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.