Ep. 14: Misperceptus heinous ignoramus

Friday, March 29, 2013

It is amazing how we misperceive things every day, all day long.

Our egos, the demands of others, our obligations all incur upon our ability to see clearly, to see the big picture and to have an understanding that is not encumbered by our own narrow and limited experience.

There have been a number of realizations during these first two weeks of commuting that have reminded me of this truism and how disconnected from reality we truly are. What is most impressive is that despite our ignorance, our prejudices, and our half-ass conclusions we are seemingly able to function seamlessly, much of the time.
For instance, until now, for two weeks I thought that the clock at Grand Central Station was a countdown to the train’s departure.

It’s actually simply a big LED clock with a seconds timer, which like every other clock simply discounts our lives.

Now, one might immediately think, "Well, duh. What were you thinking?" However, in my defense I want to dissect the situation to truly comprehend what happened and illustrate my point.

First, the clock is a bit unusual. The three clocks I have consistently referred to on my way to the station have been the time on my iPhone; the huge clock at the end of Park Avenue atop Grand Central that you can see from half a mile away; and the trademark train station clock atop the information booth in the middle of all the tourists and commuters loitering, watching the board and making their way through the hive.

Two of these clocks either have hands and the one on my phone presents the movement of time in slow motion.  On the other hand, the clock in question has big and bright red letters, and it is alarming because it is counting down the minutes—or at least that was my initial misperception.

Secondly, as with every one making their way home via commuter transportation, you're ultra-conscious of the time, because whether you’re taking a train, bus, or ferry—they all run and leave with or without you based on a pre-determined on schedule that does not consider your circumstances by any means.

Hence, you're mindset as you approach your point and time of departure is "How many minutes do I have left? Do I have time to get some water? To stop by the ATM? To pee?"

Thus, in my defense, I plea misperceptus heinous ignoramus —what I didn't know didn't hurt me, but it didn't help me either.

Well, that’s not true actually, because my main concern has been to get to the train on time, so whenever I saw 5:24 and I thought that I only had five minutes, 24 seconds and whatever milliseconds that were constantly ticking away, I was motivated to get my ass moving and get a seat on the train.

My second example is not as tediously long. So, hang in there.

For many mornings, I’d get on the train and the conductor would summarize where we are and are not going. Until yesterday, I thought he was saying “The train does not stop in Ireland – one hundred and twenty fifth.”

I’d always think, “Ireland? There’s a town named Ireland along the Hudson?”

What he was actually saying is “The train does not stop in Harlem – one hundred and twenty fifth.”

I guess the accent gets thicker as you go up the river.

Either way, these are very simple and consistent examples of misperception that tainted my view of reality for days and weeks on end.

It simply makes me wonder—how much of what I perceive on a daily basis is actually true.

“There is no truth. There is only perception.” —Gustave Flaubert 

Ep. 13: It’s a good thing were not in Connecticut

It’s a good thing were not in Connecticut

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Last Sunday I had a chance to speak with “Jim,” a large quiet man who lives across the street from our house with his wife and dog. They’ve lived on "Reek-wah" for some thirty years now. 

Much like new residents of Manhattan mispronounce “Houston” Street, as if it were the biggest town in Texas, I too was the new kid in town pronouncing Requa—"Reh-qwah"—much like one of the Kitchawanks, the natives  that inhabited this land before the Dutchman Jan Peek “discovered” it, might have called it.  

Now, I know better and I’m one step closer to being a true local.

After curtly introducing ourselves, the first thing he said was, "You have a beautiful home." And as I've been replying for a few weeks now, I smiled and said, "Thank you."

A couple of weeks ago, I was sweeping the porch and the walkway of our little garden, when a woman and her young daughter who were taking an early Saturday morning stroll stopped at our little wrought iron gate to chat. "It's a beautiful home," she said to initiate our conversation. 

Likewise, that same weekend, some random guy sporting a tattoo and a cigarette was passing by in his worn down Chevy while I was dragging big Hefty bags to the curb and he stopped to ask, "Is that your home?" 

"Yes, we just moved in," I replied smiling, sticking out my hand to introduce myself. 

After shaking, he said, "It's a beautiful house,” taking a drag on his Marlboro. “I was going to buy it at one time."

I couldn't help but arrogantly think to myself, "Sure you were," and played along, "Oh, yeah?" 

As pleasing as this universal compliment may be, I can't help but feel that were being watched. 

It is almost-eerie how everyone says the exact same thing in a Stepford sort of way. 

I guess it’s a good thing were not in Connecticut.

"You have a beautiful house," they all say...

Ep. 12: There's a nunnery atop that hill

Sister Henryka Bernat entered the convent of 

the Contemplative Sisters of the Good Shepherd in Peekskill in 1954. 

She worked for the Sister’s Altar Bread Co., which baked close to 1 billion 

communion wafers over 90 years, before closing in 1996.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Adjacent to Peekskill station resides Mount St. Francis, home of the Franciscan Sisters.  There are two big signs at the bottom of the hill that inform those enticed to explore that this is "Private Property."

Directly behind their elegant home are the Riverbend condos that were built about a decade ago. They are representative of the kind of change that has occurred over the last ten years in Peekskill.

Today, instead of vast parcels of land once occupied by sanctuaries and retreats once owned by religious orders like the Episcopal Sisters of St. Mary, the Sisters of the Good Shepherd and the Missionary Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis there are wide swaths of cookie-cutter condominiums with names like Society Hill, Chapel Hill, and Riverbend. 

According to amateur historian Rob Yasinsac who writes in his site Hudson Valley Ruins:

In the late 19th-century, several religious orders established retreats, convents and reformatory schools overlooking the Hudson River in Peekskill. For over 100 years, these groups cared for and educated [tens of] thousands of dependent young people, mainly from urban areas. In the 1970s, these groups began removing their operations from the suburbs back to New York City. In the 1980s, these properties remained much as they had been for a century, in a state of semi-abandonment.

Just south of the Peekskill train station, the Missionary Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis owned 28 acres. Just as Westchester's real estate market really began entering the stratosphere, developers turned their eyes to formerly shunned locales, acquiring property on the cheap since it could be developed and sold at exponentially higher rates within a year or two.

Ginsburg Development Corporation (GDC) is one of the larger players reshaping the Hudson riverfront in the early 2000s, here in Peekskill and also Tarrytown, Yonkers, Haverstraw and Poughkeepsie. In 2003, the Franciscan Sisters sold approximately 21 acres to GDC, which then built the Riverbend condominiums. A small number of institutional buildings were demolished, but also lost was this serene walk among the "Stations of the Cross" (also known as the "Way of the Cross.")

As Rob points out places like Peekskill are rich with history and it is vital that we preserve them, if only through the stories of that and those which and who have inhabited our hometowns.

Much as we did a little over a month ago, it is too easy to assume ownership and ignore the spirits which have worked and toiled and slept and wept before you, ultimately paving the way for you to make a place like Peekskill your new hometown.

Via The Peekskill Commuter, I’m honoring the paths they’ve paved, by sharing some of the history I’m discovering as we settle in.

An excellent, fascinating and in-depth review of the development that has occurred over the last decade can be read in Peekskill religious estates rich grounds for development boom by Brian J. Howard (The Journal News, November 7, 2005).

Amateur historian Rob Yasinsac 

documents the history and fate of 

the ruins of Hudson Valley.

Ep. 11: Don’t blink!

This is 40 is a hilarious look at what it means to be married 

with kids when you are about to turn 40.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

After two very full weeks and three weekends of moving into our new home, for the very first time in 14 days Chelsea and I got an hour of rest and relaxation, while digging into Dominic’s dream dessert—a Cocoa cake he made from scratch, covered with fresh cut strawberries and whipped cream.

As we stuffed ourselves while sitting on our new love seat with fluffy overstuffed cushions, which we stuffed ourselves, we watched This is 40.  

It is a hilarious look at what it means to be married with kids when you are about to turn 40. If you can identify with that profile, I can guarantee that you’ll laugh at many of the reflections of your life lampooned in the movie.

My favorite line from the film was from “Grandma Molly,” who advises:

GRANDMA MOLLY*

I remember when I was forty, and

then I blinked and there I was,

going to be ninety. My god, where

did it go? One day you’re going to

blink, and you’re going to be

ninety, and I won’t be around to

see it. And that makes me very sad.

I’m telling you, I’m warning you.

Don’t blink. Don’t blink.

It is such a cliché, but it seriously feels like just yesterday that Milo was born. He just turned one a little over two weeks ago, and those twelve months all passed in a flash.

The same goes for my memories of the oldest, who will be 14 in nine days from now.

Likewise, I might glean the same about of my own 45 years.

Where did it all go?

So, be forewarned, be reminded, don’t say you were never told—don’t blink.

And eat all the chocolate cake you can before you turn 40 too, because shortly thereafter you won’t have the time to work out and work it all off like you used to....

*By the way, I googled the movie quote and found free access to the This is 40 screenplay online.

Dominic's Dream Dessert: Eat it all while you can!
After 40 it becomes a lot harder to lose.

BONUS! 

Here’s the dialogue from one of the funniest scenes in This is 40. Surely, some of you can relate.

Debbie walks down the hall and into the bathroom without

knocking. Pete is on the toilet playing Scrabble on his iPad.

DEBBIE

What are you doing?

PETE

Going to the bathroom.

DEBBIE

We’re all downstairs waiting for

you. You’ve been up here for a

really long time now.

PETE

Oh, I’m almost done. I’ll be down

in a second.

DEBBIE

Charlotte just did her first flip

on the trampoline, and she landed

on her feet. She was really proud

of herself.

PETE

Oh, that’s great.

DEBBIE

And you missed it.

PETE

She’ll do it again.

DEBBIE

It’s just that this is the fourth

time you’ve gone to the bathroom

today.

PETE

Give me a break.

DEBBIE

Why is your instinct to escape?

PETE

It’s not my instinct to escape from

you. It is my instinct to come into

the bathroom when I need to go to

the bathroom.

DEBBIE

How come I don’t smell anything?

PETE

It’s because I shoved an Altoid up

my ass before I came in here.

DEBBIE

Let me see then.

PETE

What?

DEBBIE

Let me see!

PETE

No, I’m not going to let you see.

DEBBIE

You’re not going to let me see

because you’re not taking a poop.

PETE

I’ve been flushing as I go.

DEBBIE

You’re flushing as you go? Who

takes a half hour to go to the

bathroom?

PETE

(thinks for a second)

John Goodman.

She angrily grabs his iPad and walks out.

PETE (CONT’D)

Don’t press Enter! I’m not sure I

want to make that move! 

Ep. 10: To have more, you’ve got to have less

My Don Draper days are long over.

Monday, March 25, 2013

It looks like Peekskill is a party town now. 

Greeting us at the station at the entrance of the stairwell was a fresh pool of puke this morning.

It was likely left behind by some Sunday night reveler who overindulged at one of the popular local establishments—Peekskill Brewery, The Quiet Man Public House, Birdsall House or perhaps Gleasons.

On my second marriage, new house and four-almost-five kids in tow, my own Don Draper days are long over. No more pulling out clean pressed shirts out of a drawer after a night of debauchery, reckless endangerment and waking up in some intimate stranger’s apartment.

Instead, now I’m just a regular guy trying to get to work on time and trying to get more sleep while I'm at it.

For the third day in a row I've woken up thinking, "I really should go to bed earlier."

Considering that it has been three weeks and weekends of moving now, I'm still not fully recovered and continue to be exhausted.

"The move" has taken that long because we decided to furnish Dominguez Manor, our 12-room Victorian, with all new furnishings. Well, not exactly "new"—'cause we ain't the Rockefellers you know.

95 percent of our furnishings have come from Craig's List, a lot of it extremely heavy solid wood antique furniture, half of it in desperate need of refinishing and repair.

Many of our basement-bargains were literally from people's basements or their storage units or had to be removed from up a flight of stairs—all of which I had to carry from seller to rented truck to our house and up one or two narrow flights of stairs, half of the time by myself.

Our trove includes sofas for the parlor and living room, a dining room set, china cabinet, six bedroom sets, a crib, changing table, four book cases, a giant armoire, three cabinets, breakfast server, and a baby grand. Ugh.

Admittedly, I didn't have to move the piano, but I did have to my hand in the hefting of the rest. Weathered by Hurricane Sandy, we got it for "free" —just the exorbitant cost of disassembling, delivery and reassembly.

In addition to the exhaustion of the move, I'm losing sleep because with the new commute I lost the extra hour I once had to sleep in.

Now, I have get up at either 6 or 6:30 to catch the commuter train, which only comes every half hour.  Whereas when I was taking a subway that arrived every five minutes, I could just casually roll out of bed any time after seven, seven-thirty, sometimes eight or so, and still make it to work “on time.”

I guess it simply goes to remind me that less is indeed more; because if you want more you've got accept that you're giving up something in return— more house, means less time, less sleep and a little less serenity. 

 

No more pulling out clean pressed shirts out of a drawer 

after a night of debauchery, reckless endangerment and 

waking up in some intimate stranger’s apartment.

Ep. 9: Do what Nancy says - don't do it

Peekskill Station at dawn.

Friday, March 22, 2013

The passengers on the 7:06 seem a bit sleepier than those that board half an hour later.

I was certainly more tired than usual this Thursday morning, something I will need to get used to from now on.

Later in the day I would try to sleep during a town hall meeting, watching the gratuitous PowerPoint presentation with one eye open.

Every Wednesday, until Kingdom comes, I'll be getting up at 6 to catch this train to Grand Central. This will allow me to jet out of the office early enough to catch a bus out of Port Authority to Jersey to have my regular mid-week dinner with The Boys. 

Then I'll have to get on the Lakeland commuter bus— a rather depressing part of this routine that I've been doing for years.

Usually, I have to wait at least half an hour for the bus to come and half the time it is late just as long. Also, for half the year I have to wait in the cold, heat, rain and snow—alone. You might imagine how ugly it feels to be in this position week after week after week.

For about a year or so now, half of the time Chelsea has graciously driven out from Manhattan or Westchester where she works, with our other two sons, so that we could have a quick family dinner with all the boys.

However, now with the move an hour north of the city, the drive has proven too cumbersome and starting next week I'll be back to standing on the corner, waiting, alone.

After boarding the bus, riding past the wasteland of the Meadowlands and that billion dollar disaster of a development—the Xanadu-cum-American Dream project —and arriving back at PA, I'll have to jump on the subway to Grand Central and then wait for the next hour-long train back to Peekskill. 

As half of the once-married parents in this country may attest, divorce is a bitch when you've got young kids. 

My advice, don't do it.

The passengers on the 7:06 seem a bit sleepier.

Ep. 8: Climb the sunny side of the stairs

What side of the stairwell you choose does make a difference.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

"Those are some steep stairs aren't they?" commented a nameless neighbor, as she ascended ahead of me.

Oddly, I had had a similar thought the moment before.

Usually, I go up on the other side of the staircase, but since I had a few extra minutes today I decided to explore the shops across the street from Peekskill Station.

My, first stop was His and Her Cleaners. A rinky-dink outfit that was the most spartan cleaners I've ever been in. There was no spinning clothesline, welcome counter or cash register with an Asian man to greet you—looking over his reading glasses, stating "Yes, may I help you?," proceeding to “mistakenly” overcharge your credit card, pretending to be flustered by his ignorance, and proceeding to handwrite on your receipt a “credit” for the difference, which he knows that you’ll forget to redeem the next time you come in two weeks later. 

No, this time there was simply a middle-aged redneck-of-a-man sitting behind a desk in an office with wood paneling from the seventies. The clothes were hanging on a single five foot portable coat rack to the side.

I had to ask a question to get him to look up from his cell phone. 

"Excuse me, do you have a rate card?"

"A what?" he responded, genuinely bewildered, with a troubled look on his face.

I explained.

Snarkling, he replied, "Oh, we don't have none of those," proceeding to list the rates, "Nine dollars for suits, buck seventy five for shirts..."

I stopped him with a wave of a hand and a "Thanks," but no thanks, promptly moving on to my next stop, the deli next door.

This was likewise as bare.

In Manhattan we presumed that these kind of bare-bones operations were merely narcotics fronts, drug shacks disguised as bodegas. There was no way they could afford the rent by simply selling soda and sandwiches, so they had to be selling something else in the back, behind the counter.

That said, with a depressed economy in small towns like Peekskill somehow this place was believable.

It reminded me of the small roadside diners you'll find on the back roads of Ohio—with a short white counter, slot machine of a cash register, a waiter-slash-cook who'll slap the butter on the Wonder bread, slip in a slice of American cheese and place it in on the griddle after you've ordered the only appealing thing on the one page menu—grilled cheese.

The only difference with the deli was that it offered the New York Post in a caddy by the front screen door.

Thus, I stepped in and promptly stepped out. No purchase necessary, not much to see here.

Scurrying back across the road to the station I started back up where this story began. I thought, even though this is simply the flip side of the stairs I usually go up, somehow they seem longer and steeper. Maybe it was because at this time of the morning, 7 o'clock, the sun don’t shine on this side of the staircase. 

Nonetheless and allthemore, I proceeded;  my neighbor confirming that, indeed, I wasn't dreaming that there is a difference, after all.

Ep. 7: The lessons we learn and the day it snowed in San Jose, 37 years ago

Growing up in California, snow was simply something you 

enjoyed while you were on a family vacation every other year 

in Lake Tahoe. Pictured here, in 1978, are a ultra-geeky me 

with snowball in hand, my father, and siblings

Tuesday, March 19, 2013:

Getting up at 6 AM to shovel snow beats yoga any day.

I had been lamenting the fact that I haven’t used my mats in over six months (one hangs behind my office door; the others are neatly wound up in an umbrella stand at home), when nature called me to action and satisfied my yearning at 6 AM this morning.

Apart from the sore back one gets from hand-plowing and heaving a corner lot, admittedly the task of shoveling sidewalks was as satisfying as successfully bending over backwards for an Urdhva Dhanurasana (try saying that ten times fast), the yoga pose otherwise known as the Full Wheel or Full Backbend.

The first time I had to shovel snow I wasn’t so gracious about it; the second time God taught me a lesson about being more appreciative for the little that is asked of us.

In 2002, with my first wife, two-and-a-half year old and newborn in tow, we moved into a house on a corner lot in Bloomfield, New Jersey. I soon begrudged the thought and task of my obligation to clear a path on freezing, snowy mornings.

You see, I’m like the rooster on the rooftop who revels in the sun. Being born and raised in Northern California, snow is an experience from another dimension; growing up, it was simply something you enjoyed while you were on a family vacation every other year in Lake Tahoe.

The only snow I ever saw in San Jose in the twenty years that I lived there was on one freaky-Friday afternoon, circa 1976, when our fourth grade teacher opened the doors of Hester Elementary and let the kids out, so that we could experience the wonder of a few minutes of snowfall.

If you believed Ms. Luna, it was God’s way of teasing you. She was poor little Carmen’s mom, who a couple years later stumbled into our sixth grade Sunday school class one morning drunk as a whiskey-barrel. She told the whole class out loud, “Do you know what is happening when it rains? God’s peeing on you!,” adding a mouthful of spittle-riddled laughter as her exclamation point. Yuck. Needless to say, the nuns at St. Leo’s were none too pleased by this priceless nugget of wisdom. Obviously, it made a big impression on me.

Anyway, point is, before moving to New York and getting married to a Jersey girl, snow had always been a privilege, not a chore.

Yet, 26 years later, after that special day in fourth grade on February 5, 1976 (according to Wikipedia that was the last time snow fell in San Jose—“many residents around the city saw as much as three inches on car and roof tops”), in 2002, at 34, I'm suddenly being introduced to a whole-lot-of-adulthood, obligation, home ownership and a life in the burbs—and now, shoveling a hundred feet of snow off the sidewalk and into the street. Let’s just say it wasn't as fun as the biennial snowball fight I had with my cousins outside our cabin in Lake Tahoe.

The Holy Payback for all my bitching-and-moaning came after my first marital separation at the close of the winter of 2005.

I was blessed with the opportunity to stay at The Little Church for three months in the middle of Manhattan, where I was offered a free apartment right above the sacristy. In exchange, I had to serve as alter boy every Sunday, take alms from the parishioners, deflower a harem of votive candles every night, and shovel snow at six in the morning—almost an entire city sidewalk of it. It was a great lesson learned.

In fact…(here comes the gratuitous plug) I learned, or rather was reminded of many of my life’s lessons during this time and was rather fortunate to be inspired to write a memoir as a result—25 Lessons I’ve Learned, the #1 bestselling photo essay and artist biography on Amazon for three years from 2010-2012.

Thus, perhaps, quizas, my job this morning was a portent or opportunity to finally write the sequel, 25 More Lessons, which I have long yearned to write.

I’ll add, although I never thought I’d say this, there just might be one good thing about global warming.

The shoveling wasn't so bad this morning. Even though I had far more sidewalk to clear than I once did in Manhattan and Jersey, it was quite soft and almosht-slushy (the last compound word must be said with a Sean Connery accent).

It took me less than half an hour to clear the car windows, as well as shovel and salt the driveway, walkway and sidewalks. Apart from ordinances compelling me to perform my neighborly duty, I was driven by my desire to clear a safe path for my lovely wife who is expecting and carrying our little princess, Olivia.

Moreover, Chelsea is an inspiration, as she never complains about getting up before everyone else, to go to work for another long and emotionally-draining 12-hour day of life preserving and prolonging.

Considering all the wacky weather around the globe over the last decade, presuming that warming is truly upon us, there is one more benefit in addition to easier shoveling.

Now, my East Coast peeps might better understand why the natives often yearn to return back to Cali and the tepid winters and perfect springs, summers and falls of our idyllic childhoods.

Ep. 6: Belly Aching in Peekskill

According to the World Health Organization, women and children 

around the world often have to carry water for several miles a day*

Monday, March 18, 2013, 6:30 PM:

Getting from the sleet raining down outside my office in Manhattan to the subway and through Grand Central at rush hour with 25 pounds of thrift store and home improvement goods in each hand, wound tightly around my fingers, was tougher than I had anticipated.

To navigate the sea of commuters and tourists, each doubled, extra-large plastic bag was twisted about twice for better handling and control. Subsequently, my mettle and testosterone levels were tested as my fingers turned blue, while I careened through the crowds.

To put my prosaic pain and misery (i.e. bitching and moaning) into perspective, I did a little early morning googling.

According to one video testimony, women, somewhere in an unidentified remote part of Africa, have to carry 5-gallon, 40 lb. buckets full of water atop their head from a mud hole to their village a mile and a half away, three times daily, most of the time with a baby on their back and another in their belly. The World Health Organization adds that nearly everywhere around the globe, collecting water falls to the task of women and children, who often have to carry water for several miles a day for the 1.1 billion people who do not have access to clean drinking water.

Nonetheless and allthemore, my bags were pretty darn heavy.

Rife with my lunchtime list of household purchases, this included a treasure trove courtesy of Goodwill—a new outfit for Milo, an assortment of white ceramic dishes for the house, a woodblock knife carriage, and a small green floral plate, because Chelsea wanted a place to put the spoon we use to stir the honey we drip into our coffee each morning. And, she likes "patterns."

From Home Depot I bought an assortment of safety-ware to prevent Milo from hurting himself during those opportune moments when we’re not watching him; a couple of wood files to fix the back door that scrapes the porch cement; a light for Adela’s closet, because a replacement bulb for the fluorescent light left behind by the previous owners costs only a mere-dollar-less than replacing the entire fixture; and a few other knicks and knacks to fix up the new house and make it our own.

Ultimately, traversing the metropolis proved the easy part, for upon disembarking I realized I had Requa to reckon with. According to Google Maps it is a mere third of a mile, but the steep grade is a bitch. It is a wonder how the residents of hilly San Francisco do it every day.

Then again, they only have fog and an occasional earthquake to deal with (Oh yeah, and they've got them trolleys to help them get up them hills). Us, on the other hand and other coast, well, we’ve got Northeasterns, Hurricanes, and sudden snow storms to stomp through and belly ache about.

According to Google Maps, my daily walk uphill is a 

mere third of a mile; its the steep grade that's a bitch.

San Franciscans have it easy. They've only got 

fog and an occasional earthquake to deal with.*

*Images courtesy of Clark University and frankmefun.wordpress.com.

Ep. 5: A little worn for the wear

Milo gets his first band-aid.

Monday, March 18, 2013:

I had a little trouble finding a seat this morning.

Although I left at 7:20 as usual, this time l smugly decided to stroll to the station, rather than stride.

Lo and behold, when the train blew its horn, as it always does when it turns the bend around Peekskill Bay, I was still on the wrong side of the tracks. This meant doing double-time.

Thus, I descended the stairs from the bridge just as the train pulled into the station.  I didn't board toward the front of the train as usual, which made it harder to find a seat. Or at least, to find a seat that would give me all that I yearned for at 7:30 on a Monday morning—a little redeeming peace and quiet.

I initially thought I had found one, but Rosie O’Donnell and her friend were sitting across the aisle and she kept laughing and saying, "How ya doing? How ya doing?" It was simply too early for such squawking, so I decided to switch seats before settling in.

This was our second weekend in the house and Chelsea was working and Adela was off, meaning I had to continue getting the house in order, while minding Milo at the same time.

Being that Milo is now standing confidently, he is into opening drawers, turning on stoves and grabbing anything and everything that is within reach. He also loves throwing things— fire starter logs, dishes, bottles, food.

As anyone with a one-year-old boy can likely attest, trying to sort through dozens of boxes, carry them upstairs two flights and organizing the aftermath of a whole house move is not a good companion to babysitting.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I was able to organize the kitchen, finish inserting all the four dozen safety outlet plugs throughout the house, create two stacks of boxes—one for the basement,  the other for upstairs, all of which I would move as soon as Chelsea returned and I could hand over the baby.

Somehow I fit in three diaper changes; making and sitting down for a brunch and a late lunch for Milo and I; putting down Milo for a late morning-into-afternoon nap; getting down on the floor to play ball with the boy, after he guilted me into tossing the ball back to him with his "Papa, why aren't you playing with me?" look; and also applying his first band-aid, after he fell chin first on the kitchen tile while crawling to catch a car racing ahead of him.

Whew.

Milo’s alright, he took it like a little man. His father, on the other hand, is a little worn for the wear and ready to spend the day back in the office.

Ep. 4: With Babies-in-Arms

Milo thinking about last Friday's commute with Papa.

Friday, March 15, 2013, 9 PM:

It is three minutes before 5:30 on a Friday evening and tonight is my first official commute home to Peekskill.

I'm eager to hear the conductor announce where we are officially going, because the first time I tried this on Tuesday night I ended up half an hour further up the Hudson—with a baby in arms and a cold nanny by our side.

According to the ticket taker on the train going back from Beacon to Peekskill, "You can never trust what they tell you at the ticket window,” adding, “We get a few of you every night."

Really? I didn't want to argue his point, especially since I was simply happy to be back on the train at 7:57, headed to the right destination this time. 

We had started out at Harlem Station at 125th Street after I picked Milo and Adela after work at 5:30. It was cold and rainy, and while Adela carried her two bags and the diaper bag, I held Milo while trying to hail a cab. The evening seemingly started out right as we caught a taxi right away, but we were soon to be disappointed.

During the cab ride I checked the train schedule on the MTA's site and I confirmed with the vendor that the 6:23 train to Peekskill would arrive on Track 1. Likewise, the marquises in the lobby and on the platform stated the same.

However, all the trains were running about ten minutes late, which made me more anxious because I was holding tightly onto my one-year-old, who was cold and beginning to act like he was hungry.

Moreover, I knew that when I got home I had to first unload our SUV full of the final load of our things from the apartment. I also had to assemble king and queen size beds all by myself.  It had been a very long move over two weeks, and so the thought of the tasks that lie ahead made me all the more eager to get home.

Alas, the journey was not to be as smooth as I had yearned for. For, as Mr. Conductor took our tickets he informed us, "You're on the wrong train. Didn't you hear the announcement?"

Argh. Apparently, since things were running late, this was the express to Beacon, three stops beyond where we needed to go—double ugh.

When we got off at Beacon I confirmed via the time table on the platform that we had to wait about thirty minutes for the train that would take us back. Adela, the wiser and more experienced of us both, handled it all with grace and a comforting sense of humor. She was the straight man to my antsy and weary soul.

During our second train ride I told her about my trip to California over Thanksgiving last year.  Chelsea was working all week, including during the two days that most of us regular working folk have off, and so she suggested I visit my family with Milo. My birthday happened to be on Thanksgiving this year, so I thought her suggestion was a good one, especially since I hadn't celebrated my birthday with my parents and siblings in twenty years. 

Milo had just turned nine-months and he was at that developmental stage where he was now cognizant that he could manipulate us by crying like an eagle. Needless to say, with this fledgling in my lap, the trip out West was a very long six hours. 

Moreover, the trip back to New York City was far more trying. Because by the end of the flight I was either the parent you hated or you felt really-really bad for me.

Upon landing at JFK I vowed, “Never again.” I really felt, “No more children.” Being a newborn parent at 45 and a doctor’s husband is a grueling combination.

As luck would have it, a week later Chelsea told me she was pregnant. Obviously, I’ve revoked my declaration—and I couldn't be happier.

Olivia will certain be Daddy’s little girl.