Thank god toddler piss doesn't stain no-wax floors.
We've evolved this little ritual called naked playtime, which would be a lot more fun if it just involved two consenting adults. But, no, it's for the Brooklyn Baby Baby so she doesn't get diaper rash. Every night for about 30 to 45 minutes she runs around sans diaper, starkers, going hither and yon, having a great time. More or less.
But recently, however, it's turned into a bit of a minefield, for reasons that are probably all too obvious. Today, for example, I got home from work, and greeted Randi, and saw the little girl, naked, as it was naked playtime. She smiled at me and then ran away, which is about how things seem to work around here. Never, under any circumstances will she snuggle. But a smile and some laughter works for me, so I wasn't disappointed.
Randi was getting ready to participate in The Moth storytelling show, or to try and participate, so I took over kid watching patrol. I followed her to the guitar, on its stand, and saw her hit it over and over again. Getting the hint I was glad to oblige my number one fan, and started to play something fun, I'd hoped, yes, I remember now. It was "Deal" by the Grateful Dead, a jumpy upbeat tune, if you can believe a band named the Grateful Dead have any jumpy upbeat tunes. Stella kind of danced around for two seconds and then went between our coffee table and couch and began to make crying sounds. After a while I put the guitar down and looked to see what was going on.
I found -- much to my irritation, but not to my surprise -- that she had just let loose a big stream of pee, and was sitting in it on the floor.
"Oh god!" I sighed/shouted, and picked her up. Randi was still doing her thing so I grabbed a mop and cleaned it up. The acidic powers of urine made the floors sparkly clean, although I worry that it will strip off the polyurethane finish eventually.
Then I returned the mop, and Stella made a beeline for where she had just so gracefully voided her bladder. The floor was still a little damp so she took this opportunity to slip in it, going ass over tea kettle, and bonking her little head. If I didn't before now I surely felt like Dad Of The Year: my daughter hits her head, because she stepped barefoot into her own pee, and it got away from her.
"That's it!" I said, irritated, "no more naked playtime." I just didn't see how it could be worth it.
Randi then took off for the show, I was upset by recent events so my wife got a distracted "break a leg" from me. (I called later to wish it with more oomph.) Then I picked up the guitar once she was out, to entertain the now wailing Stella. I started to play "April, Come She Will" by Simon and Garfunkle and she got a big smile across her face and started to dance, although the song is so slow that the only dance you could do to it would be the waltz. And not a fast waltz.
Then, still smiling, she walked over to the TV and stood before it. Then she squatted and squeezed out two perfect little turds right on the floor.
"Oh my god, not again," I said, scooping her up and placing her on her potty, which was only TWO FEET from where she had just so gracefully pooped. Putting her on her potty proved very upsetting to the girl, and she screamed and wailed while I held her by her armpit, hoping that she would keep pooping in the receptacle designed for just such occasions. No such luck, instead she just complained a lot. Okay, you win this time, Golden Child.
The rest of the night proceeded with further incident, but I do have to admit this naked playtime thing is simply starting to make less and less sense to yours truly.
Yesterday we were having naked playtime and disaster struck in a different way. I had taken off my pants in order to put some Ben-Gay on my knee. (I had been at the Tot Lot with the child when I pulled a slightly athletic maneuver and felt something rip inside the knee. It still hurts, by the way.) So, in my underwear I was once again trying to soothe the savage toddler with music. This might sound vain to you guys, but I swear to you I only play this much because she likes it!
This time she showed her appreciation by walking over to me, sitting on my lap and then peeing all over my leg. Although I'm leaving out a crucial detail: first she smiled.
Horrified I got up, and ran to the bathroom to clean off. Randi was inside putting on makeup. "Ugh," I said, "she just, she just peed all over me!" Randi looked at me, and then kept on doing what she was doing, although a few minutes later she said was really sorry that Stella had just gone to the bathroom on my leg.
Except she doesn't actually GO to the bathroom, she goes to dad. I am a Port-a-daddy, a receptacle. It's getting kind of old. I know she likes running around naked, and I know that diaper rash is a terrible thing, and I am concerned about her tender tushie skin, but something has simply got to give. I am running out of clean pants.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
That's Showbiz
Thursday night in Stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The crew is asleep, the apartment has heat, thank god. I just did a bunch of dishes and watched a little TV. I watched "Weekend Update," "Parks & Recreation" and "The Office."
Now, this might sound like a passive night on the couch, but TV will never be exactly the same for me as it was 10 years ago, before I did improv. Because it can be guaranteed that in almost every hip, edgy comedy show, and in many of the commercial breaks for such shows, I will see someone featured that I either knew, met or saw perform live many times in New York. All this is because from 2000 to 2003 or so I was fairly immersed in New York's improv comedy scene, specifically through the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, The PIT and, later, The Magnet Theater.
The UCBT was first. I went to it in late 1999, having been a fan of the TV show. I called the theater and they told me there was something called "Harold Night" going on, which I learned, over the phone was a form of improv. I had no idea what that meant, as my only experience with improv was in college, and that was from watching it.
But I had nothing doing, it was a Thursday, and the show as cheap, maybe $7. I showed up to a shoebox theater that was at most half full. Then a bunch of teams got on stage and blew my mind. I can't remember all the performers I saw that night, but I do remember one named Rob, though I didn't know his name then, because he was so much larger and more commanding than the other people on stage. But I thought all of it was amazingly funny and, like magic, I just couldn't understand how these people could pull off these amazing connections. They seemed impossible.
After the show they announced that you could take classes for this stuff. Sign me up!
I went to Level 1 in early 2000 and right away felt I was terrible at this thing. The people in the class were nice enough, but the talent gap was wide. I enjoyed it, and thought our graduation show went really well, and I performed well, but I didn't go right into Level II, I just didn't feel any urgency about it.
But go into Level II I did. This level almost made me swear off improv altogether. Our instructor was a caustic man named Pat who scared the crap out of me, and the class was filled with talents. We even had an actual stage and film actor in our class, named Fred. He had credits I had heard of, and he seemed very confident on stage.
Others were confident on stage too, while I felt rusty. One was named Ed and even though he had no more experience than I had he immediately took charge, seemingly on sheer confidence. I remember the first scene I saw him do was as a hillbilly gay rapist, and he killed it. Even Pat loved it, and this was a guy, Pat, who once threw an empty coffee cup at me after a particularly craptacular scene. Ed, it should be said, was fairly soft-spoken and approachable off stage.
This might sound like revisionist history, but what made Ed stand out to me, even then, was that he had some kind of aura, an intensity. I knew he was in this, this comedy, all the way. He was in it for the career. At that point he had no career, but I could see that he was going to go for it hard, with all he had.
This was driven home to me one day when I asked what he did outside of class. He did some standup at the Boston Comedy Club, but his main paying gig was as a voiceover guy. In fact he did voiceovers for Burger King. I asked him to do the Burger King voice, and he did. It was instantly recognizable, warm, confident, The Whopper.
I asked him how the whole voice over thing worked, vaguely interested in it, as I was all things related to comedy. He said that if Burger King, for example, hired you for a gig they might call at any time to ask you to come back. There really was no set schedule. So you had to be around, in case they called. If you couldn't make it they gave the gig to someone else, pop, like that. This sunk in: this meant Ed never left the city?
He answered that, yeah, that was pretty much it, he never went anywhere, because he had to be there when the phone rang.
What about leaving town? Trips? Vacations? He looked at me, no, the work was more important. I was stunned. This was Burger King after all, not Shakespeare. But right then I knew that he and I saw this comedy thing very differently. He wasn't just having fun. He wasn't "trying things out" to see if he "liked it." He knew.
There were also other strong and noteworthy improvisers in the class like Dave Lombard and Kevin Hines, both of whom have my admiration to this day.
By contrast I felt at sea for the first half of the class, and wasn't sure, yet again, if I was "cut out" for this whole thing. But again the graduation show was good, and so I went onto Level III. This time something clicked. I loved my class, and felt I was finally starting to get what some of this was all about.
Gradually the UCBT became my life. When I wasn't taking classes, or practicing with my practice group, which became a team, I was seeing shows. And here's where things would impact my television life down the road.
Eight years ago if you went to the UCBT four nights a week, as I sometimes did, you would be almost guaranteed to see, for example, Paul Scheer on stage two to three of those nights. Then I would see that big burly guy as much. Rob Riggle, I learned was his name. There was a sketch team called Naked Babies, who were all astonishing, and always in other stuff. One guy on the team was named Rob Cordry, although they were all amazing. (My favorite was and is Brian Huskey.)
And then on the weekends there was ASSSSSSSCAT, the all-star show featuring the team the Upright Citizens Brigade itself: Amy Poehler, Matt Besser, Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts. Sitting in with them might be Tina Fey, or Rachel Dratch. Or others who wrote for SNL, Conan or what have you. These guys were like The Beatles to me.
This might seem hard to believe but just eight or nine years ago none of these people were really known yet. Tina Fey was almost unrecognizable without her glasses and in a gray sweatshirt. Amy Poehler wasn't yet on SNL. You could catch any of them for less than the cost of a movie, and I sure did.
And while the UCB itself was on its own level, at least to me, there was so much talent at that theater. If you wanted to play spot the future star there were a good 20 names you could have chosen that would have had as much of a chance of becoming showbiz stars as the ones that already have. (Of course many of the people from that era still will.)
I had brushes with many who now are making it. I had a show called "Storytime" and one of the people who signed my mailing list later ended up on "The Office" as their new secretary, replacing Pam. At another show at The Pit I volunteered from the audience and got to do a goofy little scene with Kristen Schaal, later of "Flight Of The Concords." Here there and everywhere I got to either meet, or see perform so many people that later became either stars or at least TV and movie presences. It's made watching the idiot box a bit more personal and a lot more surreal.
Believe me, I am not bragging, it wasn't about me. I just happened to be there, like one of those lucky stiffs who hung around CBGB's back in 1978. Maybe my band never really quite made it but I still am glad I made the scene. It was just that time.
The thing was, I could feel something was happening, I knew things were going to come from this scene. I would try to guess who would go on to do what, but I was mostly wrong. It's like a farmer trying to pick which seed will sprout, it's impossible. (Although I will say the first time I saw Jack McBreyer perform with the team Optimists International I knew, knew, knew he was headed for bigger things. He was just that amazing to watch, that fun, and made it seem so effortless.)
Now all this time later I see Ed, on my TV, every week. He's also on "The Office," and starred in the summer's breakout comedy hit "The Hangover." His last name's Helms of course, and he deserves every bit of his success.
Me? I did a lot of improv but decided that while I may have been more cut out for comedy than I originally thought -- I did end up getting better at it with practice, which is how these things work -- I knew I WASN'T cut out for a life in showbiz. It was too stressful, and I started to become bitter about all the breaks I wasn't getting. This, of course, was ludicrous, because improv owed me nothing. The only way to succeed is to simply become very, very good at it. And to do that you have to be at the theater every night, performing, getting better, having fun. Not because you are worried about the career you don't have, but because you simply love to perform that much. I loved it much less than that, although love it I did.
But from another perspective even if I didn't become an improv, or showbiz, star it gave me everything.
I met Randi through improv in late 2001, and the rest is history, my history. When we got married maybe we should have said "yes and" instead of "I do" on the bima.
Now, this might sound like a passive night on the couch, but TV will never be exactly the same for me as it was 10 years ago, before I did improv. Because it can be guaranteed that in almost every hip, edgy comedy show, and in many of the commercial breaks for such shows, I will see someone featured that I either knew, met or saw perform live many times in New York. All this is because from 2000 to 2003 or so I was fairly immersed in New York's improv comedy scene, specifically through the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, The PIT and, later, The Magnet Theater.
The UCBT was first. I went to it in late 1999, having been a fan of the TV show. I called the theater and they told me there was something called "Harold Night" going on, which I learned, over the phone was a form of improv. I had no idea what that meant, as my only experience with improv was in college, and that was from watching it.
But I had nothing doing, it was a Thursday, and the show as cheap, maybe $7. I showed up to a shoebox theater that was at most half full. Then a bunch of teams got on stage and blew my mind. I can't remember all the performers I saw that night, but I do remember one named Rob, though I didn't know his name then, because he was so much larger and more commanding than the other people on stage. But I thought all of it was amazingly funny and, like magic, I just couldn't understand how these people could pull off these amazing connections. They seemed impossible.
After the show they announced that you could take classes for this stuff. Sign me up!
I went to Level 1 in early 2000 and right away felt I was terrible at this thing. The people in the class were nice enough, but the talent gap was wide. I enjoyed it, and thought our graduation show went really well, and I performed well, but I didn't go right into Level II, I just didn't feel any urgency about it.
But go into Level II I did. This level almost made me swear off improv altogether. Our instructor was a caustic man named Pat who scared the crap out of me, and the class was filled with talents. We even had an actual stage and film actor in our class, named Fred. He had credits I had heard of, and he seemed very confident on stage.
Others were confident on stage too, while I felt rusty. One was named Ed and even though he had no more experience than I had he immediately took charge, seemingly on sheer confidence. I remember the first scene I saw him do was as a hillbilly gay rapist, and he killed it. Even Pat loved it, and this was a guy, Pat, who once threw an empty coffee cup at me after a particularly craptacular scene. Ed, it should be said, was fairly soft-spoken and approachable off stage.
This might sound like revisionist history, but what made Ed stand out to me, even then, was that he had some kind of aura, an intensity. I knew he was in this, this comedy, all the way. He was in it for the career. At that point he had no career, but I could see that he was going to go for it hard, with all he had.
This was driven home to me one day when I asked what he did outside of class. He did some standup at the Boston Comedy Club, but his main paying gig was as a voiceover guy. In fact he did voiceovers for Burger King. I asked him to do the Burger King voice, and he did. It was instantly recognizable, warm, confident, The Whopper.
I asked him how the whole voice over thing worked, vaguely interested in it, as I was all things related to comedy. He said that if Burger King, for example, hired you for a gig they might call at any time to ask you to come back. There really was no set schedule. So you had to be around, in case they called. If you couldn't make it they gave the gig to someone else, pop, like that. This sunk in: this meant Ed never left the city?
He answered that, yeah, that was pretty much it, he never went anywhere, because he had to be there when the phone rang.
What about leaving town? Trips? Vacations? He looked at me, no, the work was more important. I was stunned. This was Burger King after all, not Shakespeare. But right then I knew that he and I saw this comedy thing very differently. He wasn't just having fun. He wasn't "trying things out" to see if he "liked it." He knew.
There were also other strong and noteworthy improvisers in the class like Dave Lombard and Kevin Hines, both of whom have my admiration to this day.
By contrast I felt at sea for the first half of the class, and wasn't sure, yet again, if I was "cut out" for this whole thing. But again the graduation show was good, and so I went onto Level III. This time something clicked. I loved my class, and felt I was finally starting to get what some of this was all about.
Gradually the UCBT became my life. When I wasn't taking classes, or practicing with my practice group, which became a team, I was seeing shows. And here's where things would impact my television life down the road.
Eight years ago if you went to the UCBT four nights a week, as I sometimes did, you would be almost guaranteed to see, for example, Paul Scheer on stage two to three of those nights. Then I would see that big burly guy as much. Rob Riggle, I learned was his name. There was a sketch team called Naked Babies, who were all astonishing, and always in other stuff. One guy on the team was named Rob Cordry, although they were all amazing. (My favorite was and is Brian Huskey.)
And then on the weekends there was ASSSSSSSCAT, the all-star show featuring the team the Upright Citizens Brigade itself: Amy Poehler, Matt Besser, Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts. Sitting in with them might be Tina Fey, or Rachel Dratch. Or others who wrote for SNL, Conan or what have you. These guys were like The Beatles to me.
This might seem hard to believe but just eight or nine years ago none of these people were really known yet. Tina Fey was almost unrecognizable without her glasses and in a gray sweatshirt. Amy Poehler wasn't yet on SNL. You could catch any of them for less than the cost of a movie, and I sure did.
And while the UCB itself was on its own level, at least to me, there was so much talent at that theater. If you wanted to play spot the future star there were a good 20 names you could have chosen that would have had as much of a chance of becoming showbiz stars as the ones that already have. (Of course many of the people from that era still will.)
I had brushes with many who now are making it. I had a show called "Storytime" and one of the people who signed my mailing list later ended up on "The Office" as their new secretary, replacing Pam. At another show at The Pit I volunteered from the audience and got to do a goofy little scene with Kristen Schaal, later of "Flight Of The Concords." Here there and everywhere I got to either meet, or see perform so many people that later became either stars or at least TV and movie presences. It's made watching the idiot box a bit more personal and a lot more surreal.
Believe me, I am not bragging, it wasn't about me. I just happened to be there, like one of those lucky stiffs who hung around CBGB's back in 1978. Maybe my band never really quite made it but I still am glad I made the scene. It was just that time.
The thing was, I could feel something was happening, I knew things were going to come from this scene. I would try to guess who would go on to do what, but I was mostly wrong. It's like a farmer trying to pick which seed will sprout, it's impossible. (Although I will say the first time I saw Jack McBreyer perform with the team Optimists International I knew, knew, knew he was headed for bigger things. He was just that amazing to watch, that fun, and made it seem so effortless.)
Now all this time later I see Ed, on my TV, every week. He's also on "The Office," and starred in the summer's breakout comedy hit "The Hangover." His last name's Helms of course, and he deserves every bit of his success.
Me? I did a lot of improv but decided that while I may have been more cut out for comedy than I originally thought -- I did end up getting better at it with practice, which is how these things work -- I knew I WASN'T cut out for a life in showbiz. It was too stressful, and I started to become bitter about all the breaks I wasn't getting. This, of course, was ludicrous, because improv owed me nothing. The only way to succeed is to simply become very, very good at it. And to do that you have to be at the theater every night, performing, getting better, having fun. Not because you are worried about the career you don't have, but because you simply love to perform that much. I loved it much less than that, although love it I did.
But from another perspective even if I didn't become an improv, or showbiz, star it gave me everything.
I met Randi through improv in late 2001, and the rest is history, my history. When we got married maybe we should have said "yes and" instead of "I do" on the bima.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Reflections Upon A 2/3 Full Moon
It's 10:34 at stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The little cat, Talisker, is in my lap after an evening of him trying to get into my lap. The other cat, Cromwell, is sitting on our gliding rocker. Randi, the Brooklyn Baby Mama, is up in our bed on the top floor of our Duplex. I have taken to calling that floor The Crow's Nest. Stella, The Brooklyn Baby Baby, is asleep, in her crib.
A quick word about the crib. It was a hand-me-down from my sis. She has two girls, and the younger one is now five years old. So they've been out of the crib a number of years by now. They generously passed it along to us. The only problem is that to get it in and out of our various apartments I've had to assemble and disassemble it now three times. And it's big, wide and doesn't fit through most Brooklyn doorways as is. So I know that no matter what happens I will have to take it apart once more. After that, who knows? We talk about having another kid, someday, the way other people talk of going to Hawaii, someday. We'll get there, probably, but we're in no great rush. Being a high needs baby, like Stella, must convey some serious advantages to first children, because we are so not ready for another bundle of joy right now. We might never be ready. Which means Stella gets all the toys!
Apparently, by the way, this is really what gets kids steamed when a younger sibling comes on the scene. Not sharing parental love, they aren't too upset about that. But sharing stuff. Older siblings absolutely hate having to share their stuff with their younger brattish siblings. Hate it with a passion. Years, even decades later, you can still hear people complaining, bitterly, about how the younger kid came along and took everything. Or you can hear the reverse too, from younger kids, how by the time they came along everything was all used up.
You might think this is impossible, but it's not. In fact the journalist Po Bronson dedicated a whole chapter of his book "Nurtureshock" to how kids find it so hard to share. It can scar people through life and leave a very nasty mark on sibling relations.
So, maybe we won't have another kid so fast. I love Stella, she's the light of my life, etc., but I don't think I could take another kid that doesn't sleep and cries for about five months in a row. This might sound harsh, or cliche, more likely, but the first year and a half of her life was really the best and worst time of my life. The best because ... my daughter was born! The worst because I felt like the lack of sleep mixed with the depression it caused in Randi (which she has bravely addressed here), which was then mixed with the resultant escalating tension in our marriage, which was then mixed with our asshole upstairs neighbor, mixed with the fact that we had peeling lead paint in our old apartment, mixed with living in a place that was like the Union formerly known as the Soviet, mixed with the stress of my job ... it was all a bit like being sucked down the rabbit hole for far too long. And on the other end it wasn't Wonderland. It was barely even Kensington, Brooklyn.
I come out of that experience, and I do feel, thank god, that I am finally coming out of it, a changed man. A better man in some ways, maybe not in others, but definitely a changed man. I am more aware of my frailty, I am more aware of the stress my wife lived through, I am grayer, possibly heavier, maybe even less hearty than I was two years ago. My back hurts a lot, sometimes it's hard for me to get out of a chair, or to bend over. This is from holding the BBB for hours on end as she cried. But it had to be done, and I would do it again. I'm changed in that way too. I would do it all over again, knowing what I know. I guess this means I am more loving, though love doesn't convey what a parent feels when their child needs them, and they're exhausted, but they give it all up for the child, over and over and over again. Love sounds so trite, compared to what that is. It's the life-force, and it's real.
Simply calling it love doesn't convey what a spouse feels when the other spouse is on the brink of collapse and they both decide to work it through, even as the child cries again. And even though you're exhausted you let them sleep, because you care about them. They do the same for you whenever possible. They are now not just your spouse, they are your blood. When they are in pain you surrender and try to make them better, even if it hurts you to do so, even if you can't. You have no choice, your heart won't allow them to suffer so.
But what I have only started to finally realize is that even though I didn't give birth, and I wasn't born on April 14, 2008 my life went through a complete, emotional top to bottom change. Like all true change it was exhilarating, extremely painful and I didn't really understand the extent to which it was taking place. I was forced through some kind of crazy, unknown tube over the course of almost a half a year. I came out the other end a different man. The pressure I endured from all the things above -- which I have only hinted about, I haven't told you all the details and I have my doubts that I ever will -- is only starting to become apparent now. I am only starting to decompress, a little, now. Things are only starting to stabilize, god willing, now. Things are only starting to feel a little bit better, more healthy, more happy, now. And a lot of it is that I am writing again, for you guys, and for myself. So, thank you BBD Nation!
Which isn't to say that having Stella wasn't the best thing that happened to me, it was. But combine a hard child with a home situation fraught with tension, mixed with outside forces making life even harder, as our neighbors did, and you have the makings of something that will change your life.
Honestly? I didn't realize any of this in quite this crystalline a form until I started writing tonight. I thought I was going to write about all the things I do as a dad that are fun and weird. That would have been a fun journal entry, but I will have to save it for another time. I can be fun and weird tomorrow, because I am starting to get back to normal. And I am only starting to get back to normal because I have started to realize what I have gone through. And I have only started to realize what I've gone through because I've written about it. So, thanks again. And sweet dreams. Especially you, Stella.
A quick word about the crib. It was a hand-me-down from my sis. She has two girls, and the younger one is now five years old. So they've been out of the crib a number of years by now. They generously passed it along to us. The only problem is that to get it in and out of our various apartments I've had to assemble and disassemble it now three times. And it's big, wide and doesn't fit through most Brooklyn doorways as is. So I know that no matter what happens I will have to take it apart once more. After that, who knows? We talk about having another kid, someday, the way other people talk of going to Hawaii, someday. We'll get there, probably, but we're in no great rush. Being a high needs baby, like Stella, must convey some serious advantages to first children, because we are so not ready for another bundle of joy right now. We might never be ready. Which means Stella gets all the toys!
Apparently, by the way, this is really what gets kids steamed when a younger sibling comes on the scene. Not sharing parental love, they aren't too upset about that. But sharing stuff. Older siblings absolutely hate having to share their stuff with their younger brattish siblings. Hate it with a passion. Years, even decades later, you can still hear people complaining, bitterly, about how the younger kid came along and took everything. Or you can hear the reverse too, from younger kids, how by the time they came along everything was all used up.
You might think this is impossible, but it's not. In fact the journalist Po Bronson dedicated a whole chapter of his book "Nurtureshock" to how kids find it so hard to share. It can scar people through life and leave a very nasty mark on sibling relations.
So, maybe we won't have another kid so fast. I love Stella, she's the light of my life, etc., but I don't think I could take another kid that doesn't sleep and cries for about five months in a row. This might sound harsh, or cliche, more likely, but the first year and a half of her life was really the best and worst time of my life. The best because ... my daughter was born! The worst because I felt like the lack of sleep mixed with the depression it caused in Randi (which she has bravely addressed here), which was then mixed with the resultant escalating tension in our marriage, which was then mixed with our asshole upstairs neighbor, mixed with the fact that we had peeling lead paint in our old apartment, mixed with living in a place that was like the Union formerly known as the Soviet, mixed with the stress of my job ... it was all a bit like being sucked down the rabbit hole for far too long. And on the other end it wasn't Wonderland. It was barely even Kensington, Brooklyn.
I come out of that experience, and I do feel, thank god, that I am finally coming out of it, a changed man. A better man in some ways, maybe not in others, but definitely a changed man. I am more aware of my frailty, I am more aware of the stress my wife lived through, I am grayer, possibly heavier, maybe even less hearty than I was two years ago. My back hurts a lot, sometimes it's hard for me to get out of a chair, or to bend over. This is from holding the BBB for hours on end as she cried. But it had to be done, and I would do it again. I'm changed in that way too. I would do it all over again, knowing what I know. I guess this means I am more loving, though love doesn't convey what a parent feels when their child needs them, and they're exhausted, but they give it all up for the child, over and over and over again. Love sounds so trite, compared to what that is. It's the life-force, and it's real.
Simply calling it love doesn't convey what a spouse feels when the other spouse is on the brink of collapse and they both decide to work it through, even as the child cries again. And even though you're exhausted you let them sleep, because you care about them. They do the same for you whenever possible. They are now not just your spouse, they are your blood. When they are in pain you surrender and try to make them better, even if it hurts you to do so, even if you can't. You have no choice, your heart won't allow them to suffer so.
But what I have only started to finally realize is that even though I didn't give birth, and I wasn't born on April 14, 2008 my life went through a complete, emotional top to bottom change. Like all true change it was exhilarating, extremely painful and I didn't really understand the extent to which it was taking place. I was forced through some kind of crazy, unknown tube over the course of almost a half a year. I came out the other end a different man. The pressure I endured from all the things above -- which I have only hinted about, I haven't told you all the details and I have my doubts that I ever will -- is only starting to become apparent now. I am only starting to decompress, a little, now. Things are only starting to stabilize, god willing, now. Things are only starting to feel a little bit better, more healthy, more happy, now. And a lot of it is that I am writing again, for you guys, and for myself. So, thank you BBD Nation!
Which isn't to say that having Stella wasn't the best thing that happened to me, it was. But combine a hard child with a home situation fraught with tension, mixed with outside forces making life even harder, as our neighbors did, and you have the makings of something that will change your life.
Honestly? I didn't realize any of this in quite this crystalline a form until I started writing tonight. I thought I was going to write about all the things I do as a dad that are fun and weird. That would have been a fun journal entry, but I will have to save it for another time. I can be fun and weird tomorrow, because I am starting to get back to normal. And I am only starting to get back to normal because I have started to realize what I have gone through. And I have only started to realize what I've gone through because I've written about it. So, thanks again. And sweet dreams. Especially you, Stella.
Monday, September 28, 2009
God Is A Verb
Monday night at stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The Brooklyn Baby Mama is asleep, the Brooklyn Baby Baby is also asleep. The cats are both asleep, with Cromwell on our bed. I tried to sleep, to make the picture complete, but insomnia is a patient and persistent mistress.
Today was Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of Atonement. I don't know how much actual atoning I accomplished, but this was the general idea. We had a very Brooklyn Day of Atonement, it seems. Woke up this morning at 6:30 a.m., earlier than I like, because the baby was crying, bawling really. I tried to rock her back to sleep, but it was no good. So I took her down for some breakfast and watched her eat. After a little while Randi woke up and we got ready for temple. On Yom Kippur there are a lot of things you're not supposed to do: not wear leather, not bathe, not brush your teeth and not eat or drink. The idea is to be a little uncomfortable. I did them all this year.
As we drove to the temple Stella fell asleep, and here's the Brooklyn part, we couldn't find any parking anywhere. Then we realized that if we woke her up to bring her into temple she would probably just cry a lot and run around. So we drove home, and fed her some lunch. Then we went to the playground and she ran around. It was about noon now, and both Randi and I were very cranky. There was some kid running around in a sweatshirt that had a hero sandwich on it, I was like, dammit kid, stay out of my line of sight.
We tried to get Stella in for a nap, but she wasn't having it. Then the idea was to make the 1:30 family service. As we got back to the Duplex Randi passed out stone cold on the couch and Stella was never further from passing out in any way. I decided to try and make the service with just the kid, and see how it goes.
I drove back to Park Slope -- which is five minutes away -- and this time found some parking. We then parked our MacLaren stroller outside the temple (which was really a church borrowed for the occasion by our Jewish group) with all the other MacLarens. We made it inside and Stella even sat in my lap for a minute before getting up to run around. I tried to keep her on a short tether, but it wasn't going to work. I gave up and we went outside. I called my friend Dan to see if he was around and he was. So I walked the two blocks, more or less, to his apartment and we spent a few hours there with him, his wife Becky and their son Abe, who seven and a half months old.
After driving back home we finally broke the fast at 6:30 and it was delicious. We got bagels from this place called The Bagel Hole, which might be a stupid name but they have the best bagels anywhere. We also had lox, cream cheese, of course, and some Kedem grape juice. A very Jewish meal. I wasn't even all that hungry by fast-breaking time, which is how it seems to go with me. I get very hungry around lunch, but if I can make it past there I can fast, it seems, for another day. One day I would like to try that, see how it goes. Maybe even lose some weight the old fashioned way.
So, not necessarily a whole lot of atonement going on this year, but still, Yom Kippur does make me think about a lot of things that are important. One is this idea of trying to ask forgiveness, literally from everyone you know. Even people whom you might not have knowingly offended just to be sure. This is a good idea, a good thing. So, readers, I'm sorry!
Another is that in Judaism the most pious people and the most wicked all repent together, and say the same prayers, and ask for the same forgiveness from god. Showing that we truly are in this all together. Through effort and work you can repair your bond with god, but no praying can repair your bond with other people. That can only happen through effort. I have thought a lot about people I know, and whether I've given them my best. Friends, family members. I am bad at returning calls, I have gotten more closed off, and have not made the efforts I used to in order to connect with people. A lot of that is, of course, having a kid, but this is life and as much as these people might need me, I know I need them more. I don't feel like a whole person when my relationships are put on the back burner too much. Without this contact life is much harder.
I also think about community work and charity work. Every year I think it would be swell to take part in a canned goods drive, or do more to help the environment -- thus literally working on the commandment to heal the world. I can do more.
I also realize that there is one person whom I never forgive, no matter how much I think about it. And that's myself. When I look in the mirror I mostly see my failings, the things I haven't done, the work I haven't completed, the ways I've fallen short. I beat myself up a lot, in ways I never would were it another person. With other people I am very forgiving, I understand, I know that they deserve to be given a break. I almost never do that with myself. Instead I measure myself in ways that are so arbitrary. I see people who look happy, who look like they're doing the types of things I would like to be doing, and I imagine that if only I were more hard working, more honest, more gutsy, more, more, more I could be happy like them. But I'm only me, indolent, afraid of so many things, with a shortage of foresight. That's the way I see myself on many days. I don't know how I started to see the world like this, but it's not healthy and I need for it to stop. For one thing it's self indulgent. For another thing it's not constructive. Action feels good, worrying, not so much. Also this fretting violates the commandment to be joyful, which is truly why we were put on this earth. And I think it's unfair that I've made so many of my friends into my therapists. The truth is I like hearing other people's problems more than admitting my own. I think I'm better at it, sympathetic, but over the past year, at least, the tables have turned too far in the other direction.
Also I am worshiping false idols, in this case what I imagine other people have that I need. This is not rational. Because we are all human. We are all weak. We all fail in important ways. We all let ourselves down, and others. There is not a one among us reading this blog, or writing it, or anywhere, who are only happy. Or only unhappy. I am guilty of reducing complex human interactions, which are so rich because they are so varied, into a four color comic strip. I worship an idea that has no basis in reality, and the idea is always something I can't have. So, in a sense, to feel like a failure based on my imagined insights into other people's lives is to be guilty of covetousness and, as mentioned, worshiping false idols. It also is extremely passive. God is not passive. God is a verb.
All this is to say that in 5770 I need to atone for many things, and for my actions against others. But I also need to atone through action. Participate more, act as if I am part of a community that matters, and be more insightful and understanding with myself. Be my own friend, which I've never really been. Can you be your own frenemy? Well I have been. And that is not what we are here for.
Today was Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of Atonement. I don't know how much actual atoning I accomplished, but this was the general idea. We had a very Brooklyn Day of Atonement, it seems. Woke up this morning at 6:30 a.m., earlier than I like, because the baby was crying, bawling really. I tried to rock her back to sleep, but it was no good. So I took her down for some breakfast and watched her eat. After a little while Randi woke up and we got ready for temple. On Yom Kippur there are a lot of things you're not supposed to do: not wear leather, not bathe, not brush your teeth and not eat or drink. The idea is to be a little uncomfortable. I did them all this year.
As we drove to the temple Stella fell asleep, and here's the Brooklyn part, we couldn't find any parking anywhere. Then we realized that if we woke her up to bring her into temple she would probably just cry a lot and run around. So we drove home, and fed her some lunch. Then we went to the playground and she ran around. It was about noon now, and both Randi and I were very cranky. There was some kid running around in a sweatshirt that had a hero sandwich on it, I was like, dammit kid, stay out of my line of sight.
We tried to get Stella in for a nap, but she wasn't having it. Then the idea was to make the 1:30 family service. As we got back to the Duplex Randi passed out stone cold on the couch and Stella was never further from passing out in any way. I decided to try and make the service with just the kid, and see how it goes.
I drove back to Park Slope -- which is five minutes away -- and this time found some parking. We then parked our MacLaren stroller outside the temple (which was really a church borrowed for the occasion by our Jewish group) with all the other MacLarens. We made it inside and Stella even sat in my lap for a minute before getting up to run around. I tried to keep her on a short tether, but it wasn't going to work. I gave up and we went outside. I called my friend Dan to see if he was around and he was. So I walked the two blocks, more or less, to his apartment and we spent a few hours there with him, his wife Becky and their son Abe, who seven and a half months old.
After driving back home we finally broke the fast at 6:30 and it was delicious. We got bagels from this place called The Bagel Hole, which might be a stupid name but they have the best bagels anywhere. We also had lox, cream cheese, of course, and some Kedem grape juice. A very Jewish meal. I wasn't even all that hungry by fast-breaking time, which is how it seems to go with me. I get very hungry around lunch, but if I can make it past there I can fast, it seems, for another day. One day I would like to try that, see how it goes. Maybe even lose some weight the old fashioned way.
So, not necessarily a whole lot of atonement going on this year, but still, Yom Kippur does make me think about a lot of things that are important. One is this idea of trying to ask forgiveness, literally from everyone you know. Even people whom you might not have knowingly offended just to be sure. This is a good idea, a good thing. So, readers, I'm sorry!
Another is that in Judaism the most pious people and the most wicked all repent together, and say the same prayers, and ask for the same forgiveness from god. Showing that we truly are in this all together. Through effort and work you can repair your bond with god, but no praying can repair your bond with other people. That can only happen through effort. I have thought a lot about people I know, and whether I've given them my best. Friends, family members. I am bad at returning calls, I have gotten more closed off, and have not made the efforts I used to in order to connect with people. A lot of that is, of course, having a kid, but this is life and as much as these people might need me, I know I need them more. I don't feel like a whole person when my relationships are put on the back burner too much. Without this contact life is much harder.
I also think about community work and charity work. Every year I think it would be swell to take part in a canned goods drive, or do more to help the environment -- thus literally working on the commandment to heal the world. I can do more.
I also realize that there is one person whom I never forgive, no matter how much I think about it. And that's myself. When I look in the mirror I mostly see my failings, the things I haven't done, the work I haven't completed, the ways I've fallen short. I beat myself up a lot, in ways I never would were it another person. With other people I am very forgiving, I understand, I know that they deserve to be given a break. I almost never do that with myself. Instead I measure myself in ways that are so arbitrary. I see people who look happy, who look like they're doing the types of things I would like to be doing, and I imagine that if only I were more hard working, more honest, more gutsy, more, more, more I could be happy like them. But I'm only me, indolent, afraid of so many things, with a shortage of foresight. That's the way I see myself on many days. I don't know how I started to see the world like this, but it's not healthy and I need for it to stop. For one thing it's self indulgent. For another thing it's not constructive. Action feels good, worrying, not so much. Also this fretting violates the commandment to be joyful, which is truly why we were put on this earth. And I think it's unfair that I've made so many of my friends into my therapists. The truth is I like hearing other people's problems more than admitting my own. I think I'm better at it, sympathetic, but over the past year, at least, the tables have turned too far in the other direction.
Also I am worshiping false idols, in this case what I imagine other people have that I need. This is not rational. Because we are all human. We are all weak. We all fail in important ways. We all let ourselves down, and others. There is not a one among us reading this blog, or writing it, or anywhere, who are only happy. Or only unhappy. I am guilty of reducing complex human interactions, which are so rich because they are so varied, into a four color comic strip. I worship an idea that has no basis in reality, and the idea is always something I can't have. So, in a sense, to feel like a failure based on my imagined insights into other people's lives is to be guilty of covetousness and, as mentioned, worshiping false idols. It also is extremely passive. God is not passive. God is a verb.
All this is to say that in 5770 I need to atone for many things, and for my actions against others. But I also need to atone through action. Participate more, act as if I am part of a community that matters, and be more insightful and understanding with myself. Be my own friend, which I've never really been. Can you be your own frenemy? Well I have been. And that is not what we are here for.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Other People's Kids
Sunday evening here, in stately Brooklyn Baby Daddy Mansions. The child is a asleep, the wife is asleep for now, though she will surely wake up for "Mad Men" at 10:00 p.m. Our cat Cromwell is meowing about something, I don't' know what, and it's Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. It's a serious day, the most serious in all the Jewish year. Is it the holiest? I am not sure, I think Shabbat is actually more important, and that comes ever week, not every year.
Our pre-fasting meal was chili, not exactly what Moses commanded from the mountain, but, as Randi said, it's not like the ancient Jews had bagels either. The important thing is that I ate a lot of it, and it was good. I'm not eating at all tomorrow of course.
Randi's show ended last night, and she celebrated by going out and having fun. She stayed out late, which was fine with me. I was glad that she got to have a good time.
I've gotten to take Stella, the Brooklyn Baby Baby to the playground a lot over the past few weeks. I'm that dad you see following his kid around everywhere she goes. She goes up on the jungle gym, I'm a step behind. She runs around the rubber mat on the playground I am right behind her. If she's hungry I get some food, or some water. I try not to dominate her playtime, and I especially try to not dominate her interaction with other kids, but sometimes I have to intercede. This is the danger of Stella interacting with Other People's Kids.
Of course as parents we divide the world in two. Our kids, the light, the sunshine, the joy of our lives -- except for when they don't sleep and make us want to jump from the nearest open window -- and Other People's Kids. And Other People's Kids can be a wildly mixed bag.
Now, if you are a parent and reading this, you should automatically know I am not talking about YOUR kid. Your kid is perfect, almost as perfect as my kid, in fact. We're friends, right, and our kids will surely be friends ... right?
No, it's those Other People's Kids that are really getting to me. Here are some examples.
We were at the Tot Lot, a playground designed for toddlers, as the name implies!, and there were a bunch of bigger pre-schoolers, or even schoolers I guess, running around, dominating everything. Their parents, these Other People, just laughed, and continued their video-taping.
One kid, a little boy I'll call Jack comes to mind. On the Tot Lot jungle gym, you know, the one designed for tots, there is a little Plexiglas bubble for the little tykes to stick their head into. It's fun for them, and what not. Well, Stella wanted to do it. So she pokes her head in, but before she could get too far Jack, who is probably four or five years old by the way, pushes her aside and sticks his head into the Plexiglas bubble. Mind you this bubble had been empty.
"Mine!" the little brat screams, totally unaware that he could have hurt my kid. At this point my blood began to boil, and Jack is lucky he wasn't near an open window. Making matters worse his dad was standing right there and missed the whole episode.
"Now Jack," he said, "you have to share."
Jack shot back something that was oddly perfect "Sharing is nothing!" Which might be true, but that's really not the point.
"Jack," I said, "this is the tot lot. For little kids. The other playground is for big kids like you."
He looked bewildered. "It is?"
"Yes," I said, "and you can play here ... if you share."
Then I picked Stella up and walked away, as Jack sputtered in the background, while his dad placidly did nothing. I think I had just hit Little Jack with his first Zen koan.
There are other Other People's Kids too. Like the little girl at the party today who pushed Stella aside and knocked her down for no good reason.
Then there's the little blue-eyed boy, maybe two years old, who shoved my kid aside at the playground and refused to let her play at the fake counter top in the tot lot. (It's some plastic molded to resemble the counter top at a bodega.) Each time I wanted to take these kids, and scare them, let them know that just because they're two, it doesn't mean everyone else in the world is one.
But that would be silly. These are just children, and their parents, almost to the person are just as nice as I am, and do their best to teach their children to be kind, to share. It's just that sometimes they don't. To which I say thank god these are other people's kids.
Our pre-fasting meal was chili, not exactly what Moses commanded from the mountain, but, as Randi said, it's not like the ancient Jews had bagels either. The important thing is that I ate a lot of it, and it was good. I'm not eating at all tomorrow of course.
Randi's show ended last night, and she celebrated by going out and having fun. She stayed out late, which was fine with me. I was glad that she got to have a good time.
I've gotten to take Stella, the Brooklyn Baby Baby to the playground a lot over the past few weeks. I'm that dad you see following his kid around everywhere she goes. She goes up on the jungle gym, I'm a step behind. She runs around the rubber mat on the playground I am right behind her. If she's hungry I get some food, or some water. I try not to dominate her playtime, and I especially try to not dominate her interaction with other kids, but sometimes I have to intercede. This is the danger of Stella interacting with Other People's Kids.
Of course as parents we divide the world in two. Our kids, the light, the sunshine, the joy of our lives -- except for when they don't sleep and make us want to jump from the nearest open window -- and Other People's Kids. And Other People's Kids can be a wildly mixed bag.
Now, if you are a parent and reading this, you should automatically know I am not talking about YOUR kid. Your kid is perfect, almost as perfect as my kid, in fact. We're friends, right, and our kids will surely be friends ... right?
No, it's those Other People's Kids that are really getting to me. Here are some examples.
We were at the Tot Lot, a playground designed for toddlers, as the name implies!, and there were a bunch of bigger pre-schoolers, or even schoolers I guess, running around, dominating everything. Their parents, these Other People, just laughed, and continued their video-taping.
One kid, a little boy I'll call Jack comes to mind. On the Tot Lot jungle gym, you know, the one designed for tots, there is a little Plexiglas bubble for the little tykes to stick their head into. It's fun for them, and what not. Well, Stella wanted to do it. So she pokes her head in, but before she could get too far Jack, who is probably four or five years old by the way, pushes her aside and sticks his head into the Plexiglas bubble. Mind you this bubble had been empty.
"Mine!" the little brat screams, totally unaware that he could have hurt my kid. At this point my blood began to boil, and Jack is lucky he wasn't near an open window. Making matters worse his dad was standing right there and missed the whole episode.
"Now Jack," he said, "you have to share."
Jack shot back something that was oddly perfect "Sharing is nothing!" Which might be true, but that's really not the point.
"Jack," I said, "this is the tot lot. For little kids. The other playground is for big kids like you."
He looked bewildered. "It is?"
"Yes," I said, "and you can play here ... if you share."
Then I picked Stella up and walked away, as Jack sputtered in the background, while his dad placidly did nothing. I think I had just hit Little Jack with his first Zen koan.
There are other Other People's Kids too. Like the little girl at the party today who pushed Stella aside and knocked her down for no good reason.
Then there's the little blue-eyed boy, maybe two years old, who shoved my kid aside at the playground and refused to let her play at the fake counter top in the tot lot. (It's some plastic molded to resemble the counter top at a bodega.) Each time I wanted to take these kids, and scare them, let them know that just because they're two, it doesn't mean everyone else in the world is one.
But that would be silly. These are just children, and their parents, almost to the person are just as nice as I am, and do their best to teach their children to be kind, to share. It's just that sometimes they don't. To which I say thank god these are other people's kids.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
What Is Success?
Sitting home tonight, as Randi wraps up her clinic in entertaining a crowd at Expressing Motherhood. In her bio for the show she said she was married to blogger David Serchuk. Maybe I should put that on my tax forms?
The cats are doing their thing, Stella's baby monitor is humming in the background (I am hearing her white noise machine) and the place is kind of a wreck. I have all these "anti spyware" popups all over my computer, which, of course ARE spyware.
In my brief exercise in out-loud thought tonight I am going to wonder about success. Just what is it? And how can I feel like I have it, or more of it? And does anyone feel like a total success, or do we all have battles that we pick and choose in order to feel successful?
I grew up the son of a very successful, self-made businessman. I was then, and remain very proud of my dad for his hard work, brilliant brain, tenacity and creativity. And for the fact that he could provide a comfortable living for his brood. On the surface of things I should have simply tried to replicate his success, go into his line of work, at his company, that he made. But I didn't. A few things happened and I will try to explain them succinctly.
One problem is I found I really, really liked writing. Even loved it sometimes, when it went well. My heroes started to become all these weird writer guys, sometimes around age 14, or so, when most of us start to formulate stronger ideas about who we are and what we do.
Another thing is that my parents separated when I was 11 and divorced when I was 17, with six hard, acrimonious years in between. During these key years I started to question what it's all about, as I saw my dad a good deal less than I had when my parents were together. But even when they were together he would frequently leave for long business trips. I started to call the whole enterprise into question. What is this "success" if it drives you away from your family for long stretches of time, and impacts relationships with those you love? What good is money without family? When do you go past sacrificing for your family to make a better life for them to sacrificing your family life for ... for what exactly?
As a teenager, though I didn't realize it, I started to become very dubious of the whole idea of becoming a big success in business. It seemed, from my view, that to spend your life pursuing the dollar, and power, would no doubt hurt those who need you the most, no matter how well you did.
I thought I would try something different. I would aim, perhaps, for the middle, at least financially. Writers, at least those on staff at real publications, do okay, but they're also doing what the love, and they don't have to sacrifice all their time, and their spirit, in order to do what they do. It would be a way to do what I care about, make the world better, do well enough to be comfortable and be with those I love.
In the past few years I've come to see a whole bunch of flaws in my original conception, of course. Being in business, for example, doesn't have to mean anything about how the person in question conducts their affairs. Whatever issues we had growing up, these were issues from my family, not because my dad was in business. It's just as easy to be unhappy and poor, as unhappy and well-enough off. There are just as many self-centered writers, to be sure, as anything else.
I've started to reconsider what I consider success. First of all, as I get older, and this is the truth, money is getting more and more important. Not for me so much. I will never be greedy, and, if it were just me, I could live simply, and close to the ground. But for Stella, the Brooklyn Baby Baby. How will I pay for the things we need? How will she go to school? Will we ever own our own home? Will she look down on me for not doing all that great? Will she think I've failed in the most basic way a dad can fail: to provide the essentials of life? Have I sacrificed her happiness for my own -- which I vowed, way back when, I would never do?
Needless to say, growing up I didn't worry about money at all. Want to know why? Because we had it.
And my plan, launched way back when, has not been fool-proof. I am a writer, and editor, at a major news source, but I'm not living as comfortably at 37 as I thought I would be. I imagined, without admitting it that somehow, magically, I would just kind of wake up one day as an adult, comfortable, doing what I like and supporting my family well enough. I am about half way there, it feels, on many days.
I could work longer hours, yes, but that would keep me away from Stella and Randi, and drive me exactly into the type of situation I hoped avoid: not seeing my family all that much, focused pretty much only on getting ahead, and isolated. If I don't do that, though, it is also a sacrifice. I work hard, and do my job well, but I'm not somewhere over the rainbow. I'm in a two bedroom duplex in Brooklyn that costs $1700 a month, and we're overjoyed we didn't have to pay a broker's fee.
So that's where I'm at tonight my friends. I hope I figure it out someday. What about you? How do you define success? Are you there yet?
The cats are doing their thing, Stella's baby monitor is humming in the background (I am hearing her white noise machine) and the place is kind of a wreck. I have all these "anti spyware" popups all over my computer, which, of course ARE spyware.
In my brief exercise in out-loud thought tonight I am going to wonder about success. Just what is it? And how can I feel like I have it, or more of it? And does anyone feel like a total success, or do we all have battles that we pick and choose in order to feel successful?
I grew up the son of a very successful, self-made businessman. I was then, and remain very proud of my dad for his hard work, brilliant brain, tenacity and creativity. And for the fact that he could provide a comfortable living for his brood. On the surface of things I should have simply tried to replicate his success, go into his line of work, at his company, that he made. But I didn't. A few things happened and I will try to explain them succinctly.
One problem is I found I really, really liked writing. Even loved it sometimes, when it went well. My heroes started to become all these weird writer guys, sometimes around age 14, or so, when most of us start to formulate stronger ideas about who we are and what we do.
Another thing is that my parents separated when I was 11 and divorced when I was 17, with six hard, acrimonious years in between. During these key years I started to question what it's all about, as I saw my dad a good deal less than I had when my parents were together. But even when they were together he would frequently leave for long business trips. I started to call the whole enterprise into question. What is this "success" if it drives you away from your family for long stretches of time, and impacts relationships with those you love? What good is money without family? When do you go past sacrificing for your family to make a better life for them to sacrificing your family life for ... for what exactly?
As a teenager, though I didn't realize it, I started to become very dubious of the whole idea of becoming a big success in business. It seemed, from my view, that to spend your life pursuing the dollar, and power, would no doubt hurt those who need you the most, no matter how well you did.
I thought I would try something different. I would aim, perhaps, for the middle, at least financially. Writers, at least those on staff at real publications, do okay, but they're also doing what the love, and they don't have to sacrifice all their time, and their spirit, in order to do what they do. It would be a way to do what I care about, make the world better, do well enough to be comfortable and be with those I love.
In the past few years I've come to see a whole bunch of flaws in my original conception, of course. Being in business, for example, doesn't have to mean anything about how the person in question conducts their affairs. Whatever issues we had growing up, these were issues from my family, not because my dad was in business. It's just as easy to be unhappy and poor, as unhappy and well-enough off. There are just as many self-centered writers, to be sure, as anything else.
I've started to reconsider what I consider success. First of all, as I get older, and this is the truth, money is getting more and more important. Not for me so much. I will never be greedy, and, if it were just me, I could live simply, and close to the ground. But for Stella, the Brooklyn Baby Baby. How will I pay for the things we need? How will she go to school? Will we ever own our own home? Will she look down on me for not doing all that great? Will she think I've failed in the most basic way a dad can fail: to provide the essentials of life? Have I sacrificed her happiness for my own -- which I vowed, way back when, I would never do?
Needless to say, growing up I didn't worry about money at all. Want to know why? Because we had it.
And my plan, launched way back when, has not been fool-proof. I am a writer, and editor, at a major news source, but I'm not living as comfortably at 37 as I thought I would be. I imagined, without admitting it that somehow, magically, I would just kind of wake up one day as an adult, comfortable, doing what I like and supporting my family well enough. I am about half way there, it feels, on many days.
I could work longer hours, yes, but that would keep me away from Stella and Randi, and drive me exactly into the type of situation I hoped avoid: not seeing my family all that much, focused pretty much only on getting ahead, and isolated. If I don't do that, though, it is also a sacrifice. I work hard, and do my job well, but I'm not somewhere over the rainbow. I'm in a two bedroom duplex in Brooklyn that costs $1700 a month, and we're overjoyed we didn't have to pay a broker's fee.
So that's where I'm at tonight my friends. I hope I figure it out someday. What about you? How do you define success? Are you there yet?
Friday, September 25, 2009
What's Happening?
Hi All,
Randi's out, kicking ass at the show Expressing Motherhood. I, David Serchuk, the Brooklyn Baby Daddy am home with two irritating cats, and a daughter that is sleeping like an angel. I almost wrong angle, but that would have made so little sense.
Yes, for those few, hardy long-time readers of this blog (hi Randi!), you read it right. Stella is sleeping peacefully, in her bedroom in our new apartment, still in Brooklyn. If you remember anything about the first year or so of her life, and of this blog, pretty much all I did was bitch about how little sleep we got. And we did! It was a hellish freaking nightmare, made much, much worse by the fact that none of our friends could relate to it. And every other parent we knew seemed to have one of those kids who just, "I don't what I did to deserve this luck!" passed out like Falstaff.
But over the past month or so, the BBB has gotten into this weird habit of, um, sleeping at night. It sounds strange right, I don't know what made her change her mind, because, god fucking knows, we didn't.
So all the way around parenting has been a lot more fun over the past month, September's been really nice in the city, crisp cool air, it's cool to wear my tweed blazer again, and the leaves have yet to turn. I always hate fall, it reminds of me of school, the end of fun and homework. But as it goes on I always in turn realize how much I love it too, the leaves, as I mentioned, not being crazy ass hot all the time, the Jewish New Year -- which I love -- Yom Kippur. A time for reflection, and renewal in a way. Not a time of death after all, or at least the gateway to death, but a time to think about things, and try to make things better.
Stella is 17 months old now, and walking and even running. She's getting friends at the playground, calls me "Dada" on a regular basis, eats like a horse, sits in my lap when I point to it, and is in general a total joy.
Randi has been much happier since going back to work part time. We've had to put Stella in daycare for two days a week, which I initially vowed I would never do, but it had to happen, because I wasn't all that into the idea of being Mr. Mom. In this economy that would quickly turn into Mr. Unemployed Mom.
But Stella-bella likes daycare, the women who work there tell me. She cries every time I drop her off, but I think it's because she misses me, not because she hates being there. Sometimes when Randi picks her up she's even in a good mood.
I wish I had all these funny, insightful things to say about being a dad, but tonight I just don't. I worked all day today, and took care of the kid by myself after Randi split, and it's been cool. The new place is very nice, albeit we're still moving into it. We might sue our old landlords for being such goddamned sonsabitches. And I hope our old upstairs neighbor, the noisy, rude, Russian one, get a case of never ending, bleeding anal fissures, capped with degenerative gum disease and that an AIDS-soaked rat masturbates into his nose. For starters.
But other than that, things are going great!
Randi's out, kicking ass at the show Expressing Motherhood. I, David Serchuk, the Brooklyn Baby Daddy am home with two irritating cats, and a daughter that is sleeping like an angel. I almost wrong angle, but that would have made so little sense.
Yes, for those few, hardy long-time readers of this blog (hi Randi!), you read it right. Stella is sleeping peacefully, in her bedroom in our new apartment, still in Brooklyn. If you remember anything about the first year or so of her life, and of this blog, pretty much all I did was bitch about how little sleep we got. And we did! It was a hellish freaking nightmare, made much, much worse by the fact that none of our friends could relate to it. And every other parent we knew seemed to have one of those kids who just, "I don't what I did to deserve this luck!" passed out like Falstaff.
But over the past month or so, the BBB has gotten into this weird habit of, um, sleeping at night. It sounds strange right, I don't know what made her change her mind, because, god fucking knows, we didn't.
So all the way around parenting has been a lot more fun over the past month, September's been really nice in the city, crisp cool air, it's cool to wear my tweed blazer again, and the leaves have yet to turn. I always hate fall, it reminds of me of school, the end of fun and homework. But as it goes on I always in turn realize how much I love it too, the leaves, as I mentioned, not being crazy ass hot all the time, the Jewish New Year -- which I love -- Yom Kippur. A time for reflection, and renewal in a way. Not a time of death after all, or at least the gateway to death, but a time to think about things, and try to make things better.
Stella is 17 months old now, and walking and even running. She's getting friends at the playground, calls me "Dada" on a regular basis, eats like a horse, sits in my lap when I point to it, and is in general a total joy.
Randi has been much happier since going back to work part time. We've had to put Stella in daycare for two days a week, which I initially vowed I would never do, but it had to happen, because I wasn't all that into the idea of being Mr. Mom. In this economy that would quickly turn into Mr. Unemployed Mom.
But Stella-bella likes daycare, the women who work there tell me. She cries every time I drop her off, but I think it's because she misses me, not because she hates being there. Sometimes when Randi picks her up she's even in a good mood.
I wish I had all these funny, insightful things to say about being a dad, but tonight I just don't. I worked all day today, and took care of the kid by myself after Randi split, and it's been cool. The new place is very nice, albeit we're still moving into it. We might sue our old landlords for being such goddamned sonsabitches. And I hope our old upstairs neighbor, the noisy, rude, Russian one, get a case of never ending, bleeding anal fissures, capped with degenerative gum disease and that an AIDS-soaked rat masturbates into his nose. For starters.
But other than that, things are going great!
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