely in vain.

The next job involved two windows in our bedroom. One of those windows was a necessity. It sits above my head when I'm sleeping, meaning it runs perpendicular to the length of our bed. And my head has little natural covering, so I'm especially prone to feeling any cold plumes. I covered that window and another with the plastic sheeting, but I'll be damned if the sills are cracked, uneven wood, and the tape doesn't stick too well to it. So, here I was, my arms outstretched with this plastic sheet, trying to stick it on to a tape strip that kept peeling off. Adding to my frustration was I was listening on the radio to the Patriots losing to the Dolphins. Perhaps because of that, I really botched the window near my sleeping head. I had to use packaging tape to adhere the bottom of the plastic sheet to the sill. It looks ugly, but at least it's covered by a red curtain. Again, questionable how much cold is being kept out.

The last window was the one on the stairwell. Our stairwell is high, perhaps 15 feet to the ceiling, and the window sits a good 9-10 feet up where the stairs make a very sharp L-shaped bend. Can't put a ladder there. So, I balanced a chair on three legs on a stair and reached as high as I could, placing my first strip of tape across the window frame. That strip is probably 3/4 of the way up the window. Much to my surprise, considering my debacle in the bedroom, the rest of the taping and the placing of the plastic sheet went seamlessly. I am proud to say that one looks nearly smooth enough as to be mistaken for glass. And I really think it's made a difference. Whereas before you could feel a tunnel of chilly air whooshing from the stairwell and spilling into the room below, that channel has largely been cut off.

At least I think so. We'll see with the next western wind.

Butt Up

2009-12-10T17:16:00.004-05:00

Recently, Nathaniel has been going through a period of not sleeping well at night. For a few days in a row this weekend and spilling into the early parts of this week, he's been waking up several times during the night and crying. After mulling various possible causes, our best guess is he's been bothered by a lower tooth that's coming in. It's his seventh little biter – four up top and three on the bottom.

His fitful nights got me to thinking about his sleeping patterns in general. Unfortunately, they seem to mirror mine. Natty is a light sleeper who slips out of slumber at the slightest of noises. We play music in his room – a running loop of a soft, instrumental rendering of some Beatles songs (quite good, actually) – yet he still will awaken to sounds, no matter how soft.

It's gotten to the point where we have had to map our way when walking into his room to avoid stepping on any creaky spots in the hardwood flooring. The path goes like this: For step one, we veer right at the threshold , hard against where the floor meets the door frame. Then we take as long a stride as we can for step two, trying to land on the small carpet in the room. From there, we creep gingerly toward his crib, staying on the carpet. Unfortunately, even some carpeted spots have shown signs of creaking, so we may need to plot our steps there as well. Once we arrive at the crib, we have to be careful where we stand, since some of the floor boards are a little loose, and prone to let slip a squeak. If we've negotiated our way well, and he hasn't woken up, then we can gaze upon Natty and put a blanket over his sleeping body.

We know Natty's having a good night's sleep if he's in the butt-up position. What I mean by that, is he's face down, his body bent in a relaxed V-shape and his little, rounded butt is pointed upward. It's been his favorite position ever since he realized he could have a position when he's sleeping. It also means he hasn't been fidgeting while he's been sleeping.

I tried the butt-up position the other night. It was a brief experiment. First, it didn't feel too comfortable, the most likely reason my joints are not accustomed to being bent so. Also, it just seemed so alien, a weird way to doze off into la-la land. I'm much happier on my side, with my head resting on a firm pillow.

This all makes me wonder why Natty and other babies like the butt-up sleep posture. I guess for now I'll just leave that question unanswered. But I do know one answer: Nathaniel is sleeping peacefully.

Whew!

Wee Problem of Pee

2009-12-01T21:35:00.003-05:00

I was just about to make a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with blueberries when I stepped in it.

It was a river of pee courtesy of our dog, Hviezda. Actually, there was a main channel that ran about three feet and a shorter, parallel tributary on the kitchen floor. Description aside, it was a lot of pee. And, before I could savor my blueberries and cream, I had to get on my hands and knees to sop it up.

I wouldn't be writing about this if it were a one-time occurrence. Sadly, it's become all too common. For months, our aging Irish setter has released the contents of her bladder in our house. Tail tucked between legs, shamed by her actions, she slinks away when we notice her latest accident.

It all started, I think, last spring when Hviezda, who's 14 and a half years old, peed in Michelle and my room, where she sleeps on her doggie bed in the corner. OK, we weren't happy, but the rare whizzing inside can be forgiven. Yet it continued, and so I took her to the veterinarian to find out why.

A urine sample indicated she had an urinary tract infection. The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and in a week or so, Hvezda was right as rain. Problem solved – or so we thought.

Beginning in July, we noticed that Hviezda had peed again. If I recall correctly, this happened when Michelle, who arose early that morning, drenched her sock when she stepped in pee massed in the carpet on our upper floor landing. As more days passed, it became clear that Hviezda had peed in several carpeted locations on both floors of our house. Clearly, something was not right. So, I took her to the vet again. The same antibiotics were prescribed, and we waited for them to work. I rented a carpet cleaner.

Hviezda kept peeing in the house. I took her back to the vet, who prescribed a stronger dosage of antibiotics. We waited for them to work. I rented a carpet cleaner.

Hviezda kept peeing in the house. So, yet again, I took her to the vet, who prescribed medication designed to strengthen her bladder muscles, which, due to her age, may have weakened, leading to uncontrolled releases of doggie wee. I borrowed a carpet cleaner.

Hviezda kept peeing – although by now, we had confined her to the kitchen, where we have hardwood floors and no carpets. The situation, bad to begin with, had become untenable, what with one-year-old Nathaniel crawling about. We obviously had to do all we could to keep Nathaniel from being exposed to dog urine. Hviezda, meanwhile, was having accidents at least every second day, on average, and on some days, more than once in the same day.

We were reaching a breaking point. A doggie non grata. An ostracized pooch. A woof without a roof.

After speaking with the vet on the phone and consulting with my neighbor's girlfriend, also a vet, we decided that Hviezda would get an ultrasound, so her innards could be thoroughly examined. Perhaps there was a stone in her bladder, or a growth in another organ that was exerting pressure on her bladder. Worse, her kidneys were failing, or she had cancer.

I took in her today for the examination. Nearly $600 later, (there were other tests.) it appears as if Hviezda has a chronic bladder infection. If all goes well, the vet should know within days which bacteria are causing the infection and can prescribe antibiotics that will knock them out once and for all.

The good news is our dog, despite her many flaws, is a picture of sound health, especially for her age. The better news is the bacterial infection can be diagnosed and treated, Hviezda will no longer feel the urge to constantly pee. And, then, maybe, she'll have the run of the house again.

Or at least a good part of it.

The Day after Thanksgiving

2009-11-27T15:26:00.006-05:00

The day after Thanksgiving has been a lazy day.

That's good because Thanksgiving Day was anything but.

No, I'm not talking about the usual downers or stresses that befall many on this holiday. Ours were more self-inflicted.

It all began when I spoke on the day before Thanksgiving with my mother who informed us that she was too ill to travel and spend turkey day with us. We were saddened that she couldn't make it, but we understood the reason. Turns out, it was for the best.

The night before the big eatin' day, I came down with a nasty cold. I was in bed by 7 in the evening, and when I woke up the next morning, my nose was plugged like a clogged toilet. I felt about the same as clogged commode, too. That same night, Michelle came down with an odd rash that covered her upper body. She was red pretty much all over, a splotchy crimson, and it it appeared as if she had been sunburned. Nathaniel, remarkably, was the healthiest of all of us.

Since my mother didn't come, we went in on the Thanksgiving meal with our neighbors, the St. Angelos. It was a potluck affair, and we (I mean, Michelle) supplied triple-cheese mashed sweet and white potatoes and a green bean casserole. Others turned up with a turkey, a broccoli casserole, a chourizo stuffing, a turnip and carrot salad, peas, corn, dinner rolls, yams and other foods. Quite a spread, huh?

I felt better by the time the dining started at about 2 p.m. And while my stomach was prepared for the gastrointestinal onslaught, unfortunately, my taste buds were not. I could probably taste about 50 percent of the food's full flavor. Considering how much I love food, this was a major drag.

As we ate, Michelle's rash had spread to her lower torso and to her legs. I could see her stealing scratches when she suspected no one was looking.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel had ensconced himself as the life of the party. See Nathaniel wave his arms! See Nathaniel walk along the table! See Nathaniel smile and gesture at the guests! See Nathaniel play with the remote control, the cell phone, the nutcracker... You get the idea. He was the center of attention and loving every moment of it. Even crusty uncles, middle-aged men with packs of cigarettes in their shirt pockets, were charmed by his shenanigans. He felt great, even as we didn't, and he was a joy for the four or so hours we were there.

After dessert of chocolate cream pie, banana cream pie, chocolate-covered strawberries, two versions of pumpkin pie, cheesecake, apple pie, blueberry pie, pecan pie, baklava and vanilla ice cream (amazing, huh?), it was time to travel the 60 feet home.

That's the kind of trip I don't mind taking.

Too often, we forget that Thanksgiving, is about giving thanks, exactly as the holiday implies. I am thankful for the simple things – my family, my health, my quality of life, our families and our friends. I will add that I am thankful that I've never had to worry about my next meal. A recent news story notes that 49 million Americans – that's one in six U.S. citizens – are not so fortunate. I was stunned by the magnitude of hunger in this country. Considering how much we have compared to most of the world's seven billion people, it seems shameful that so many families here search in vain for food.

Let's remember how lucky we are and what we can do to help those less fortunate.

Small vs. Big

2009-11-25T16:50:00.004-05:00

Just a quickie for the day before Thanksgiving.

Although I have been known to complain, whine, grouse and grumble about the outsized influence that having a child has had on my life, I know to the core of my being that I can't imagine my life without him (and perhaps them?).

Besides, I'm sure bigger issues await. As one of my co-workers said so well:

"Small kids, small problems. Big kids, big problems."

Duly noted.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

Fleeting Weekends

2009-11-15T18:02:00.006-05:00

We've arrived at the weekend.

Normally, this would be cause for celebration. Two days off, the freedom to do what you please, whether it's watching a college football game on Saturday, eating out one night, running a few errands, going to church, or just plain relaxing.

But, for me, at least, weekends aren't really that relaxing. And they go by far too quickly.

About the time Friday comes each week, I feel like I'm staggering toward the end, a runner on the verge of collapse before the finish line. Each weekday morning is like a race of its own, a gauntlet of frenetic tasks that includes getting Nathaniel cleaned, clothed and fed and Hviezda walked. (I'm being generous here; she really gets let out in the yard while I watch her to make sure she doesn't tear off into a neighbor's yard to do her business.)

Then, only then, after those hurdles have been cleared, I get myself ready.

The plan is I put Nathaniel in his "fun zone" and try to sneak upstairs to take a shower. Of course, he notices that I'm leaving and starts to whimper. As I hit the stairs, the whimper becomes a cry. As I climb the stairs, the cry has been co-opted by a full-throated scream.

Morning showers are supposed to be relaxing. Mine almost never are.

Ideally, we leave around 07:10, so I can get Nathaniel to his home daycare by about 07:45, and catch the 07:53 bus to Brown. To make that time, a whole chain of events need to fall neatly in place, beginning with me waking up on time, when my alarm clock rings. That seldom happens, so one could argue with some legitimacy that I force the morning rush on myself. But even when I do hold up my end of the waking bargain, something inevitably throws it all off. Hviezda has peed on the kitchen floor (again, sigh...); Nathaniel is throwing his breakfast around, rather than eating it; Hviezda, despite my best efforts, makes a beeline for the neighbor's yard; and, the cherry on top of this cake of chaos, Nathaniel unleashes a volcanic poop just as we're ready to go out the door.

So much for the plan.

The point is by the time I get to work many mornings, I feel like I need a break. A junior faculty acquaintance of mine, who has a young daughter, told me that work is like a respite compared to the juggling act that is home life. I agree.

So, by the time Friday comes, man, am I beat. I'm ready for some R&R. But those two days just don't do the trick somehow. There are chores to complete, errands to be run, a little boy to care for, play with and enjoy. There is church to attend, Sunday school to teach.

And, before I know, my alarm clock is blaring. It's Monday morning again.

No

2009-11-14T17:16:00.004-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned that Natty Lou has learned some words. He says "Da da," "Ma ma," and recently has learned "Uh oh" and "Ee ee," which corresponds very roughly to our dog, Hviezda (whom we also call Louie). A few days ago, Michelle pointed at a picture of me on the refrigerator, and Natty correctly identified the flaky guy making a face as "Da da."

Well done, dude.

While his vocabulary is minimal, it grew by another word recently. And that word is "No." Hmmm. He's also figured out that word is very flexible; in other words, it can be used in a variety of situations.

Here are a few:

Us: "Nathaniel, are you tired?"

Natty: "No."

Us: "Nathaniel, do you want to try and walk to mommy?"

Natty: "No."

Us: "Nathaniel, quit crawling to the dog bowls!"

Natty: "No."

OK, so it sounds like the little bugger's pretty smart, eh? (Or, a smart ass) But he also says "No" at other times, when it really makes little sense at all. And the way he says the word – softly, with an emphasis on the "N" with a tight finish of the "Oh" is really cute, so I find it hard to get exasperated with him. It's as if he's taking this newfound word for a test drive, to see how it feels to say it.

I am sure in due time the novelty will wear off, he'll understand the true connotation of the word, and he'll wear us out with it. Others have forewarned me about this.

I hope I'll be prepared. But for now, I'll just enjoy hearing him say "No."

One Year

2009-11-06T17:19:00.006-05:00

Nathaniel is one year old.

His birthday was yesterday, so it's official: Natty Lou has entered his second year of life.

We staged a mini-celebration with our little guy after I returned home from work, in what constituted an hour-long blizzard of phone calls from well wishers, a special dinner of cheese and Greek-style pizza, slices of kiwi and a kids-size Kit Kat and the opening of one gift (more on that later) before Nathaniel melted down and needed to be carted off to bed.

What an evening.

I've said this before, but I had long wrestled with conflicting, if not paradoxical emotions about Natty Lou. Often over the last months, I would look at him and wonder what my life had been before he arrived. It's as if that part of my life never existed. Then again, who is this little being that I'm looking at and is he really somebody who I helped create? How did that happen and what were we thinking?

For some reason, I don't have the "where did he come from" and "is he mine" mental thunderbolts too much anymore. But I sure do still have the "what was my life like before you arrived" thoughts constantly.

There's probably some psychological explanation for all this, all wrapped up in a neat jargonistic phrase that only other psychologists can decipher. But I'll just call it the syndrome of living in the here and now.

And I'm loving this syndrome. If it were a drug, I'd buy the whole supply. If it were beer, I'd but the brewery. If it were basketball, I'd buy the team. If it were ... you get the picture.

Point is, while I may have mentally glazed over the last four decades of my life BC (Before Child), I am thoroughly enjoying the AC (After Child) years. Yes, there are many times that suck. Time is not my own, for example. It has been wrested from me as if it were a bed sheet that's been ripped away while I was sleeping. I gripe about this regularly, by the way. But the truth is I'm so glad Natty Lou is a part of my life that I willingly (albeit grudgingly) sacrifice my time.

I'll also readily admit that the first 4-5 months of Nathaniel's life was hellish. This was not entirely his fault; he regularly had ear infections that made him miserable and dragged Michelle and I to the emotional brink. Michelle and I played "baby baton" in which she would work in the morning, hustle home and relieve me, and I'd hurry off to work the afternoon, half days each, so we could preserve our precious allotment of sick time. We were quite stressed.

And poor Natty. All he knew was that his damn ears hurt like hell. Anytime he got a sniffle, the bacteria would migrate to that pool of stagnant fluid behind his ears, and he'd be in for a hurtin'. Then he would begin wheezing, and we'd have him on the Nebulizer for weeks at a time.

In July came the tubes, and if that's not a Hallelujah moment, I don't know what is. Natty Lou's disposition, which, if it were a weather forecast, let's call it mostly cloudy, changed to mostly sunny practically overnight. His appetite (never a slouch there, really) got better, and he started almost immediately mouthing "Ma ma," "Da da" and most recently "Uh oh" and "Ooh eeh," which we think is a stand-in for our dog's nickname "Louie."

So many changes, physically and mentally, in the first year for Nathaniel. And so many changes for Michelle and I – how we live, what we do, what we want to teach and embody for our little role modelee. So much responsibility. So much pride.

So, so much love.

And that's just the first year.

Can't wait for the second.

Phone Obsession

2009-11-03T19:06:00.009-05:00

One of Michelle's coworkers told her a story not too long ago.

The coworker's nephew, almost two years old, had found some loose change in the car. The coworker asked him what he would do with the money.

"Buy milk," he told her cheerfully. "And beers."

Somewhat shocked, she finally asked him, "Why are you buying beers?"

"For daddy," he replied without pausing to think.

You hear about how children mimic their parents. Often, it's humorous; sometimes, it's not. Either way, children give you the most unvarnished views into your own life – your actions, your words and how you conduct yourself with others.

The results can be arresting.

In our case, the results would appear to illustrate that Michelle and I must spend a lot of our time on the phone. Truth is, we don't – at least not when I compare to others who I see yammering at all times and in all places. Then again, I work on a college campus, where students can't stand to spend a moment with their attention stuck in neutral. In any event, Nathaniel has picked up on the time we spend on the telephone and has mimicked our behavior almost to a tee. You'd think he had been rehearsing for the role. Watch how he cradles the phone against his ear. Watch him speak. Watch as his eyes veer from side to side as he speaks, just like we adults do when we're talking on the phone and looking around. Watch his reaction when it's time to hang up. Thankfully, he hasn't observed (or learned) looks of exasperation or boredom.

We've been spared that embarrassment so far.

The Chronicle Returns

2009-11-01T13:37:00.008-05:00

Well, it's been a while.

The easy thing to say is I took a nice, long break from chronicling developments in my little clan, most notably those involving Nathaniel, our 11-month-old son. Truth is, I write for my job, and I'm trying (haltingly) to research and write a book, and I was just too darn tired of writing to imagine writing some more.

But I realize that the writing I do here is the most important of all. Not because I'm writing for an audience per se; this is no vainglorious pursuit. Rather, it's writing as a chronicler of Nathaniel's life, at least the beginning of it, and the satisfaction that I hope will come when he reads these postings, these musings, these joys, these tirades, these frustrations, these little raptures that come from watching him grow.

So, I'm back to trying to tell some of those stories.

A little recap: Last you knew, Nathaniel was all of three months old, a being with few emotions (beyond crying and brief rays of sunny happiness). Since then, he has morphed into a little boy, with wants and needs, a robust appetite (add pizza and cupcakes to the list – albeit on special occasions only), personality tics (he likes to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making a soft, popping sound), an obsession with climbing stairs and splashing the water in Hviezda's dog dish. So many changes in such a short time. I could go on and on.

As parents, we struggled a lot with Natty's frequent bouts of sickness. Last winter, any time he picked up a cold or a sniffle, the bacteria would migrate into his ear canal and park there. He got ear infections, he got fevers, he got deep coughs. He was miserable, and so were we. Finally, in July, Natty Lou got tubes. These tubes look like tiny lug nuts and are placed in the membrane of the ear drum. They let air in and help keep eustachian tubes ventilated, and thus, dry. After the surgery (a scant, ten-minute outpatient procedure), Natty's shroud of sickness had been removed – just like that, as if a magician snapped his fingers. The fluid that had pooled behind his ears, a reservoir just waiting to be infected, could finally drain.

What a revelation. What a change. It was as if we could see the relief etched on Nathaniel's face. He was happy all the time. He was giggly, bubbly, sparkling. He immediately began to communicate with us, using all sorts of different sounds, and, later in the summer, began saying "Da da" and "Ma ma." A few weekends ago, we visited the Vyases, our good friends in the Boston area, and they swore he said "dude" and "ball." Hmmm.

In any event, he is constantly interacting with Michelle and me. He's exploring his surroundings, crawling at baby Mach 4 and lifting, dropping, turning, twisting, throwing about anything he can get his hands on. He went to the beach for the first time and got dipped in the cold New England surf. He didn't care for that too much (video below), but he loved the surf and the beach (picture above).

That trip was our one big trip of the summer. Michelle's brothers (and one sister-in-law) and sister visited from Iowa and Nebraska, and we spent a week at a rented house soaking up the surf and the sun. We biked, we hiked, we grilled, we played games, and we watched as Nathaniel took stock of it all. Truly, vacations with family are so special. Granted, they're different from the trips I used to take when living in Eastern Europe. Those trips were about seeing new places, appreciating the diversity and the vibrancy of other countries and cultures, an attempt to appreciate the differences and the commonalities that is the human race. Vacations with family, I would argue, are less about seeing new places and experiencing different cultures than about appreciating the closeness that others who share your blood, or your values, can bring. They're about cherishing those ties and creating memories that invariably will be the ones we will cling to most vividly later in life.

Nathaniel, though he won't recall it, got plenty of those groovy times with his uncles and aunts. Then, he got to visit with his other aunt and uncle, and his only cousins so far, later in the summer. These were important, and special, times, and we are fortunate to have families who are as keen to do them as are we.

When it comes down to it, there is no substitute for family. None.

Baby, Meet the Needle

2009-01-14T10:30:00.006-05:00

I've already written, and shown in pictures, about how Nathaniel is growing – in height and in girth.

He's getting fat rolls all over his body. He's got "thunder thighs" and is growing a double chin. His ankles look swollen and his cheeks resemble those of a squirrel stuffed full of nuts.

In other words, he has all the features that mark a baby as healthy but an adult as unhealthy.

On Monday, he was back at the doctor for his monthly checkup. He was happy and playful even as the doctor poked and prodded him. He rolled over and banged his head against the wall, which briefly soured his mood. Then, he resumed cooing and smiling as the pediatrician checked him all over.

Now, the latest measurements: He's 23 1/2 inches tall. Weight: 11 lbs. 6.5 oz.

At some point during the exam, the doctor got out a syringe and stuck it in his thigh. I wasn't there, but according to Michelle, our boy's expression changed the instant the syringe met his skin. His smile vanished, his playfulness halted. For a moment, he looked shell shocked as he experienced a sensation previously unknown to him. Then, a frown, followed quickly – very quickly – by a gaping opening of his mouth and a piercing scream.

More screams followed.

The doctor plunged a second needle into Nathaniel's other thigh, and the boy acted as if the end of the world had truly come. He wailed in agony, pain, disgust, shock and whatever other feelings he may have had. He was truly pissed at this turn of events.

So, Nathaniel got his first shots, vaccines to protect him against seven types of diseases.

He may not remember the injections, but we sure will.

Little Drummer Boy

2009-01-10T08:26:00.005-05:00

One fun thing about having a baby is it gives you an excuse to be a child again.

For someone who lapses into immaturity from time to time, this is golden.

For someone who is flaky, this is golden.

For someone who likes to have fun – and poke fun at others – this is golden.

For someone who likes to dip into the waters of irreverence, this is golden.

For someone who tries not to take himself too seriously, this is golden.

For someone who can use a periodic injection of zaniness, this is golden.

Am I talking about myself? Maybe.

Watch the video, and you be the judge.

Growing Boy

2009-01-07T12:29:00.005-05:00

We pretty much knew that baby Nathaniel is growing. Growing taller. Growing fatter. Growing stronger. Growing more obstinate? Hmmm, depends whom you ask.

Anyway, we've noticed the development, in a micro sort of way. We knew he was taller, because the pediatrician measured him and told us so. We knew he was heavier, because the pediatrician weighed him and told us so.

We also had anecdotal clues: My muscles would tire more quickly when I held him. My arm hurt after I cradled him like a football as we dashed through the airport in Chicago to catch our connection at Christmas. Nowadays, my arm falls asleep from the wrist down when I plop him in the crook created by bending my arm in a "L" shape. It's that tingly sensation, followed by numbness and then a dull pain. That comes more quickly now.

In the stronger category, baby N. can escape with ease from the original swaddling outfit we had for him. It has two, cuddly bear-shaped velcro flaps as the main instrument of restraint, which worked just fine for about a month and a half. Give him a minute now, and he's out.

We've graduated to an elaborate infant-wrapping mechanism called the "Miracle Blanket," which involves numerous flaps for arms, legs and torso and several wrapping techniques to swaddle. Still works, but its days are numbered: Baby N. usually has fought his feet out of it when he wakes in the morning.

But lost in the day to day shuffles are the macro developmental signs, the visual, physical clues and cues. These two photos really bring that to life. Michelle's mother took the first picture, when Nathaniel was two weeks old. Michelle, ever vigilant, snapped the second when baby N. turned two months earlier this week.

See the difference?
Wow!

Operation Grandma Surprise

2009-01-06T12:37:00.004-05:00

We called it Operation Grandma Surprise.

Michelle and I didn't expect to travel anywhere for the Christmas break. We thought how nice it would be to spend the holidays alone – just us and that boy, Nathaniel, who invaded our lives and turned it upside down more than a month prior.

But Michelle had an inch she couldn't scratch, and that itch was Christmas time with her family. For a few years running, we've packed Hviezda the dog and ourselves into the car and driven to Iowa, to eat and be merry with Michelle's family. It had become a de facto tradition, and an enjoyable one at that, and I think she was reluctant to break it.

More to the point, she misses her family around the holidays, when her brothers (and a sister-in-law) come from Nebraska and they, her sister, mother and other relatives gather to swap stories and swig concoctions ranging from spiked Egg Nog to Lover's Wine.

I understood all this completely, and the fact is I enjoy these visits nearly as much as she does. That's a testament to the welcoming nature of my wife's family. But this year, with a newborn, it seemed too much. A two-day drive with a baby not even two months old? Too daunting. Travel on a plane? Too risky. So, we mentally shelved the idea of going anywhere, comforting ourselves with a stress-free (baby not included in that thought) break.

But, as I said, Michelle got itchy.

She checked airline flights and fares periodically. Once I got wind of what she was doing, I did, too. The week before Christmas, Michelle found fares that were reasonable: We'd leave Christmas Day and come back before New Year's Eve, our anniversary.

"What do you think?" she asked.

I thought about it. I liked the idea of not traveling. I also liked the idea of seeing Michelle's family, including her brothers and our sister-in-law, who had yet to meet Nathaniel.

What really clinched it was Grandma.

Grandma Finck, or Virginette as I probably should call her, is a stout woman who shows zero sign of slowing down at the age of 80. The woman is maniacal about cleanliness and tidiness. The floor in the unfinished basement of her century farmhouse is so immaculate you can eat off it. I'm not kidding. I have never, ever seen anything out of place in that house.

Grandma, too, had not been part of the waves of family to meet and greet Nathaniel chez nous. And it was important to Michelle that it happen. This was the best time, she emphasized.

I agreed.

So, away we went, on Christmas Day, courtesy of United and hassled, frazzled connections, to Iowa. Nathaniel met his uncles and aunt and saw his grandmother and other aunt again. He met a new friend, one whose mother is already plotting to pair in marriage in, say, two decades hence. He met and babbled to Pooh Bear, who hovered over his crib dressed in an oversized gardening hat. He got his first breath of bone-rattling cold that it seems only the plains can produce.

And the day after Christmas, he met Grandma, or great-Grandma to him, when we showed up unannounced at her door – Operation Grandma Surprise.

As soon as she opened her door and looked at him, she smiled. And as soon as Nathaniel looked at her, he smiled.

I smiled. Michelle smiled.

We're so glad we made the trip.

Quality Time

2008-12-23T09:43:00.007-05:00

In the days before Christmas, with days off from work, I've been able to have some real quality time with my son.

I wake up when he cries in the morning and take him downstairs, so Michelle, who has fed him overnight, can sleep in. I change him and feed him a bottle of breast milk that Michelle had pumped the day or night before.

Michelle has told me this is the best time of day with Nathaniel, when he has gotten a good night's sleep. It's a brief window of contentment before real hunger and other issues set in, and his mood changes as if a storm had come through.

And she is right. Baby N. wiggles as I change his diaper, his eyes wide open and inquisitive, glancing about, taking in a new day, a day that holds all sorts of surprises for his agile, developing mind. He coos. He drools. His lips part into little smiles. He lies with little care as I remove a diaper scarred with poo, clean him, dry him, apply lotion and outfit him with a new diaper and a change of clothes – the one that'll last for maybe an hour or so before he pees on it, vomits on it or something else. No worries there. That is what babies do.

I feed him the first bottle, about two ounces of breast milk. He sucks it down, and as soon as I remove the bottle, he registers his discontent. I prepare the next, dunking the bottle into a glass of warm water to warm it up and bouncing baby N. as I try to buy time. I feed him the next bottle, this one 2-3 ounces. He finishes, and usually, he wants more, which he gestures by opening his mouth repeatedly in an elongated "O" and thrusting a fist into his mouth. (that is, when he can get it there; he still hasn't mastered motor control.) This morning, I had to resort to 2 ounces of formula for bottle #3. He slurped that down, but tellingly, slowed as he neared the end. Victory! The little bugger was finally getting full. All that warm, liquidy goodness was taking effect. His eyelids were getting heavy. Hocus, pocus, no more focus, little one. Fall asleep.

He struggles as his eyes close, open briefly, close again, open again, close again. I cross my leg on to the other and lay him in the "A" frame that's been created. He sighs, and snoozes. I take my first sip of coffee. Delightful. And I gaze at him.

Nathaniel no longer looks like a newborn. His features are not rugged, nor doe she have blemishes, such as cuts or bruises, but that initial, shiny newness, the super delicate, nearly translucent aspects of his face have vanished. They are replaced by features that I deem will be more permanent, while certainly changing as he grows. Right now, his head looks enormous. Not grossly disproportionate to his body, but big nonetheless. You can really see why so much energy is devoted to growing the human brain and its housing. You can really see how central it is to what we as humans are, when you look at the size of a baby's head.

Nathaniel's eyes seem big – again, not disproportionate to his face, in my view, but large, yet evenly spaced. They're wider than mine, at least I think, and are slate-colored. The whites of his eyes still have that bluish tinge. His nose is wide, a bunched button at the bottom, with a flattened septum. His mouth is small and thin, like his mother's. His hair is light, maybe with a hint of reddishness, but that's debatable and may depend on the light. His eyebrows are also quite light, as to be nearly visible. I see traces of copper in them, which drives Michelle batty, because she, as a red head, thinks I'm trying to will him into the same coloring. I swear I'm not; I'm just observing. It really doesn't matter to me what color his eyes, his hair, his eyebrows become. I'm just curious how it'll play out.

One thing is for sure: He's getting longer. In another day or two, he will outgrow the first batch of clothes we had bought for him, clothes that hung off him like some bad drapes when he first donned them. My, how he has grown!

So, while I have visions of NBA stardom for my son dancing in my head, baby N. sleeps fitfully in my lap. This is quality time. Holiday time.

A perfect time of year, with a perfect little child.

Glorious Heat

2008-12-22T07:50:00.004-05:00

While the temperature went into free fall last night, our family is fortunate enough to pay it little mind.

We have a home, like many others. But for the first time since we bought this house, we have reliable heat.

Ah, heat.

Ah, hot water when we want it, when we need it.

Touch those radiators and feel the warmth. Ah, isn't it nice?

It seems like I'm waxing overboard about something as simple as heating a home.

But you don't know what we had. So let me tell you.

We had a very old boiler, a heaping lug of metal shaped like a big box and that rumbled like your granddad's snoring after a Thanksgiving feast. You knew when the boiler had clicked on because the house would groan. If you were on the ground floor, you could feel the floor vibrate.

We didn't mind that groaning and vibrating, because we knew that was the only time when we had hot water. For nearly five years, Michelle and I had gotten used to timing our showers and dishwashing to hearing (or feeling) the boiler's activity.

It became a nightly ritual: Michelle would announce she wanted to take a shower, and I would tune my antennae to determine if the boiler was firing. "Hmmm... I think I hear it," I would say and then walk to the basement door, open it and poke my head down the stairs. I'd hear the rumbling. "Yep, we got hot water!"

The hot water lasted as long as the fuel oil was shooting into the boiler. When the boiler reached a temperature of about 160 degrees, it would shut off. At that point, the countdown would begin. We knew we'd have hot water for a finite period of time – about two hours. Then the water would turn tepid, then mostly cold. At that point, a shower would consist of a trickle of warm water and me dancing in the shower stall to keep my blood circulating.

Look, it could be worse – a lot worse. I realize that most of the six billion or so people on this planet would be eminently grateful for the availability of any water. So, I try to keep all these things in perspective. We are blessed, and I know that.

We also are fortunate enough to have the means to change course, and that's exactly what we did.

We took advantage of an offer from the regional natural gas supplier to replace our oil-fired boiler with one supplied by natural gas. The supplier would give us a rebate to purchase a natural-gas boiler – an incentive, in essence, to convert to natural gas. That was attractive. Our boiler, estimated to be at least 50 years old, was clearly on its last legs. We had to repair it three times last winter, which socked us at least $80 each time. The boiler was so old our service person would not include us in his service warranty. He knew a losing proposition when he saw one.

Natural gas was (and perhaps remains) cheaper than heating oil. And lastly, and consequentially in our book, natural gas burns much cleaner.

We decided to do it.

So, thousands of dollars later, we have a (relatively) clean-burning, reliable, (relatively) quiet boiler in our basement. We have hot water when we would like it. No more trickles of tepid water in the shower. A real gusher of steamy H2O, baby.

Wow, what a change. We're so happy.

Until that first bill arrives.

First Snow

2008-12-20T11:02:00.005-05:00

The first snow of the season has arrived.

The first flakes began falling around 2 p.m yesterday. I smiled.

I love snowfalls.

It's peaceful, a blanket that covers all blemishes, natural and manmade. Our town becomes serene, any spots of noise muffled.

Our backyard turns into a winter wonderland, a deep meringue of white covering the cloddy soil, the clumps of leaves, the fallow gardens. It collects on tree branches and our arbor vidas and drops in great, big dollops.

Last night, I looked out the window and took in the view. Behind our house, the lights twinkled from our neighbors' homes. The flakes fell fast and furious, and the scene on the street and in the neighborhood looked like what you see when you shake those Christmas balls. Indeed, it felt like Christmas.

I say we got somewhere around eight inches. It was a light snow that packed really nicely and stuck to the shovel as I dug out our driveway and the sidewalk. I ladled out black sunflower seeds and pieces of bread in the snow for the juncos, sparrows and any other visitors who had huddled during the storm and would now be hungry.

The birds descended on the bounty, hopping to and fro, pecking at the tidbits of food. They seem to revel in the post-storm calm, playful and peppy. I am hoping the family of cardinals we see sporadically will join in.

Later, we will introduce baby Nathaniel to this land of white. We hope he enjoys it as much as we do.

Just the Three of Us

2008-12-15T20:34:00.004-05:00

It's just the three of us now.

My father, Marvin, and my stepmother, Joenne, left yesterday, the last of the waves of family visits PNB (post-Nathaniel's birth).

Now, it's us. Well, almost. I've still got a week of work, (that's it! Amazing.) which means Michelle will still be doing the heavy lifting in taking care of the little guy. But come Friday evening, it really will be just the three of us.

A time to share together.

A time to bond with our boy.

A time to learn about him, love him, watch him, gawk at him, giggle at him, sympathize with him, get angry at him.

Yes, that does happen. When he's crying, I mean really belting it out with no end in sight, I can feel the frustration rise like bile in my throat. It's that feeling of helplessness, of not being able to make things right in his little world.

It takes a lot of effort to hold yourself back. I don't condone in any way those who have hurt their children, but I can see more clearly what causes parents to snap. They may just feel helpless.

Not that it's an excuse, but calming a shrieking baby is a major test of your patience, your reasoning, your intellect. You need to step back and think. Why is he crying? What does he want? What bothers him? Or, is he just crying for the hell of it, a baby form of exercise?

And, most important of all, he is a baby, and you are not.

So, for more than two weeks – through Christmas and New Year's – Michelle and I will be tested daily. Our boy inadvertently will make things trying for us from time to time. He doesn't mean to, of course, and we know that.

Still, he will test our patience, our reasoning, our ability to think through things.

And while all that will be hard, it pales in comparison to all the great things that he will deliver – the smiles, the twinkling eyes, the wiggles, the squiggles, the squeaks, the little snores.

Can't wait.

Faces & Utterances

2008-12-14T21:27:00.008-05:00

I'm going to keep this one simple for two reasons.

1. It's Sunday evening, and I'm beat.

Time was, weekends could be relaxing, if you chose them to be. Now, with baby N. in the house and (happily) ruling our lives, that is no longer the case.

At least for now. And that's okay.

2. We have a video that likely illustrates Nathaniel's facial expressions and utterances better than I can describe with words.

Or, at least without subjecting you to reading a long post that I really don't feel terribly inclined to tackle anyway.

So, here goes. Hope you enjoy it.

Family Waves

2008-12-11T19:04:00.008-05:00

We are in the midst of the fourth, and final, wave of family in our house.

Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. Michelle and I have been so happy that our relatives fell all over themselves to visit, even as we know the object of their attraction and affection was not us (of course) but a certain baby named Nathaniel.

No matter. We are happy to have them around – whatever the reason.

Now five weeks into his life, baby N. has met two aunts, an uncle, three cousins, three grandmothers and one granddad. Not bad.

First, there was Leeann, who drove hell and fire from her home to greet us before we even left the hospital.

Then Michelle's mom, Sharon, and her sister (and baby N.'s godmother), Rachel, came, cooked up a storm and left us fat and happy. Reports are they fell hard for the little guy.

Next up was my mom, Marsha, who abandoned her normally nocturnal routine and cooked for us and loved the newborn.

And, now, my father, Marvin, and stepmother, Joenne, have traveled from Texas to brave the raw, wintry weather to soothe us with their laid-back brand of support. Pictures to come of them.

There will be more relatives who will meet and greet our boy – we hope soon.

In the meantime, let's just say that everyone has been so helpful, pitching in with cooking, chores, baby sitting, and keeping us sane.

We thank them all.

Finally Asleep

2008-12-08T22:49:00.003-05:00

Today was one long, tough day.

Actually, this day I'm about to describe began about 7 last night, when Nathaniel began crying. Michelle fed him, and when he had finished about 8, he began crying again. She fed him a bottle, and when he had finished, he began crying again. That was about 10, as far as I can recall, because it was at that time that I went to bed. (Michelle is really good about letting me sleep when I have work the next day.)

Since I was asleep, my recollection of the rest of the night is a little fuzzy, pieced together by blurred memories and Michelle's retelling me what happened over a baby's piercing screams. Michelle fed Nathaniel another bottle of formula, and when he had finished, he began crying again. Then I think he fell asleep around midnight, and, contrary to his normal sleeping routine, he awoke around 3 a.m. and began crying.

Michelle fed him good and long this time, and when Nathaniel had finished sometime after 4 a.m., he began crying. For two hours straight. Finally, he went to sleep but only for about 40 minutes. And he was crying again.

He was crying when I got up to go to work.

He was crying as I brushed my teeth.

He was crying as I got dressed.

He cried as I let Hviezda out to perform her morning ritual of relief.

He cried as I got my lunch to take to work.

Before I went downstairs and out the door to work, I thought about cracking a joke to Michelle. But she looked so bedraggled, a long, drawn look on her face, that I thought the better of it, gave her a quick kiss, and scooted out.

When I arrived home around 6:30 that evening, Nathaniel was crying. He was in his swing in the kitchen, normally a spot he enjoys, and the Roomba was running, normally a noise (or motion) that caresses him to slumber. But it didn't this time.

Michelle told me baby N. had slept all of one hour all day. He cried the rest.

She looked beaten. And, I must say it, pissed off.

Who can blame her?

So, I took him. And he kept crying.

He did subside on the sobs for a flicker of time, but then we gave him a bath, which really pissed him off, especially when a dollop of water rushed down his throat the moment he was to give a war whoop.

By about 10 p.m. and no end to the crying in sight (there were feedings in between, to no avail), I had to take a shower. Michelle was slumped on the sofa, dead to it all. I put Nathaniel in his bucket seat and hauled him upstairs with me and into the bathroom.

Miraculously, he stopped crying. I rushed into the shower. As I finished, as if on cue, he began crying again. Out of options in the bathroom, I rocked his bucket seat, and his cries subsided. He looked around, not satisfied but at least mildly content. However, the moment I stopped rocking the seat, he'd start that cough, cough! that signaled a spate of tears was coming. I rocked the seat again and that look, the eyes wide and the brow furrowed, as if he were trying to figure out whether this was at all acceptable, would return. Every time I stopped, even for a couple of beats, and he would get all worked up. So, I put my left foot in the bucket seat and balancing myself with my right foot, rocked the seat as I brushed my teeth, shaved and put some lotion on some painfully dry skin.

It wasn't pretty, but it was effective. Every now and then, my foot would slip off and the seat would stop rocking, and baby N's would contort with dismay. But I recovered quickly – mostly – and lulled him back.

When I had finished, I took my foot off the bucket seat and steeled myself for the next round of sobs. But ... nothing. He just lay there, his head cocked a little to the left, one arm held aloft as if suspended, asleep. Asleep.

I carried him downstairs, gently. And put him under the Christmas tree. Gently.

And he's still sleeping. Finally.

Name Games

2008-12-07T08:58:00.002-05:00

Sunday, December 7. Pearl Harbor Day. My birthday.

I say it's my birthday not because I want to advertise turning another year. At this juncture in life, I'd rather decrease in age, rather than increase. At least I think so.

In any event, baby N's birth dwarfs my advancing another year in life. And that's just fine with me. He means a whole lot more to me than going out somewhere and celebrating with friends. At least I think so.

Sunday dawned with a very fussy Nathaniel. For the first time in a while, he didn't sleep for a long stretch overnight, and poor Michelle awoke at least three time to satisfy what seems to be a never-ending hunger. I vaguely remember rising to change him once, but otherwise I could do little more than offer moral support, I guess. I mumbled a few words of commiseration and support before drifting back to sleep. At least I think I did.

So, now Michelle is sleeping in, deservedly, and I've been wrestling for the past two hours to get the little chaperoo to fall asleep. I fed him a bottle of formula, and still, he remains awake. Man, he fights sleep; it's as if he thinks if he'll miss something if he dozes off. He yawns and yawns, his eyes begin to close .... then a trifling noise and BAM! he snaps wide awake, his eyelids shooting upward like those vinyl blinds on rollers we have on our windows, and his head is swiveling around as he tries to figure out what is going on. Even now, I have him in his swing – a minor miracle in itself – and he's fighting his obvious tiredness, moving his head from side to side and swiping at his eyes with his hands. Wow, he's stubborn about sleeping. Reminds me of myself. At least I think so.

We have gotten lots of suggestions about Nathaniel's name. It seems as if some family, and even some friends, are quite preoccupied with what baby N's nickname will be. Some want to call him Nathan; others like Nate; and others go for Nat. They ask us which one we've "settled on." Well, we've "settled on" Nathaniel. That's his name. so far, there is no nickname, no truncated version. It'll happen when it happens. One day, Michelle may cal him Nat, or one day I may call him Nathan. And at that point, maybe one of those will stick. Or, maybe not. Does it matter that much? After all, it's his choice anyway. He'll let us know what he likes.

At least we think so.

Small Screen Star

2008-12-06T11:07:00.003-05:00

Baby Nathaniel has hit the super-small silver screen.

Welcome to our world of home videos. My sister, Lee Ann, and her family generously got us a FlipVideo recorder for Christmas – an early gift, so we could begin trying our hands at videotaping our baby boy's steps through life.

Michelle has filmed three things so far. The first one is here. It's a trial, so don't expect expert cinematography, and it may make you a bit queasy. But it ain't bad for a first stab with new equipment. And, hey, you get to see the little guy swinging into action! (By the way, see a photo of him clutching his first letter in the previous post.)

Nathaniel is one month now (actually yesterday). He had another appointment with the doctor, and I'm happy to report he is healthy, and, we think, happy. He's gained seven ounces in a week and a half and has grown two inches (to 22") since he was born.

This growth spurt seems odd to me. Two inches in a month? Do newborns really grow that quickly? Is our baby N on the way to being a seven-footer? A real-to-life Super Size Me? Big AND Tall?

Hmmm... the genes don't seem to bear it out. I'm a shade under 6'2" on a good day, and Michelle's brothers are not giants, although they are solidly and athletically built (and good athletes, too). There are no leviathans lurking in our family trees as far as we know. So, it seems highly unlikely that baby N is destined to be NBA tall.

All this ruminating just loops me back to the beginning. Can a newborn really grow two inches in his/her first month? I wished I had been at the doctor's appointment, because I would've asked. Now, I have to wait until January to find out. Argh!

Enjoy the video. I will post more soon. It's going to be really, really cool. You know why? Because baby N is really, really cool.

Of course I'm biased.

Aren't you?

He's Real (so says the government)

2008-12-02T18:55:00.005-05:00

Our son has received his first letter.

A congratulatory birth card from adoring relatives? you might ask.
No.

A note and a $10 dollar bill from his parents to begin his little life?
You'd be wrong.

An announcement from the church?
Wrong again.

A newspaper clipping?
Sorry, out of luck.

No, the letter addressed to Nathaniel Ames Lewis, to the proper address, town, state and zip code came from the federal government. The Social Security Administration, to be exact.

In it, was his Social Security card and an admonition to "keep this stub with your personal records."

We'll make sure he gets the message.

So, it appears the government now knows about our little boy. Now, he can pay taxes, perhaps get drafted, and die.

That was pretty morbid, wasn't it?

On the brighter side, it does mean he is official. Actually, it was kind of cool to see his name, typed in black block letters on plain white paper peeking from a box in the envelope. We hadn't seen it printed like that. The first thought that came over me was, "Holy crap, he is real."

Indeed, he is. And he's ours.

No matter what the government thinks, we think that's very, very cool.

Moments with Mommy and Daddy

2008-12-01T20:37:00.002-05:00

In the fourth week of baby Nathaniel's life, mommy and daddy are, for the first extended time, home alone with their son.

We returned last weekend from a trip to spend Thanksgiving with my sister and her family in the mid-Atlantic region. It's the second time Lee Ann (who has her own blog, by the way – a really good one, I might add – at http://www.niccofive.blogspot.com/) has seen Nathaniel; she joined us days after he was born and helped Michelle with a litany of newborn-fueled crises in the first days we returned home. She also cooked a mountain of comfort food, including lasagna, chicken cheese casserole, cinnamon buns, apple pancakes, glazed salmon and other delicious dishes that I no doubt have forgotten.

Then along came Michelle's mom and her sister. They flew in from Iowa and like twin tornadoes, took care of any and every need that Michelle and I had, thought we had, and never even knew we had. They came with us to church at baby N's first service. (He seemed to like the music. Psst! Wait until he finds about rock n' roll.) They cooked. They cleaned. They took N when he got cranky or when one of us, or both of us, looked on the brink of emotional collapse. They catered, they caressed, they cared for us.

And then they left.

And then arrived my mother. She came from Atlanta, and seized any and opportunities to cuddle with her newest grandson. (my sister has three children and is the wise one among the child rearers.) In between nuzzles, Mom made her signature spaghetti and sauce, chicken casserole and fried chicken. We've still got half a breast and two legs left, plus some spaghetti sauce.

Three days into that visit, my mother, Michelle, baby N and I drove to my sister's. We left on Wednesday morning, a little later than planned and headed west through the bottleneck they call the NYC area and headed south, through Pennsylvania farmland to our destination. It's never an easy trip, really; and around Thanksgiving, with a baby on board, and a mother who was too excited by it all, it was one long journey. Baby N was remarkable. He slept nearly the whole time, and when he did wake up and cry, he took the bottle with vigor, downed it like a good drunk and slipped back to sleep.

My most vivid impression of the journey was how thankful I was for any gas station restroom that was outfitted with a baby changing table. Don't get me wrong: I've noticed these things before, mostly out of fleeting curiosity that faded away about the moment I exited the stall. Now, I was really looking for them, almost desperately. Where are they, dammit! Doesn't anybody care I have a baby loaded with poo and no respectable place to place his ruddy butt?

No, of course, they don't care, and neither did I until about a few weeks ago. But I sure care now, after resorting to changing baby N. on the bathroom floor a few times. I am happy to say that Michelle planned for something like this by buying an elaborate diaper bag with myriad pockets, pouches and more hidden crevices than a den of bears could make use. It also had a clear plastic, add-on pouch with a plastic mat designed expressly for those times when you need to shield a baby's privates from the dank world of bacteria and germs.

Thank goodness someone was thinking.

So, now we've returned home and it's just mommy, daddy and baby N for the next week a half, before my father and stepmother come in from Texas. Make no mistake: We are so, so grateful to our families for their help during their visits. But finally, it seems, we'll have some time to ourselves, and time to learn about, commiserate over, get frustrated at, make funny faces and just smile, smile, smile at our new son. Michelle and I are really excited about this bonding time. The first month of baby N's life has rocketed by, and, boy, we hardly knew ye. Or so it seems.

We're going to make up for some lost time.

Time for Thanks

2008-11-27T13:28:00.017-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I hope everyone is happy, healthy and on their way to being well fed.

We are at my sister's family's place in the eastern U.S. Yes, we took a chance and decided to drive somewhere on baby Nathaniel's third week of life.

It took us 10+ hours, but we made it, and the little tyke was a champ. He slept most of the way, waking to be fed by a bottle of his mother's pumped milk, and then would drift back off to sleep.

Minimal crying. What a great kid – already!

My sister and her husband, Rob, were dear enough to vacate their own room for us and the baby to sleep in, nurse and otherwise treat as if we were staying at some exclusive bed-and-breakfast. The only thing missing is breakfast in bed, and my sister, Lee Ann, would not bite on that one, although I tried.

I'm lucky she didn't take a swing at me.

Her three children, Kate 13, Chris, 10, and Trey, nearly seven, were beside themselves with excitement to greet their new cousin. Meanwhile, Michelle and I paced around like a pair of nervous Nellies, fearing that the cold that had run through their house would make its way to our child. Lee Ann would not let that happen, of course, but we fretted anyway.

The children were so cute with their new cousin. They stumbled over each other, and jockeyed for position, craning their necks and contorting their bodies, climbing on to tables and chairs, t get a better look at their new cousin. They held him and smiled. They patted his downy head. They stroked his back.

They seem really interested in the little guy.

Besides that, it also means I don't get beaten to a pulp like I've been in past visits.

In this instance, it's nice to be an afterthought.

So, on this Thanksgiving, surrounded by family and graced with an adorable baby boy, we feel truly thankful. And blessed.

We hope you feel the same.

Small Discoveries

2008-11-25T18:27:00.006-05:00

Nathaniel is three weeks old tomorrow. It's hard to believe he's already that old. He's changed so much.

At least, that's the opinion of my sister, who saw Nathaniel days after he was born and has watched him "grow" through pictures. Me, I don't see it as much, probably because I see him every day. But I've noticed his hair has lightened, and perhaps his eyes, too. He's interacting more with the environment around him, noticing more, his eyes wandering around, even if he doesn't know or understand what he's taking in.

We think we may understand more about him. We know that Nathaniel goes on a crying jag beginning in the evening and lasting until midnight. We believe this pattern of tears lies in the little guy's telling us he's hungry. It's like he wants dinner, dessert and a midnight snack in consecutive hours. My, what an appetite! If he doesn't get fed, he cries inconsolably. For some time, we couldn't figure out why. Now, we think we may have uncovered a pattern. So, we have adjusted accordingly; Michelle feeds him his "dinner" in the early evening, and we bridge the next hours with a bottle of prior-pumped milk or formula. Then, around 11 or so, Michelle gives him another meal. After some fussing, Nathaniel tends to drift into a deep slumber, sleeping for 4-5 hours.

We are very lucky he snoozes that long. Or so our friends and co-workers tell us.

We know we're lucky Nathaniel is with us. It seems he's been with us so long, far longer than the three weeks he's actually been here. At the same time, it's hard to imagine he's our son. I catch myself looking at him every now and then, and I wonder, "Who's baby is this, anyway?" And then I realize, he's ours.

I'm so happy about that.

Healthy and Happy (we think)

2008-11-19T17:49:00.003-05:00

Nathaniel turned two weeks today.

He commemorated the occasion by visiting the pediatrician. He may not count that as a milestone, but we sure do.

We're more than happy to report that the little guy is healthy. He weighs 8 lbs., 13 oz., about three ounces more than he was born with a healthy cache of stored goodies. Also, he has gained nine ounces from a week ago.

I think it's safe to say our little man is eating heartily. Michelle would attest to that.

All other signs are good, according to the pediatrician. He's a healthy newborn so far. We feel very blessed.

We also think he's happy, but really we don't know for sure. Nathaniel hasn't smiled at us yet, although our pediatrician swore that he smiled at her during last week's visit.

Hmmm. Talk about stealing our glory!

Instead, we get a little dude who scowls, grimaces, gazes, seems dazed and howls. Lots of emotions, granted, but no smiles.

My friends and many coworkers, most of them women, tell me not to fret. The smiling will come they say, but there's no consensus when. One coworker thought she recalled her boy smiling after two months. Or was it four? She couldn't remember. It's all a blur, she declared. Another said it happens in weeks. But then again, she thinks her baby is special, as well she should. Somebody else told me it could take a half-year. Wow! Talk about waiting for confirmation that you're doing your job right. Some Wall Street CEOs wait less for such approval (talking about bonuses here).

So, we'll wait for that first grin, that first beam of sunshine, that parting of the lips that isn't a grimace or a growl but a full-fledged stamp of approval that yeah, parents, you're not so bad after all.

We can only hope, right?

The Squeaker

2008-11-17T20:23:00.002-05:00

Slowly but surely we're learning about our new baby.

We know, for instance, that Nathaniel is a squeaker.

He squeaks when he's feeding.
He squeaks when he's sleeping.
He squeaks when he's squirming.
He even squeaks in between his squalls of screams.

The squeaks aren't all the same. The feeding squeak is a short jab of a squeak, which we interpret as his way of vocalizing the voraciousness of his eating.

The sleeping squeak is lazy and subdued. Perhaps it's his way of vocalizing a baby dream. Perhaps he's having a nightmare, something on the par of the all-important boob running away from him.

The squirming squeak is a gnashing sound. We think he's grimacing as he adjusts his position in our arms, or he's trying to tell us he doesn't like the way we're holding him.

The crying squeak is more of a piercing vocal shot. We don't need to interpret that one. We know he's pissed about something, and he's demanding we do something about it.

At 12 days, our son's hair has lightened, although the jury is out whether he'll have his father's near-white blond locks (far gone now). There are some in the family who are fervently rooting that some copper appears, which may portent red hair like his mother.

No evidence of that so far, from what we can see.

Physically, he looks much the same as the day he was born. He's redder now, and his cheeks are ruddy, good signs, we believe. He has a few light scratches on his face, war wounds from flailing his arms when he cries. He's arcing his neck at impressive angles under his own power, and we swear he can nearly support himself when he stretched his legs in a standing position on our laps. He seems pretty darn strong for his age.

Of course, we're biased.

And, we think he's pretty darn cute.

Fair bet to say we're biased on that one, too.

Cry, Baby, Cry

2008-11-15T10:08:00.004-05:00

Newborn babies sure do cry a lot.

I guess that's to be expected. When you think about it, it's the only way they can communicate. They cry when they're hungry. They cry when they're tired. They cry when they're hot or cold. They cry when they're angry. Who knows? Maybe they weep when they're happy, too. In any event, they cry for all sorts of reasons.

Baby Nathaniel is no exception. He's a crier, a real screamer. He opens his mouth like a baby bird and lets out a full-throated whoop to let it be known that something is not right with his world, and yes, daddy or mommy, you need to fix it, and fast.

We've been unable to differentiate the little hombre's cries so far. There's the repetitive cry, the one that loops as if it's a 45 rpm record that's skipping on a turnstile. With that one, baby Nathaniel goes round and round, coughing every now and then, an "I'm disgusted with you" scoffing kind of cough and then he resumes with his looping staccato set of cries. We think this one means he's pissed off, such as when we swaddle him and lay him in his Boppie and he want to be cuddled, or when he's fighting to stay awake, despite being physically exhausted.

Then there's the more soulful cry, not as shrill as the angry cry with a hint of melody to it. This cry can occasionally reach repetitive status, but usually it doesn't reach that degree of urgency. We think this one is the "I'm hungry" cry, and our best guess is it's more mellow, because usually he employs that one when he's emerging from a deep slumber.

Speaking of slumber, the little guy has been a champion sleeper. The last three nights he has slept for more than three hours at a stretch. In fact, last night, the little camper bundled up from 12:30 a.m to 5 and then from 6 a.m. to past 10. It's hell many times getting him to fall asleep (see angry cry, above), but we have to say that when he does fall asleep, he stays that way for a long while.

Nathaniel is 10 days old today (Saturday). I still look at him occasionally and marvel. I get these jolts: Is he truly ours? Did he just show up at our doorstep? Did we steal him? Are we fully responsible for his plight?

Then again, I have this other emotion: It feels as if he's been with us for months, if not longer. It's hard to imagine the time when he was not here, despite knowing full well it hasn't been that long.

Nathaniel already has woven himself into the fabric of our lives. That blanket, if you will, is so much warmer, cuddlier, more familiar.

Buddy, we're glad you're with us.

New Addition

2008-11-10T13:35:00.003-05:00

The Lewis family has a new addition.

Michelle and I welcomed Nathaniel Ames Lewis to the world at 12:16 p.m. on Nov. 5. The little guy weighed 8 lbs., 10.5 oz. and was 19 3/4 inches at birth.

He is doing fine, and Michelle is doing fine.

We are very blessed.

We are also very tired. The five days since Nathaniel's grand entrance has been a blur. Time is all but irrelevant; night is day, day is night. Our schedule has morphed into his schedule. He calls the shots, dictates the pace of our lives. The days of selfishness, of bouts of self-absorption, have ended.

He's the new sheriff n town, and our emotions are strangely tied to his. When he cries, we're tense, confused and unhappy. When he sleeps, we're relaxed, grateful and glad. If I were to give a ratio between these two competing states, I'd put it at 60-40 in the tense, confused, unhappy column.

Not bad, I think.

You know, we've gotten a lot of advice of what to expect and how to react to our baby's arrival. All of it has been with the best of intentions. People with children are happy to dispense with tips and stories of their experiences. I don't profess to know much, but it seems to me all babies are different, and they have their own set of likes and dislikes. What works for one may not work for another. For example, we've found that for the most part little Nathaniel does not seem to like his arms to be pinned against his body. That has made the SwaddleMe outfit, an infant strait jacket if I've ever seen one, not the end-all, be-all solution to hysterically crying infants as we expected. Nor, however, does the little king like his arms to flail madly about. Must be a control thing. The best we've figured our so far is he kind of likes it in-between; he likes his hands to be mobile, but he doesn't like full arm motion. He likes to be swaddled, but not overly so.

It's serious on-the-job training, and there is no manual.

We also haven't figured out a position he likes best, one that keeps him content. Lord knows I've tried all sorts of bodily contortions, short of turning the little dude upside down. You feel like you find one that works, and lo and behold, it fails the next time. Then, like magic, it works again. The latest trick I found that worked was holding him up to my face and letting my suck my nose, like a pacifier. I kind of discovered that one by accident, as he was squawking his fool head off early one morning, and I brought him closer to see if he blew out his vocal box (just kidding, of course). He latched on to my nose like a life preserver. It didn't hurt, and really, it felt kind of cool. A bond of sorts between a father and a son.

Can't wait until he gets teeth.

I guess what it all comes down to is there is no rhyme and reason to the first steps of babyhood and parenthood. If you like structure in your universe, you can forget it.

So, screw structure. I love my universe fine right now – just the way it is.

Reintroduction

2008-10-26T17:50:00.003-04:00

Well, it's been so long since I've updated my blog that I feel as if I need to reintroduce myself.

I am still the same person, so let's get that straight.

I have been, remiss, shall we say, in the last couple of months, in filing posts. Some may think I'm still in Iceland, watching as the country goes bankrupt.

No, I have indeed returned.

No, I had nothing to do with this country's stunning dive from largesse to poverty.

A lot has been going on since I was in the capital city of Reykjavik. I traveled with a group of planetary geologists into the remote central sections of the country, a stunning mix of extra-terrestrial landscapes, some gray and desolate like the moon, others bursting with colors (tan, orange, red, yellow) and underground vents that spouted the earth's hot breath that seemed like Mars. We survived a hurricane-like storm that forced us to abandon our campsite and shack up with an Icelandic ranger and a bottle of scotch whiskey. We mounted the largest glacier in Europe. We braced ourselves against some of the stiffest winds I've ever felt at the rim of a crater recently created by volcanic eruption so violent that shards fell on continental Europe.

It was a heck of a trip.

And then Iceland went bankrupt. Just as those long winter nights are coming. I feel for them.

So, now that I'm back, I can report that we're five days from the birth of our first baby. The baby is due on Halloween, although Michelle could give birth at any time. We know very little about this little person. We do know he or she likely will be 8-plus pounds at birth and has reached the size that any movement causes ripples on Michelle's abdomen. She is highly uncomfortable, her organs squeezed to their maximum.

I got a good look at the scrunching of a pregnant woman's organs in our birthing class. Let's take the bladder: By the time the baby is fully formed, the bladder is about 1/10 its normal size and that little tyke is gyrating right on top of it. No wonder Michelle has to pee every hour, or so it seems. Her stomach has been squeezed to the size of a prune. Many other organs have been similarly crushed. There's tremendous pressure on her lungs; she labors to breathe. A whole new being has moved in, and it's not as if she can tack on an addition. It's hard, and I feel for her.

The good news, of course, and which she knows, is it's nearly over. The baby will be born very soon. And then a whole new host of joys and challenges will arise.

As Michelle's belly has grown, I ran. Not away, just ran. I was training to run a marathon with my older brother-in-law, Matt. One could look at this as my last bout of selfishness, or as a selfless attempt to help Matt get through his first marathon. I would say it was a combination of both thoughts.

We ran in the Maine Marathon in Portland on Oct. 5. How lucky were we: The day was cold, sunny and gorgeous. The route took us along the ocean and a cove, then along a road framed by majestic trees. It was rustic, rural, almost peaceful. We both felt great. We yapped nearly the entire way, and by the time we hit Mile 22, both of us had plenty in the tank to scream through the final four miles. We clocked 8-minute splits the last 2 miles, and Matt says we passed 33 runners in the final 1.2 miles alone.

Our finishing time was 03:57. We were exhilarated. And Matt should be awfully proud of his performance. He ran a magnificent race.

We are ready for our baby. The nursery is prepared. It's a tranquil nest, the walls painted in light green and the furnishings in a cream white. The crib has a muted tan bedspread with simple, elegant drawings of animals. One one end is a carousel of birds, lions and a giraffe that will rotate over the baby's head. On the other end is a music box that releases bubbles and shimmering white light as make-believe fish swim in the water. Very peaceful and lullaby like.

We think our baby will like it.

When he or she comes.

We are waiting, excitedly.

Outside Reykjavik

2008-08-27T08:08:00.006-04:00

I spent my second day in Reykjavik outside Reykjavik.

That's because two scientists who arrived this morning – half of the group with whom I will travel to the interior to chronicle their research into findings by spacecraft orbiting Mars – decided to forego sleeping and go off on a merry, rock-hunting journey in the hills outside the capital.

I had no idea what was in store. But the planetary geologists wanted to find samples of a mineral called zeolite that a remote-sensing instrument had detected on Mars. So, we drove out to the general area where these zeolites are suspected to be hiding in the rocks, parked next to a picnic table alongside the highway, hopped a sheep fence and scrambled up a cut made by a waterfall alongside a long rock face.

We looked at lots of rocks. We hammered some to check out what's inside. We bagged the most promising samples. They discussed the rocks' guts. I listened and tried to follow along.

We returned to the picnic table on the side of the road and they busted out spectroscopic equipment to do some serious analyzing. One of them shone what looked like a glorified flashlight at the exposed areas of the rock samples, and a computer "read" the rock and revealed its mineral breakdown based on signatures given off in the visible and near-infrared bands of the electromagnetic spectrum. It's amazing how instantaneous such readings can be made. Which is good, because it was windy and cold.

How surprising, huh?

We visited two more sites, repeating the same steps as the first excursion (park, hop sheep fence, scramble up ravine, look and collect lots of rocks). This time, though, the spectroscopic analyses could wait. I think they were itching to do some sightseeing. So was I.

So, we ventured into southern Iceland. First stop was Geysir, home to a confab of geysers. The most impressive of these was one called Strokkur, which sent a plume of scalding water soaring into the sky about every eight minutes. You could smell the Earth's insides everywhere, and it smelled a lot like sulphur – pungent but not a turnoff.

You can see a photo gallery here.

Just down the road is Gulfoss, a double decker of a waterfall carved out in the gently undulating valley. Gulfoss cannot rival Niagara Falls in terms of volume of water cascading down its sides, but its setting with a complete lack of commercialism and kitsch just enhanced its beauty. Give the Icelanders lots of credit for letting this natural wonder speak for itself.

On the way back, we drove through a wide bowl of a valley where the sun shone brightly and scrubland that looked like what you'd see in west Texas. As we got closer to Reykjavik, we passed chains of hills, carpeted in such a rich green carpet that it looked like miles of carefully manicured putting greens. Waterfalls spouted from the countless crevices and cuts in these hills. At the foot of many of these hills spouted geysers. Viewing this scene panoramically, you'd see the green hills, laced by the waterfalls and the plumes from geysers that seemed as if the ground itself was smoking cigars. Simply beautiful.

And the sun was shining. I can only hope for more of the same on the next leg.