Thursday
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4/9/05
Choices
It was at the very end of the nineteen fifties that a fresh-faced girl all of nineteen years old stepped off a Lockheed Constellation at LaGuardia airport and made her way into the city that never sleeps. It wasnt long before she met a young man with whom she shared a love of many of the things that the city had to offer; certainly for the two of them living in Manhattan was all about coffee houses, cocktail parties, Ranger games, museums and the theatre.
And once again she wasted no time making the next step: they were married in 1960 amongst friends in a simple ceremony at All Souls. Afterwards their busy social lives continued much as before until 1965 when she gave birth to a boy who would be her only son and was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me.
In any case, I spent the next seven or eight years growing up in a modest apartment behind which there was a small expanse of pavement on which my cohorts and I were allowed run around, ride Big Wheels and chase each other as children will. There was actually a large park not too far away when we needed more than the pavement could offer us, and yet it was just far enough that getting there by myself wasnt an option.
In short, by the early seventies the days when I was an infant and then a toddler easily kept within the safety of arms reach were long gone; indeed, I had since grown into an age at which I simply needed more safe, clean space in which to run, chase and grow than the city would ever be able to provide. My parents had a decision to make.
It's actually been a long time since I thought much about my early childhood, but it all came rushing back after reading a recent MetroDad post which notes that a growing number of blogging parents are expressing qualms about raising children under similar urban pressures. Not only did reading about these issues strike a chord with me, but my guess is that the reservations expressed by this first generation of blogging parents will only increase in frequency and intensity as their infants and toddlers grow into older children who need ever more autonomy and independence just as I did.
Now to be fair, it must be much easier to raise a child in the city today than when I was that age. After all, anyone my age or older can tell you that the decaying New York of the early seventies seemed as if it was collapsing into ungovernable chaos. Whole neighborhoods were crumbling and the sidewalks were simultaneously home to mountains of garbage abandoned by the city and to the homeless who had been abandoned by society after the mass de-institutionalizations of the Sixties. Moreover, the once noble dream of public housing was turning into a nightmare of drug-fueled anarchy, and entire blocks of the South Bronx were simply allowed to burn to the ground.
Oh, cheer up, Evan. As MetroDad points out there are a great many advantages to hanging your familial hat in the heart of the greatest city in the world these days; there is certainly nowhere else with the same energy, density and diversity of people, restaurants, clubs, theatre, and museums. Heck, New York is the greatest comeback kid in history.
But still... as I watch my boys running free with their friends through the back yards in our little corner of suburbia I am reminded that I owe my parents great debt of gratitude for making that same choice for me.
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4/9/05
Choices
It was at the very end of the nineteen fifties that a fresh-faced girl all of nineteen years old stepped off a Lockheed Constellation at LaGuardia airport and made her way into the city that never sleeps. It wasnt long before she met a young man with whom she shared a love of many of the things that the city had to offer; certainly for the two of them living in Manhattan was all about coffee houses, cocktail parties, Ranger games, museums and the theatre.
And once again she wasted no time making the next step: they were married in 1960 amongst friends in a simple ceremony at All Souls. Afterwards their busy social lives continued much as before until 1965 when she gave birth to a boy who would be her only son and was otherwise only remarkable for his striking resemblance to me.
In any case, I spent the next seven or eight years growing up in a modest apartment behind which there was a small expanse of pavement on which my cohorts and I were allowed run around, ride Big Wheels and chase each other as children will. There was actually a large park not too far away when we needed more than the pavement could offer us, and yet it was just far enough that getting there by myself wasnt an option.
In short, by the early seventies the days when I was an infant and then a toddler easily kept within the safety of arms reach were long gone; indeed, I had since grown into an age at which I simply needed more safe, clean space in which to run, chase and grow than the city would ever be able to provide. My parents had a decision to make.
~ ~ ~
It's actually been a long time since I thought much about my early childhood, but it all came rushing back after reading a recent MetroDad post which notes that a growing number of blogging parents are expressing qualms about raising children under similar urban pressures. Not only did reading about these issues strike a chord with me, but my guess is that the reservations expressed by this first generation of blogging parents will only increase in frequency and intensity as their infants and toddlers grow into older children who need ever more autonomy and independence just as I did.
Now to be fair, it must be much easier to raise a child in the city today than when I was that age. After all, anyone my age or older can tell you that the decaying New York of the early seventies seemed as if it was collapsing into ungovernable chaos. Whole neighborhoods were crumbling and the sidewalks were simultaneously home to mountains of garbage abandoned by the city and to the homeless who had been abandoned by society after the mass de-institutionalizations of the Sixties. Moreover, the once noble dream of public housing was turning into a nightmare of drug-fueled anarchy, and entire blocks of the South Bronx were simply allowed to burn to the ground.
Oh, cheer up, Evan. As MetroDad points out there are a great many advantages to hanging your familial hat in the heart of the greatest city in the world these days; there is certainly nowhere else with the same energy, density and diversity of people, restaurants, clubs, theatre, and museums. Heck, New York is the greatest comeback kid in history.
But still... as I watch my boys running free with their friends through the back yards in our little corner of suburbia I am reminded that I owe my parents great debt of gratitude for making that same choice for me.
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4/6/05
The Big Payoff
Picture, if you will, a crisp, sunny Saturday morning in February. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, the sky is a perfect crystalline blue, and the birds are singing. Ah, I'll bet you can even smell the fresh pine and wood smoke in the air in such an idyllic setting, can you not? Well, this is not just any Saturday morning however; it is 1996 and I am holding a mildly cranky seven month old as my Lovely Bride closes the front door behind her as she leaves for yet another tax-season Saturday of work in the city.
She will be gone for the day. All day. My first-born son and I peer out the front window with a vaguely forlorn air as her car recedes into the distance until it finally disappears around the corner. We are alone. Utterly alone.
Then, the squirming begins. I make soothing noises. He understands them for the empty promises they are and the battle begins in earnest. Offers of Cheerios and juice are made, and just as quickly rejected. Barney is made to appear on the television, but on this particular morning the purple dinosaur's advances are spurned out of hand by my little theater critic. Threats of incarceration in the playpen and swing-chair are out of the question; I know I wouldnt be able to bear the shrieks of righteous indignation at such confinement. Our eyes narrow as we face each other down.
What a difference nine years makes. This morning the sky is again a perfect crystalline blue and the birds are singing; yet my first-born and I have just wrapped up a very different routine. He has spent his morning getting dressed, packing his knapsack and wolfing down a few waffles in preparation for climbing on the big yellow bus that will whisk him away to a classroom full of other fourth graders where he will presumably be taught things the adult world feels he should know.
So, as I watched the school bus pull away this morning I was again struck by how much richer and satisfying our lives have become as our two boys have grown. Indeed, dealing with verbally accomplished bipeds is worlds easier and, quite frankly, a lot more gratifying than trying to connect with an infant who is perpetually frustrated at being unable get up and go where he wants to go or say what he wants to say.
We connect in so many different ways now; there are books and movies we all enjoy, we exchange ideas about what they're learning in school, they now enjoy sharing adult food such as steak and seafood, and trips to museums such as the Met are satisfying for all involved.
And even better, after I help them with their homework this afternoon there will be just enough time for some batting practice in the back yard and maybe even a little two-on-one basketball in the driveway. It really is a hell of a great payoff.
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4/6/05
The Big Payoff
Picture, if you will, a crisp, sunny Saturday morning in February. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, the sky is a perfect crystalline blue, and the birds are singing. Ah, I'll bet you can even smell the fresh pine and wood smoke in the air in such an idyllic setting, can you not? Well, this is not just any Saturday morning however; it is 1996 and I am holding a mildly cranky seven month old as my Lovely Bride closes the front door behind her as she leaves for yet another tax-season Saturday of work in the city.
She will be gone for the day. All day. My first-born son and I peer out the front window with a vaguely forlorn air as her car recedes into the distance until it finally disappears around the corner. We are alone. Utterly alone.
Then, the squirming begins. I make soothing noises. He understands them for the empty promises they are and the battle begins in earnest. Offers of Cheerios and juice are made, and just as quickly rejected. Barney is made to appear on the television, but on this particular morning the purple dinosaur's advances are spurned out of hand by my little theater critic. Threats of incarceration in the playpen and swing-chair are out of the question; I know I wouldnt be able to bear the shrieks of righteous indignation at such confinement. Our eyes narrow as we face each other down.
~ ~ ~
What a difference nine years makes. This morning the sky is again a perfect crystalline blue and the birds are singing; yet my first-born and I have just wrapped up a very different routine. He has spent his morning getting dressed, packing his knapsack and wolfing down a few waffles in preparation for climbing on the big yellow bus that will whisk him away to a classroom full of other fourth graders where he will presumably be taught things the adult world feels he should know.
So, as I watched the school bus pull away this morning I was again struck by how much richer and satisfying our lives have become as our two boys have grown. Indeed, dealing with verbally accomplished bipeds is worlds easier and, quite frankly, a lot more gratifying than trying to connect with an infant who is perpetually frustrated at being unable get up and go where he wants to go or say what he wants to say.
We connect in so many different ways now; there are books and movies we all enjoy, we exchange ideas about what they're learning in school, they now enjoy sharing adult food such as steak and seafood, and trips to museums such as the Met are satisfying for all involved.
And even better, after I help them with their homework this afternoon there will be just enough time for some batting practice in the back yard and maybe even a little two-on-one basketball in the driveway. It really is a hell of a great payoff.
.
Sunday
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3/31/05
The Show That Never Ends
I am, as it has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion, intellectually disorganized. I suppose on a metaphysical level I resemble Charlie Brown's pal Pig Pen, only instead of dirt I'm perpetually surrounded by a cloud of half finished thoughts, positions, ideas and even notions.
Peering into that perambulating cloud that follows me during all my waking hours will reveal, for instance, that I have no firm position on what's an appropriate amount of television or video games for the boys. Neither do I have a clear stance on a reasonable balance between the bureaucratic use of eminent domain and the rights of private property holders. Or how firm I should be about bedtime. You know, that sort of thing.
Anyway, as with any disorganized sort of person, I find that it makes me feel better to occasionally take stock of the few things about which I am absolutely certain. Things like the fact that hardcore Libertarians are delusional. To wit: "Yes, left on its own, industry will do what's best for its customers." Ha, hahahahahahahhahaha. Ahem.
In any case, another thing about which I am absolutely certain is that the conflicts within, and the decisions made by Terri Schiavo's family are none of my damn business. It is, of course, all over for Ms. Schiavo now, but certainly the conflict will continue between those who would choose to resolve these issues with private dignity and those who are driven by an ideology that is as fierce as it is public.
Actually the whole affair strikes me as yet another event that exposes America for what it is: one giant, dysfunctional family, half of whom are oblivious to how small and sad they appear as they shriek at the rest of us on what has become a national Jerry Springer show. And of course the irony is only sweetened when you realize that it's those very same ideological bullies who can't for the life of them understand why the rest of the civilized world glances at us sideways and then backs slowly away as one does from that disheveled guy who yells at the voices in his head on the platform of the 7 train.
But I digress. I suppose in the end I'm not going to bother anybody with my own little opinion about whether Michael Schiavo made the right choice. (Oh alright, he did.) But there is one last thing of which I am certain: as long as there are those like Tom Delay who are allowed to wallow unchecked in their own hypocrisy and shriek at us from across the stage, our national Jerry Springer show will run on in syndication forever.
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3/31/05
The Show That Never Ends
I am, as it has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion, intellectually disorganized. I suppose on a metaphysical level I resemble Charlie Brown's pal Pig Pen, only instead of dirt I'm perpetually surrounded by a cloud of half finished thoughts, positions, ideas and even notions.
Peering into that perambulating cloud that follows me during all my waking hours will reveal, for instance, that I have no firm position on what's an appropriate amount of television or video games for the boys. Neither do I have a clear stance on a reasonable balance between the bureaucratic use of eminent domain and the rights of private property holders. Or how firm I should be about bedtime. You know, that sort of thing.
Anyway, as with any disorganized sort of person, I find that it makes me feel better to occasionally take stock of the few things about which I am absolutely certain. Things like the fact that hardcore Libertarians are delusional. To wit: "Yes, left on its own, industry will do what's best for its customers." Ha, hahahahahahahhahaha. Ahem.
In any case, another thing about which I am absolutely certain is that the conflicts within, and the decisions made by Terri Schiavo's family are none of my damn business. It is, of course, all over for Ms. Schiavo now, but certainly the conflict will continue between those who would choose to resolve these issues with private dignity and those who are driven by an ideology that is as fierce as it is public.
Actually the whole affair strikes me as yet another event that exposes America for what it is: one giant, dysfunctional family, half of whom are oblivious to how small and sad they appear as they shriek at the rest of us on what has become a national Jerry Springer show. And of course the irony is only sweetened when you realize that it's those very same ideological bullies who can't for the life of them understand why the rest of the civilized world glances at us sideways and then backs slowly away as one does from that disheveled guy who yells at the voices in his head on the platform of the 7 train.
But I digress. I suppose in the end I'm not going to bother anybody with my own little opinion about whether Michael Schiavo made the right choice. (Oh alright, he did.) But there is one last thing of which I am certain: as long as there are those like Tom Delay who are allowed to wallow unchecked in their own hypocrisy and shriek at us from across the stage, our national Jerry Springer show will run on in syndication forever.
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3/28/05
No, My Boys Are The Cutest.
As I sit here this morning, staring bleary eyed at my inbox and trying to wake up, I am sorely tempted to start blogging about our Easter. All about our adorable boys, how well behaved they were in church, the outstanding egg hunt put on by my mom, and the culinary bliss of a prime rib dinner. We drank some pretty good Merlot and talked books, music, politics and... well, end of life healthcare issues ala Ms. Schiavo. Go figure. But did we top it all of with some really good coffee.
And then I thought, naw, I'll bet everybody who does Easter is doing just that right now; blogging about how cute their kids are and reflecting on what Easter means to them. So, I'll spare the world one of my staggeringly lengthy yet brilliant essays on the themes of rebirth, redemption, and forgiveness and cut right to the chase: regardless of how you may feel about your own children, just remember that it's my boys that are the cutest darn egg-hunters ever. So there.
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3/28/05
No, My Boys Are The Cutest.
As I sit here this morning, staring bleary eyed at my inbox and trying to wake up, I am sorely tempted to start blogging about our Easter. All about our adorable boys, how well behaved they were in church, the outstanding egg hunt put on by my mom, and the culinary bliss of a prime rib dinner. We drank some pretty good Merlot and talked books, music, politics and... well, end of life healthcare issues ala Ms. Schiavo. Go figure. But did we top it all of with some really good coffee.
And then I thought, naw, I'll bet everybody who does Easter is doing just that right now; blogging about how cute their kids are and reflecting on what Easter means to them. So, I'll spare the world one of my staggeringly lengthy yet brilliant essays on the themes of rebirth, redemption, and forgiveness and cut right to the chase: regardless of how you may feel about your own children, just remember that it's my boys that are the cutest darn egg-hunters ever. So there.
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3/25/05
One Less Voice
It was right around the year 1045 that a Chinese blacksmith and alchemist by the name of Pi Sheng had a great idea. Rather than have printers go though the laborious process of carving whole wooden blocks for each page they produced, Pi Sheng thought to himself, why not just carve up a whole bunch of individual characters that can be affixed to a plate and then simply rearranged at will for the next page.
"Great," he must have thought to himself. "This new system of... um... I know! This new 'moveable type' will revolutionize the printing process and forever change the way information is produced and distributed!" And indeed it did.
Oh but hell, let's just admit to our xenophobic western-European selves that we couldn't care less about what those funny little people were doing on the other side of the planet a thousand years ago. Nope, for us its all about Gutenberg and his bibles. It is, after all, much more pleasant to imagine that he came along four hundred some-odd years later and really invented moveable type. Sort of like rooting for the home team. Or something like that.
Anyway, regardless of who was doing what or when they were doing it, here we stand at the dawn of the third millennium in a brand-new world in which the internet allows nearly everyone the opportunity to be heard. The politically aware can share their opinions with anyone who cares to listen. Oldsters can muse about the wonders of grandchildren. Youngsters can share the concerns of an upcoming generation. Or, at-home dads can muse about everything from diapers to discipline, or even how blogs are connecting people in ways never before possible. Or they can share a bunch of sanctimonious crap like this. Whichever.
And so what was my point? Darned if I know. It probably had something to do with my realization a few days ago that Drama Queen has thrown in the royal towel and called it quits. Unlike many others who simply allow their blogs to languish much like a pile of unwashed laundry, she's decided to formally end posting.
Actually, I'm really not at all sure why that got me thinking about the whole process of publishing information, knowledge, and ideas. Maybe it's just as simple as that it stikes me as faintly sad when a unique voice in this new medium makes the choice to go silent. Or then again, maybe I'm just a sentimental cretin with a propensity for the melodramatic. Yeah, that's more likely.
But either way, I'm pretty sure that Pi Sheng would be very pleased indeed if he could see what his contribution helped create.
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3/25/05
One Less Voice
It was right around the year 1045 that a Chinese blacksmith and alchemist by the name of Pi Sheng had a great idea. Rather than have printers go though the laborious process of carving whole wooden blocks for each page they produced, Pi Sheng thought to himself, why not just carve up a whole bunch of individual characters that can be affixed to a plate and then simply rearranged at will for the next page.
"Great," he must have thought to himself. "This new system of... um... I know! This new 'moveable type' will revolutionize the printing process and forever change the way information is produced and distributed!" And indeed it did.
Oh but hell, let's just admit to our xenophobic western-European selves that we couldn't care less about what those funny little people were doing on the other side of the planet a thousand years ago. Nope, for us its all about Gutenberg and his bibles. It is, after all, much more pleasant to imagine that he came along four hundred some-odd years later and really invented moveable type. Sort of like rooting for the home team. Or something like that.
Anyway, regardless of who was doing what or when they were doing it, here we stand at the dawn of the third millennium in a brand-new world in which the internet allows nearly everyone the opportunity to be heard. The politically aware can share their opinions with anyone who cares to listen. Oldsters can muse about the wonders of grandchildren. Youngsters can share the concerns of an upcoming generation. Or, at-home dads can muse about everything from diapers to discipline, or even how blogs are connecting people in ways never before possible. Or they can share a bunch of sanctimonious crap like this. Whichever.
~ ~ ~
And so what was my point? Darned if I know. It probably had something to do with my realization a few days ago that Drama Queen has thrown in the royal towel and called it quits. Unlike many others who simply allow their blogs to languish much like a pile of unwashed laundry, she's decided to formally end posting.
Actually, I'm really not at all sure why that got me thinking about the whole process of publishing information, knowledge, and ideas. Maybe it's just as simple as that it stikes me as faintly sad when a unique voice in this new medium makes the choice to go silent. Or then again, maybe I'm just a sentimental cretin with a propensity for the melodramatic. Yeah, that's more likely.
But either way, I'm pretty sure that Pi Sheng would be very pleased indeed if he could see what his contribution helped create.
.
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3/22/05
I'm Chronollogicaly Challenged
It was only a few short weeks ago that I was taken by surprise by an event which, in hindsight, I really should have seen coming. Luckily enough there were no rodeo clowns or watermelons involved in this incident, but any casual passerby might have thought so judging from the resulting emotional wreckage... in short, I turned forty.
Its hard to believe, I know. I never even realized that people got that old. Indeed, I had to do the math just to be certain, but sure enough my abacus came up with the same result time and time again: 2005 minus 1965 equals 40 for me.
When this terrible realization finally sank in I began to consider the oddest things; things like how foolish Rodger Daltry must feel by now and the fact that I'm apparently old enough to be the father of most of the vacuous yet wildly wealthy pop stars who litter our airwaves with songs like 'Oops! ...I Did It Again.' Then I began to wonder about other things, like trying to remember just exactly how Dorian Gray had gone about securing his youthful vitality with that portrait of his. But then it occurred to me that you probably have to start earlier and healthier for that sort of Faustian bargain to make any sense. And things didn't really work out very well for Dorian anyway what with all the horrifying misery and death and all.
So, when I finally calmed down and regained my composure, I addressed more practical concerns. Should I, for instance, admit this recently discovered chronological crisis to my friends and family? What would they say? Were the boys mature enough to understand? I could only hope that the media didn't catch wind of the entire affair. I wondered if there were any twelve-step groups that could help me.
In the end, of course, I had no choice but to simply surrender myself to the inevitable and accept the same fate that, I've since been told, countless others before me have experienced. And so it was on a blustery Saturday evening recently that my Lovely Bride and I walked into the billiard room of our local Fox Sports Grill where a dozen or so friends and family awaited me with cocktails and gag gifts.
Yes, there were not only 'Old Fart' birthday cards, but also birthday cards with swimsuit models on the front that proclaimed that now that I'm forty I would probably rather take a nap. Ha, ha ha ha ha. There were big '40 Sucks' lollipops. There were black plastic 'Over The Hill' dribble/slobber bibs. There were humor books that seemed to be filled entirely with Rogaine jokes. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, indeed.
But, in the end, accepting my fate wasn't nearly as emotionally damaging as I had feared it might be. Dinner was pretty good, we had our own pool table and the bar apparently had an endless supply of Southern Comfort. But you know what? Even better, as I looked around the room I realized that not only was everyone there close to turning forty as well, but I still have all my hair. So ha! Bring on forty one!
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3/22/05
I'm Chronollogicaly Challenged
It was only a few short weeks ago that I was taken by surprise by an event which, in hindsight, I really should have seen coming. Luckily enough there were no rodeo clowns or watermelons involved in this incident, but any casual passerby might have thought so judging from the resulting emotional wreckage... in short, I turned forty.
Its hard to believe, I know. I never even realized that people got that old. Indeed, I had to do the math just to be certain, but sure enough my abacus came up with the same result time and time again: 2005 minus 1965 equals 40 for me.
When this terrible realization finally sank in I began to consider the oddest things; things like how foolish Rodger Daltry must feel by now and the fact that I'm apparently old enough to be the father of most of the vacuous yet wildly wealthy pop stars who litter our airwaves with songs like 'Oops! ...I Did It Again.' Then I began to wonder about other things, like trying to remember just exactly how Dorian Gray had gone about securing his youthful vitality with that portrait of his. But then it occurred to me that you probably have to start earlier and healthier for that sort of Faustian bargain to make any sense. And things didn't really work out very well for Dorian anyway what with all the horrifying misery and death and all.
So, when I finally calmed down and regained my composure, I addressed more practical concerns. Should I, for instance, admit this recently discovered chronological crisis to my friends and family? What would they say? Were the boys mature enough to understand? I could only hope that the media didn't catch wind of the entire affair. I wondered if there were any twelve-step groups that could help me.
~ ~ ~
In the end, of course, I had no choice but to simply surrender myself to the inevitable and accept the same fate that, I've since been told, countless others before me have experienced. And so it was on a blustery Saturday evening recently that my Lovely Bride and I walked into the billiard room of our local Fox Sports Grill where a dozen or so friends and family awaited me with cocktails and gag gifts.
Yes, there were not only 'Old Fart' birthday cards, but also birthday cards with swimsuit models on the front that proclaimed that now that I'm forty I would probably rather take a nap. Ha, ha ha ha ha. There were big '40 Sucks' lollipops. There were black plastic 'Over The Hill' dribble/slobber bibs. There were humor books that seemed to be filled entirely with Rogaine jokes. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, indeed.
But, in the end, accepting my fate wasn't nearly as emotionally damaging as I had feared it might be. Dinner was pretty good, we had our own pool table and the bar apparently had an endless supply of Southern Comfort. But you know what? Even better, as I looked around the room I realized that not only was everyone there close to turning forty as well, but I still have all my hair. So ha! Bring on forty one!
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