Ep 29: What goes around, comes around

Monday, April 29

On Saturday morning at 4 a.m.,I woke to the sound of Milo crying. I dragged myself into the nursery, fully expecting to cuddle and carry him around for a few minutes and then put him back down to sleep, shortly thereafter.

However, when I pressed him against my chest, he was soaking wet and there was a funny smell, not readily identified as poop.

Being that I had thought this would be a routine soothing, I had left my eyeglasses on my dresser, and blindly made my way to the baby in the dark.

After placing Milo on the changing table and inspecting his diaper, which actually seemed fairly dry, I realized that something was truly amiss.

With one hand on the baby, I leaned toward the crib and made a manual inspection - his sheets were all wet and squinting I could see something dark and chunky in the middle. Finally, I realized I had no choice but to turn on the light.

There was vomit everywhere, on the sheets, on his PJs, in his hair.

Milo, as usual, was handling all the trauma quite well. I picked him up and took him to take a shower.

While we were cleaning up, Chelsea came to inspect what was going on. After we dried off the baby and dressed him again, we put him in bed with us.

Of course, he threw up again. Ugh.

My immediate thoughts were that we had overfed him.

Earlier that evening we had chosen to eat out instead of at home, because our dining room was filled with furniture from the adjoining living room and parlor, while the recently refinished floors dried.

I had also been eager to try some of the local restaurants in Peekskill and our neighboring townships too .

Using Yelp, we chose to try Taormina, a shabby chic nouveau Italian joint, that at first, and second, glance, looked like the kind of place where the working class go to have a nice dinner.

I was immediately impressed by their martini - dry, with just a hint of vermouth; filled to the rim. And most importantly, the food was good too - butternut ravioli , chicken martini and chicken napolitano.

Despite the discovery of a piece of plastic in Chelsea's dish, I would give this place high ratings.

If anything the only low marks for the evening were against me and my lack if restraint. I vividly recall the frenzy I was feeling that led me to over indulge when dessert was served:

"Adela do you mind if I try some of your lava cake ?"

"Um, baby are you done with your carrot cake?" [That would go well with the vanilla ice cream...Hmmm, should I finish my cannoli...?]

All the while, I was so entranced that I was compelled to share tiny bits and pieces with Milo, even though he had eaten plenty already.

Ironically, I had filed a story at work earlier that afternoon about the obesity epidemic occurring across this country. Three fourths, 3 out of 4, of all adults are overweight - half of those are considered obese. The stats are sadly similar for children. As a result, children born today are very likely to live shorter lives than both their parents and grandparents.

Ugh, hence my eventual guilt over this mess.

Nonetheless, I'm not too worried because we are blessed to have Adela cook for us - she prepares fairly healthy meals in small portions.

Well, that was Friday.

As per the awful smell of his diaper my wife, Dr. Chelsea, suspected it was actually a virus with some fancy name that she liked repeating all weekend long.

Alas, the virus did not like her and poor Chelsea - : ( - had to contend with it last night while working overnight at the hospital.

She called me this morning from the ER, where they were giving her fluids via IV. She said the room where she tried to sleep in last night looks like a war zone. As awful as I feel for my 5 month pregnant wife, I'm sure glad I don't have to clean up that mess...

Since Milo woke up at three and would not go back to sleep until I put him in bed with me half an hour later, assuredly none of us would have slept if Chelsea was home.

Nonetheless and allthemore, my baby mama says she's feeling better now.

Unfortunately, as Adela said this morning with a slight chuckle of fear and resignation, "I guess we're next..."

Ugh.

Ep 28: Strangers on a train (To know a man, is to like the man)

“Did you mean what you said Baracky?”*

Friday, April 26

Being super-conscious of my surroundings I am constantly berating myself for how immediately judgmental I can be. 

To a certain extent, in the writer mode, I am merely observing and drawing conclusions based on both what I perceive as universal and extraordinary human behavior. 

However, sometimes I feel that there is a fine line between generalizing for literary sake and judging a book by its cover.

Being judgmental, to me, essentially  means that I see a stranger and immediately draw a conclusion about them based solely on a mere glance at their looks, words or behavior and, what I believe to be, a glean into their character.

The problem with these conclusions is that I know very well that the little puzzles I put together are assembled with the tenuous glue of prejudice and a whole lot of missing pieces.

For example, a couple of women boarded the train this morning and sat in the aisle across from me. Both were obese, had big black wet-looking hair, were wearing jeans and black tops, and began to chat loudly with each other as soon as they sat down, even though they had to sit a row apart. My immediate thoughts were "working class," thoughts that were admittedly tainted with a tint of disdain. 

The truth is I know a lot of great blue collar folk that I love and adore, including a lot of my family. My father is a working class man who came to this country almost fifty years ago with little in his pocket but an earnest drive to earn a living. As many successful second generation people will tell you, this is what endowed us with our own great work ethic, humility and integrity. More importantly, it is our parents' blood, sweat and toil at menial jobs that provided us with the opportunities and resources to succeed as professionals. 

Thus, I know that simply because you wear a white collar to work and you likely have paid a lot of money to be "educated" beyond high school, that this not inherently make you a better person by any means.

In fact, one might argue the opposite.

Much of the time what makes you a good and interesting person is not what you do for a living, but rather how you interact and are perceived by others. This cannot be inferred through looks alone. 

Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a discussion with Jamie Moyer, the oldest player in the major leagues, who is also the pitcher with the most wins, losses, and strikeouts of any active pitcher today. During the Q&A he was asked about the three guys he admires most. He immediately answered Andre Dawson, Nolan Ryan, and Cal Ripken, explaining that all of them consistently presented admirable character both on and off the field. 

In particular, he said that Andre Dawson, was both a driven player and a great man, whose character is solid as a rock, “Good day, bad day, you could never tell the difference with Andre. One day we were at Wrigley Field and I witnessed Andre take his fan mail. A lot of guys wouldn’t bother, but Andre made the time and if he took a bag of mail with him overnight, he would bring it back all signed the next day.” 

“Nolan Ryan was a true professional. Although he was a player who made unbelievable history that we may never see again, he treated you like he was just like he was just another Joe. ‘You want to go have a steak?’ he would ask me, even though I was just a rookie. And even if he was angry on the field, when he came off he was always a true gentleman.”

“When Cal Ripken was playing he had demands on him that went through the roof. Nonetheless, he would sign every autograph. He would stay at the stadium until 1 or 2 am; even when he was the guy who was in the middle of a streak. He is simply a super-super human being. Regardless of his accomplishments, he showed that he was as human as anyone else and made the effort to connect with people at every level.” 

Similarly, I was recently impressed by how stately and nonjudgmental both Presidents Clinton and Obama were, when they made remarks summing up GW at the dedication of his presidential library yesterday. 

Despite the pervasive liberal-minded inclination to poke fun of President George W. Bush's public ramblings and collectible guffaws, they praised him based on the many of the good qualities he exhibited outside his role as commander-in -chief. 

One might easily argue, “Of course, they were only doing their job and it is only right to give thanks and praise.” True dat. But, I was impressed and inspired nonetheless. 

“We know President Bush the man,” Mr. Obama said. “To know the man is to like the man. Because he’s comfortable in his own skin. He knows who he is. He doesn’t put on any pretenses. He takes his job seriously, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He is a good man.”

That’s why it is important to not make judgments of people so readily. To make a true assessment, you’ve got to get to know them first, otherwise they should simply remain strangers on a train. 

*Photo Source: USA Today 

Ep 27: Holding on to half the man I used to be - I'm keeping the suits

This morning's breeze has the flag flying high at Peekskill Station.

Thursday, April 25

I have this lingering fantasy that I'm still half the man I used to be.

No matter how much I suck my stomach in I still can't comfortably fit into my size 33 pants.

I've been a 34 for years, but still desperately cling to my youth, believing I might someday find the time to work at trimming the impeding fat.

Pathetically, half my closet is filled with pants and suits I have not worn since 2005. That spring and summer I was able to trim down to 32 through a disciplined and very strict regimen of regular exercise, little to no carbs and salads every night for dinner. Half of those six months or so I also just had salad for lunch, and as you might imagine, I was often pretty darn hungry.

It was a good feeling though. Actually, it was a great feeling to be so fit and slim again. The last time I had been in such good shape was 1990. I was 21 and had ended my four year college relationship. So, suddenly single and free, instead of dating again, every day after work I decided to go to the gym for three hours and then to the local university law library to study for four hours, every day, six days a week. After 11 months I was a well-oiled machine.

This last time around, almost eight years ago now, I was slowly extricating myself of another relationship—my first marriage.  By the end of summer, everything was taut, my clothes fit me like a European, and I often had to tighten my belt an extra notch because my pants were loose. Occasionally, there were golden moments when I'd wake up and feel a flat abdomen. Those were glorious times indeed, but ones that are long gone as well.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I remain hopeful and delusional. 

For despite at least two and half more years of diaper changes to come; despite this long daily commute; despite all the upkeep it will take to make our 125 year old house our beloved home; despite all that it takes to be a good husband, father to five, son, brother and friend to many; despite the increasingly demanding corporate job; and despite my compulsion to write this, my daily blog, if only to appease the lost years of pent-up artistic and literary aspirations...

I'm keeping those suits.


The Peekskill Commuter

p.s. Please don't tell my wife, she'll just make me donate the suits, so she can take up my already very limited closet space...

Grand Central Station, 8 a.m. this morning.

Ep 26: I am that ghost

I found the ghost I was looking for.

Tuesday, April 23

Last Christmas I scavenged half.com for cheap books about Victorian houses, Hudson Valley and ghosts that haunt either.

I was able to gather about two dozen books, which I gave to Chelsea in celebration of our offer on what was to become our new home, Dominguez Manor.

In my initial research, I did discover an obituary that states that Margaret Torpy, an aunt of one of the former residents, died in the house in 1915:


The Highland Democrat, Saturday November 20, 1915

Margaret Torpy died at the home of her niece, Mrs. Matthew Clune, 367 Smith Street, on Monday, aged eighty four years. She had been confined to her bed for the past two years. Born in Ireland, the daughter of James and Jane Torpy, she came to this country while a young woman. For many years she was housekeeper at [illegible]…City, and was well known to Peekskillers who stopped at that famous hostelry. About four years ago she came to Peekskill and made her home with her niece. She was the last of her family, leaving no one but nieces and nephews to mourn her loss. The funeral services were held from her late residence at 9 a.m. Thursday and at 10 . m. from the Church of the Assumption. The interment was at Assumption Cemetery [in Cortlandt Manor].


With the upheaval of the carpet I was hoping that we might disturb the peace and rankle a few somnolent spirits, such as Old Aunt Margaret. Alas, none of the souls that had settled into the floorboards or between the plaster walls seemed bothered enough to shake a chandelier or creak a door open in reply.

Indeed, it has been almost two months since we moved in and there has not been a single sign that we have encroached upon any resident ghosts.

That said, since my nerves are frayed and I am interminably exhausted these days, by the end of the day I'm ready to see one.

My belief is that most sightings are due to what's happening on the inside of us, rather than what lingers on the outside. Our anticipation; the influence of alcohol, drugs or medication; a worn and weary state of mind - all these lead to multi-sensory hallucinations, especially late at night when we should be in bed, especially in the dark when we're home alone watching a scary movie and every creak of sighing wood or crunch of stray cats striding across dead leaves is a sure sign of our pending doom.

Sometimes the spirits we see outside ourselves, are simply reflections of the ghost within.

Well, last night I finally found the lost soul I was looking for.

Unable to sleep because of the news that my ex is very likely moving away to accept a job offer and taking the boys with her, I paced our unfinished hallway like a meandering spirit looking for solace, looking for closure.

To divert my anxiety, part of the night I went into the nursery and made all my pending WWF moves. I steadily rocked my worries away and then floated downstairs for a glass of water.

When and if they move, my greatest fear is that I will barely ever see my sons again. Princeton is a two hour drive away from Peekskill.

Over the last eight years, it has been difficult enough to make school talent shows, band performances, academic competitions and sports matches, games and tournaments, so doubling the distance will only make it twice as hard for me to remain a participant part in their lives.

Plus, they will hardly get to see their baby brother and sister, step brother and mother as well. God forbid there's an emergency, it will take me twice as long to reach them. And undoubtedly there will be a painful slew of new issues to contend with, including the widening emotional divide between my teen and I.

The only good news is that this news sheds some light on a few of the mysteries of the last couple of months.

First and foremost, it readily explains my ex's strange and contentious behavior, her consultations with lawyers, as well as the attempts to change our divorce agreement, while fully knowing of this pending titanic parenting shift.

As professional job interviews and offers often take months to finalize these days, the correlation explains the premeditated odd manipulations, as well as as a lot of the ludicrous legalistic correspondence..."So, what you mean is this..." One should never expect an amicable response if they are always talking to you like a lawyer. Ugh.

Hence, my hallow and haggard tribulations. Hence, my insomnia. Hence, mien verwandlung - my sudden transformation into the lost and troubled soul I've been looking for.

Ep 25: Oh, the places you will go

Dominic got a little dirty, but it was an adventure nonetheless and allthemore.

(The Peekskill Commuter is back in Peekskill again)

Monday, April 22

As I crossed the bridge, the train was coming around the mountain.

I had just run the 50 yard dash for 500 yards down Requa, because I overslept and had half the time to get ready as usual.

It had been a very long and trying weekend of incessant driving and teen rebellion.

First, on Friday night the 11 year old whimpered a last-minute plea to attend the local talent show, because the girl he has a crush on was performing. So, since I am not a heartless father, I conceded and instead of his mother dropping him off in Manhattan as planned, Adela, Milo and I drove 45 minutes to Bloomfield and met Dominic and Enzo at Brookdale  Elementary for the show. 

Ultimately the extra effort was worth it. The kids were all very cute, the boys were happy to hang out with their friends, Milo loved the laser light show, and Adela, as usual, was an angel who helped keep things positive and in perspective.

The next morning Dominic, Milo and I had to leave by 9 AM for Frenchtown, some godforsaken place in farmland country that was on the border of Jersey and Pennsylvania. It took an hour and 45 minutes to get there and was only the first of two travel soccer games this weekend.

I did my best to enjoy the game and ended up having a nice conversation with a few of the fathers. 

However, what really motivated me to make the most of it were the enlightened words from my high school friend, Allison. 

Upon posting some pics to Facebook she commented:

"Welcome to the life of a soccer dad. Let the adventures begin. LOL! There are many places I got to see because of soccer."

Although her words were tongue in cheek, I took them to heart. She made me see the silver lining.

Inspired to have an adventure and take in uncharted territory, I decided to take an alternative route back home to the city, one that would take us on a few more backroads and only add a few more minutes according to Google Maps. I was impressed by the sheer beauty of the waves of green pastures and the rows of blossoming trees, spotted by free roaming horses and rustic farm houses.

"Welcome to the life of a soccer dad. Let the adventures begin. 

LOL! There are many places I got to see because of soccer." 

Sage advice from my friend Allison. 

The charm of rural living wore off once we got back on the main road and were stuck in traffic. We didn't get home until close to 4 o'clock.

This left us a few hours for a walk in the park with all the boys and dinner a la Adela. It was a pleasant way to cap a long day.

Alas, all good things must come to an end and the trouble started anew the next morning. 

While rushing to clean the apartment to have it ready for guests that were coming from the Ukraine, we also had to pack a week’s worth of luggage and baby equipment, along with all the boys clothes and things, and leave by 11:30 to make Sid's and Dominic's soccer games separately.

Of course, it didn't happen. 

Despite my efforts to prepare by packing half our things in the cars on Saturday night, we were still scrambling and did not leave till noon. Milo had a poopy diaper, Dominic lost his shoes, Sid forgot his glasses and backpack, and Enzo (Oh, Enzo) was all ready-to-go, but he refused to help, because the adolescent mind believes that taking care of oneself and only oneself is the best strategy for surviving how stupid everyone else is. 

Ugh.

I will concede that “other people do suck” sometimes, especially frazzled parents who don't communicate a change of plans and unreasonably expect their children to figure it all out while their attention is held hostage by Sunday morning cartoons. 

The kids had thought we were coming back to the apartment after the games and thus made no effort whatsoever to get ready. Our hours of frantic cleaning and organizing was simply perceived as "Well, that's what parents are always doing." To boot, the boys, understandably, simply didn't want to be here. 

Disenchantment + disengagement = apathy.

Having moved most of their stuff to Peekskill, they didn't have clothes, books, games and all the other things that make time away from their friends and with their other parent somewhat tolerable.

When you add a firebomb of teenage angst to this not-so-pretty picture, you've got to suddenly call in the reserves. 

After a lot a yelling and a few held-back tears, somehow we got everything packed and by noon we were on our way. For most of the way I was assaulted by the 14 year old with probing questions of "Why two homes? Why two cars? Why? Why? Why?," implying that all this misperceived luxury was at his expense.

Well knowing that explaining the greater context of parental decisions, obligation and one’s devotion to the family as a whole was futile, especially to an adolescent who had already made up his mind, I merely smiled and remained silent, while watching the road and other cars, ensuring I fulfilled my greater responsibility of getting Dominic to his game and making sure that we all arrived safely.

I waylaid the inquisition by asking Enzo to plug his music into the car’s stereo system. I would tolerate the angst-ridden music of his-choice if it calmed the beast. I told him he could hang out with his friends while Dominic played and this seemed to allay the anxiety as well. 

Ultimately, he did not meet up with his friends because they had just gotten up at noon. 

Since Dominic’s game was postponed until 1:30 because half of the opposing team was late, I challenged Enzo to push a 130 pound football blocking sled at the back of the bleachers. After he figured out that you had to lift to defray the friction, we moved onto rolling monster truck tires across the lawn. 

Ultimately, both Dominic and Sidney’s teams lost 4 to 1, but they seemed happy to have played. 

After the game we went to the Old Town Pub and had bar grub for lunch: nachos, the fried sampler and a burger. By this time, everything was copasetic, as if no upset-and-arguing had occurred all but a couple hours earlier. 

After I dropped them off at their mother’s, I drove the hour back to Peekskill. It was a pleasant drive back and I was foolishly looking forward to a little rest. 

Alas, half the house was in disarray, because the workmen were only a third of the way finished on the floors; we had to set up a bed for Sid to sleep in; there was nowhere to sit, so I had to move a lot of the furniture—a couple of cabinets and the dining room chairs—around by myself; and there was a fine coat of sawdust almost everywhere. 

To boot, I was feeling unusually exhausted. 

By bedtime at 10:30 I had the chills and my body was aching all over. It took a couple of hours and several layers of clothing and blankets before I started to warm up again. Then I was feverish. I was drinking a lot of water to rehydrate and this compelled me to get up and drag to the bathroom 6 or 7 times until about 3 AM when things felt under control. 

By this time by body temperature was back to normal, and now I was simply sweating out all the toxins created by the two pints at lunch, all the coffee I had had throughout the weekend and the cortisol caused by my life. I soaked two t-shirts by five, and an hour and half later it was time to get back up to make my way to work all over again. 

The alarm went off at 7:30, I got up and turned it off. Predictably, I fell back asleep and did not wake up again until 8. Running late, I simply took a shower, got dressed and had a small cup of coffee that Chelsea had kindly made for me as I was getting ready. 

I ran down that hill with the long weekend left way behind me.  

Allison was right, life is an adventure and if you venture forward with the right attitude, you’re liable to see a lot of new and interesting places, meet as many new and interesting faces, and face your share of new and interesting situations.

Oh, the places you will go.

The Peekskill Commuter


Update: My ex just dropped the A-Bomb on me, announcing she is very likely moving with the kids to Princeton, two hours away from Peekskill. Ugh. 

Dealing with teen angst is also...quite an adventure.

Ep 24: Help! 40 is the new 30

It's all too easy for me to imagine Clint likewise thinking,

"I'm too old for this shit."

(The Peekskill Commuter is being broadcast from New York City all week long)

Friday, April 19

This morning I woke up stiff as a board.

If I was my teenager, Enzo, I could see how you might have misinterpreted that.

But I'm not 14. I'm 45, and feeling it.

Lately, there's a lot buzz around couples and women-on-their-own having babies later-in-life.

There have been many high profile older parents lately.  Courtesy of Madame Noire, here’s a short list of some of the celeb dads who showcase the trend:

• At 71, Richard Williams, father of Venus and Serena Williams, just gave them a brother, courtesy of him and his 31-year-old wife.

• Steve Martin, become a father for the first time at 67, with 41 year-old wife Anne Stringfield.

• Actor Kelsey Grammar fathered his fifth child at age 55 with 29 year-old girlfriend Kayte Walsh.

• At age 54, actor Alec Baldwin and yoga instructor to the stars, wife Hilaria (28), are expecting a baby girl.

• David Letterman became a father when he was 56 and has since been quoted saying, “Life is no longer solely about you . . . It’s about him.”

And born in Peekskill, Mel Gibson became a father for the eighth time at 51 with girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva.

The list goes on and on (their age at birth): Helen Hunt, Brooke Shields & Emma Thompson (40), Julianne Moore, Nicole Kidman, & Salma Hayek (41), Meryl Streep & Celine Dion (42), Christie Brinkley (41 & 44), Halle Berry (41 & 45), Susan Sarandon (42 & 46), Kelly Preston & Holly Hunter (47), Geena Davis (46 & 48), Hugh Grant (50), Cheryl Tiegs (52), John Travolta (56), Michael Douglas (58), Sir Paul McCartney (61), Hugh Hefner (64), Larry King (65), Rod Stewart and Clint Eastwood (66).

(Sources: I Love It When You Call Me Big Papa: Celebs Who Fathered Kids Late In Life; Celebrity Moms After 40)

According to a recent piece from the London’s Daily Mail Online, “experts blame the trend on the rising costs of housing and childcare, advances in fertility treatment that allow couples to 'cheat' nature - not to mention the soaring divorce rate, which means men are having second and even third marriages, and therefore often feel obliged to have children with each of their new partners.”

The statistics are staggering.  The same paper reported that the “average age of woman having first child continues to rise due to 'spending more time in education'. The average age of a woman having her first child in 2004 was 27, three years later than in 1974, when the average age was 24.” Today the average age is 29.

Nearly half of all babies born in 2010 were to mothers aged 30 and over;  women over the age of 35 accounted for a fifth of the total in maternity wards, almost four times as many as in 1977; and the number of women having babies over the age of 45 has more than tripled in just over a decade.

The same goes for men, “For the past 10 years, statistics show that nearly two-thirds of babies have been born to fathers aged 30 and over,” reports the BBC. The Brits are apparently obsessed with this subject.
The figures also show the number of children born outside of marriage reaching a record high of 47.2 per cent. Four out of 10 mothers over the age of 45 were also unmarried.

Personally, I blame it all on Madonna.

She gave birth to Lourdes Maria Ciccone Leon in 1996 at the age of 38. Four years later at 42, she releases her second child, Rocco. 

At the time, it was a pretty big deal that she was birthing so late in life. Given her phenomenal popularity and influence, as well as her inclination for stirring things up, she ultimately became the emblem for this revolution—paving the way for the inevitable paring of maternity wards in nursing homes.

The only problem is that people don’t realize, or remember, having a baby and raising children is a lot of work. Madonna had earned multiple millions by the time she had her first child, so she could afford the childcare.

Even though we have help too, I still can’t help but feel, on occasion, I’m too old for this shit.

This morning, Milo woke up at six.  I tried to ignore his crying, but his pitch and plea for “come get me” was only getting louder with every second of hesitation. With aching elbows, I slowly picked him up and placed him on my shoulders, hoping he would miraculously fall back asleep a few seconds later. Yeah, right.

Within a couple of minutes I knew I was only dreaming.

Thus, as I’ve done almost every day this week, I put him in bed between us and scurried into the kitchen to fix him a bottle. The last couple of days Chelsea has changed his diaper meanwhile, but today she was sound asleep, so I did it myself upon my return.

It was at this moment that I was reminded that parenthood should be the reserve and responsibility of those younger than I. Simply lifting his legs to scoot the pamper beneath his bottom was a task of arthritic proportions.

Immediately after Milo was born, I’ve been taking a tablet of Glucosamine Chondroitin every day, which purportedly helps restore cartilage and relieve pain caused by osteoarthritis. Plenty of studies have reportedly shown this is not true, but I still take it anyway, just in case they're wrong. Even if the effects are psychosomatic, the faux motivation helps.

After we were settled back in and the baby was sleeping again, I could hear Sid, our ten-year old, up at 6:45, clinking and clanging in the kitchen, apparently, making an early breakfast for himself. The click-click-click of the stovetop made me a bit nervous, but I successfully ignored my anxiety and went back to sleep.

Addressing the subject of having a baby later in life, Dr. Phil says, "Age is not just a state of mind. It makes a good story, but it's not. It is a state of body, it is a state of organs, and the mortality risk goes up as you get older." 

He ends his advice by recommending the following to us older folks: “You’ll have to prepare your child for the eventuality of your death.”

Good point.

Albeit many of us are living longer and were confident that this will increase exponentially with every new discovery and advance in medicine, the fact is that the chances of us dying still increase with age. Thus, kids with older parents are far more likely to have to say goodbye at a younger age than others. 

And many of us know that getting old ourselves helps us deal with the notion that our parents are not getting any younger and that we may have to say goodbye, sooner than later. If you’re still young and you have to deal with that loss, that’s a whole different story.

Moreover, these kids are also far more likely to have to deal with a parent with Alzheimer's or some form of dementia. The stats for this are likewise staggering - 1 out of 3 seniors these are dying with the disease. 

So, if you’re over forty and considering having your first or another, think more than twice. There’s more to having children than simply waking up stiff in the morning.  

;   )

The Peekskill Commuter


p.s. Heed as I say, not as I do. Come August we’re having our fifth, Olivia. Three months later I’ll turn 46.

Ep. 23: The Little Things

Some 40 or so years ago, I was a little boy in a bathtub 

who loved using his little Snoopy foam bath mitt.

Tuesday, April 15, 2013

(The Peekskill Commuter is being broadcast from New York City all week long)

By six and our arrival to 110th, a certain lethargy has overcome me.

I am desperate for either a nap or a 50 cent cup of coffee at the G&M bodega on the corner.

Since Milo will likely be eager to play ball as soon as I walk in the door, I'll have to take that coffee - a little milk, one sugar please; stirred, not shaken.

Making myself a dry and dirty martini might be nice too, but not very conducive to active engagement with a toddler who is overjoyed to see his Papa return home.

Seeing Milo smile, hearing him laugh, feeling his resigned embrace as he falls asleep on my shoulder, these are the tiny pleasures that I truly live for.

In addition to the joy that my children give me, there are many minor things that make a big difference.

For instance, today I received an order from Amazon of 40 bars of miniature Neutrogena french milled soap. We are going to use them as courtesy bars whenever guests stay in our apartment. I purchased this particular brand and scent because it reminds me of my childhood.

Some 40 or so years ago, I was a little boy in a bathtub who loved using his little Snoopy foam bath mitt and the french milled soap that came with it. The innocent pleasure of an unhurried bubble bath and the smell of this soap are inextricably bonded forever in my memory.

Thus, since the day I rediscovered this soap at a long forgotten hotel we stayed in during some vacation, I have forever been on a mission to find it again.

Two nights ago, via pure serendipity, I found it and immediately ordered enough for me to share the wealth with those we welcome into our home.

Tonight, while we took a bubble bath together, I took a bar and shared the scent with Milo. He sniffed at the box and crinkled his nose and smiled. Seeing his reaction, combined with the fragrance that triggered an indulgent exorcism of this 40-year-old scent from the deepest synaptic recesses of my life, reminded me that it is indeed the little things that count..

Bubble baths with Snoopy and this soap 

are inextricably bonded forever in my memory.

Ep. 22: Coming home to dog shit and chicken bones

It's good to come home to dog shit and chicken bones...

Monday, April 15, 2013

(This week the Peekskill Commuter broadcasts from New York City.)

"It's good to be home again," Chelsea told me as were unpacking.

We're back at the apartment all week, while Toscano redoes the floors on the house.

Although I didn't immediately feel the same, because I was simply tired from moving all our baggage, eventually I felt a tinge of the homecoming euphoria my wife was feeling.

As she explained, "Quite often you move and that's it, you never get to revisit the place you made your home for so long, ever again."

After brunch with friends, a long walk the full length of Central Park on a beautiful and crisp spring day, take-out from Awash, one of our favorite local Ethiopian restaurants, and the chance to relax in bed with a pay-per-view movie, I was feeling a bit of the same appreciative déjà vu.

In addition to all the old amenities of living in Manhattan, I was simply happy not to have my weekend usurped by the need to move furniture all day and night.

By morning, however, that loving feeling began to dissipate.

At 7 AM the sound of sirens and car horns had pierced across the serene courtyard outside our window.

And at 8, I was back to navigating the dog shit and chicken bones strewn about the streets of Spanish Harlem, as I made my way to the subway to work.

Nonetheless and allthemore, it was nice to have a little extra time to sleep this morning. It was the first time in a month that I've awaken fairly well rested and not congested from all the residual cat dander that we hope all the carpet removal will help us expunge this week.

So, yes, ultimately I have to agree. It's good to be home again.

Ep. 21: You're never too young

An important message from the National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute 

Friday, April 12, 2013, 5:32 PM

I made it.

With literally thirty seconds to spare before the doors closed I stepped into the 5:32 train.

I forced the guy seated in the little seat near the door to give up his two-seat monopoly by saying, "Excuse me, do you mind if I take that seat?," fully expecting him to grimace and move out to let me in. As anticipated, he did exactly as I predicted.

As soon as I sat down I began to sweat like a hog well knowing he was next on the chopping block.

I had literally had sprinted half a mile up Park Av from 32nd, because the subway train I had just boarded, the stop before, was now stopped because a big old Tyler-Perry-looking black lady had injured her ankle and a police officer had begun writing an incident report when I stepped off to see what the hold-up was all about.

Immediately, I decided that this was going to take longer than forever and so checking the time—5:25, I decided to make a run for it. I had seven minutes to run ten blocks thru a million pedestrians at rush hour and ten stoplights.

By block-two my lungs were burning, that tightness in my chest that I had started to feel a couple hours earlier at my desk was feeling tighter, and the bitter cold was simply a nuisance and not conducive to run like Forrest.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I had to stop-and-scurry up a block only once, ultimately making it to the train in time.

As I waited for the conductor to look down, nod and say "Okay," so I could put away my wallet, I couldn't help but worry that I was going to be the next passenger to delay a train.

Due to all the moving of furniture, yard work and general labor around the house for the last four weeks, I have had extraordinary exposure to all the allergens that make my life miserable: house dust, cat dander, mildew.

As a result, I now carry around an emergency inhaler just in case I have an asthma attack.

Unusually short of breath, I was compelled to use it while we waited for the train to roll.

However, what has been more disconcerting to me, is that I've consistently been under so much physical duress for the last month that every morning when I scurry to catch the train and every night when I drag back up that hill, I cannot help but wonder (and worry) as to when I'm going to have a heart attack.

Coincidentally, two hours earlier I was interviewing a colleague for a story I'm writing and she told me that she had been delayed because a good friend of her's son has just died. He was 45.

I'm 45.

Ep. 20: I guess I'm a Yankee fan after all

When sports still meant something to me. 

I had no idea that ABC has not broadcast Monday Night Football since 2005...

Friday, April 12, 2013, 7:34 AM

I know I'm the odd man out here, but I find sports fans a curious bunch.

Crossing the bridge over Peekskill Station this morning I overheard a gentle giant of a man tell his female companion, "The Mets are in Minneapolis already; it's snowing."

And here I was about to grumble about the grey skies and drizzle-bound for-rain.

At 41 and chilly, crawling up to 45 and I'll-still-be-cold, I could care less about baseball, but this guy's genuine glee over his team raised my spirits a little, much like Milo's latest gesture, muffled laughter, consoled me upon my return home last night.

Everyone started down the stairs as the train began around the bend of Peekskill Bay.

At the last step Jolly Green Giant giddily took advantage of a passing friend's token inquiry, "Tired! We won last night."

Googling the score I discovered that the Mets actually lost to Philly 3-7 on Wednesday.

Upon further inspection, I found out the last night's winners included the Nationals, Orioles, Athletics, Dodgers and Rangers.

In other words, if this guy was referring to baseball after all, his hometown is likely either Washington, Baltimore, Oakland, LA or...Texas?

So much for my half-witted inferences. I suppose Sherlock Holmes I ain't.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I still find sports fans themselves more entertaining than their obsessions.

Some years ago I was sitting at the Blue Smoke restaurant bar waiting to negotiate a contract, when my colleague, our staff attorney, asked me about the football flashing on the screens above. I half-scoffed, half-cringed with shame, replying with squinted eyes, "Mmmm, I'm not a big sports fan. I rather play than watch."

Shocked, he replied, "Well, what do you talk about than? Especially, when you're at the bar, out drinking with the guys?"

I shrugged and politely answered, "Good point," well-knowing that with the right company there is plenty to talk about.

Regardless, some of my best friends and the smartest people I know are sports fans; Chelsea and I have attended intimate Super Bowl parties the last two years hosted by two different good buddies of ours, both who happen to be amazing chefs. So, don't be fooled by my petty review of my fellow man.

I do like sports fans, but I just can't relate to their fantasy games, jersey touting, bar shouting and late-night and bleary-eyed hooray-hurrah the-morning-after revelry.

I will admit, I suppose, if I were forced to make a choice here, sports highlights and bloopers, as well as Monday Night banter between Gifford and his co-horts over 25 years - Meredith, Michaels, Dierdorf, and Madden,* are far more interesting (and innocuous) than what I often overhear women excitedly squawking about.

Last night I got "lucky" because I got to sit next to the only two commuters who knew each other in our car, two working girls who chatted incessantly the whole ride up the Hudson. 

They were literally talking nonstop, often commenting over one another. Most of what they excitedly had to share was office gossip, relationship mysteries ("What was he thinking?"), and a lot about shopping, "I know, I was looking at Groupon, there's so much stuff!"

Ugh. 

Okay, the boys win. I guess you can count me in after all.

So what do you think about them Yankees? 

14 to 1 over Cleveland on Tuesday and a rout on Monday too!


*NEWS—to me—FLASH! Monday Night Football has not been broadcast by ABC since 2005. Really? I seriously had no idea it was on ESPN for the last eight years...