Ep 43: Better Tidings

I truly wish I had better tidings to bring. But simply for the daily record, I'm posting a few photos, but have little to say lest my musings be wrought with worry and exasperation.

Ep. 35: The man who has everything, has Nothing to complain about

At least, I have Milo - who makes me smile every time he calls me "Papa"

Friday, May 17

I woke up this morning hoping it was Saturday. Alas, or rather, thank God, it's Friday. I'm confused.

By 6:40 the haze had lifted and I was in the shower scrubbing, soaking, simply trying to wash away my earlier disappointment, so that I may readily embrace responsibility.

As I've told my colleagues a couple of times this week, I may be disappointed by how my work morphs into a homogeneous blah of boringness after all the edits, rewrites and approvals, but, at least, I have a job, and moreover, it's a job I love to do.

So, at least, I have a warm bed to pull away from; at least, I have a beautiful home, Dominguez Manor ; ), which I can home to and call my own; at least, I have a great bunch of boys that I am looking forward to playing basketball and watching Iron Man III with this weekend; at least, I have a little baby boy who looks up to me, scoots to meet me upon my return home and makes me smile with every garbled "Papa"; at least, I have a beautiful wife who I am deeply in love with and who is carrying our little princess, Olivia; at least, the sun still shines every morning I have to get out of bed to go to work.

At least, I'm alive and well and can write, because I love to write.

Okay, I feel better now.

Caffeine is kicking in, the two guys incessantly chatting about their boring lives have faded with the focus upon this composition, and we're almost at Grand Central Station, spoke-and-hub for the greatest city in the world.

I have really have nothing to complain about.

At least, I have this gorgeous view on my commute home

Ep 34: Splurge a little; purge a lot

Sometimes, you've just got to splurge to purge.

Thursday, May 16

Once, maybe twice, a week I relent my quest for purity and get a Goose Island Honker's Ale before boarding the 5:32 train home.

It is a small indulgence that eases me into the ride northward bound, one that costs me a little less than four bills and a willingness to concede to a catnap if I have to.

That said, for the last 34 years I've often beat myself up over the long term costs of this, mostly, innocuous inebriation.

Beleaguered by the guilt of not being more willing and able to give up this poison for a longer, healthier life, I simply mediate with binges of abstinence. The usual attempt at detoxification lasts no longer than three days; most of the time these desperate measures are the result of a bout with a stomach virus, food poisoning or a very rare hangover.

Alas, on average, every couple of years I must endure these nights of terror; of bone-gnawing chills, body aches, gut-wrenching, and incessant expulsion of bodily fluids, all usually coupled by a few hours of fever, than a flood of perspiration.

Hence the vows of "never again" and over-confident pledges of purity. Needless to say, this renewed commitment does not last very long.

I think I know why.

Sipping the last quarter of my beer as we rolled past Morris Heights my contemplation led to the same elucidation that compels me to jump off the wagon over and over again.

Life would simply be too frickin boring and intolerable if it were all about always doing what is seemingly best for you.

Because it is not always best for you.

An occasional indulgence in what's bad for you, can be good for you in the long run. The benefits run the gamut of stress relief, loss of inhibition, expression of emotion, a willingness to talk with strangers, self-satisfaction, unfettered glee, genuine happiness and the compulsion to live and enjoy the moment.

Granted, drugs and alcohol and other vices are not prerequisites for experiencing this menu of benefits, but they sure as hell often help. Especially if you're a stressed out father four-cum-five, corporate drone, manor-owner, hour-long commuter, middle-aged, only somewhat-accomplished and always-yearning to-accomplish-more guy like me.

So go ahead, indulge. I'm giving you permission - live a little , as they say. You just don't know when it will all catch up to you. So, you might as well enjoy it while you can.

Ep 33: The Merry Mexican; we must all bow before the light

Who came first? Our culture o Cantinflas?

Monday, May 13

Last night, for our Mother's Day dinner, we sat below a large portrait of "Cantinflas", Mexico's all-time greatest comedian.

Film star of the forties, fifties and sixties, he is a legend through most of Latin America. His filmography spans six decades, from 1936 until 1982.

As I was trying to explain to Sidney, he is as funny as Jim Carrey and Will Ferril combined. In truth, his genius is more like a combination of Jerry Lewis's antics, Robin William's wit, the verbal dexterity of Matt Damon, and the linguistic innovation of Shakespeare. Charlie Chaplin once commented that he was the best comedian alive.

His unique manner of talking is known as Cantinflada and during his heyday it was not uncommon for Spanish speakers to say "¡Estás cantiflando!" whenever someone became hard to understand in conversation. La Real Academia Española officially included the verb, cantinflear, cantinflas y cantinflada in its dictionary in 1992.

Born Mario Alfonso Fortino Moreno Reyes in 1911 in Mexico City, Cantinflas was a champion of the working class and impoverished both on and off the screen thorough his political and charitable deeds. His talent and good deeds ultimately made him a folk hero throughout Mexico and for several generations.

In 1993, after his death from lung cancer, thousands appeared on the rainy day for his funeral in Mexico City. The ceremony was a national event, lasting three days. In the US, he is honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In essence, as I ate my chile rellono smothered in mole, I realized that Cantinflas is the epitome of "The Merry Mexican," who accepts the harshness of life with a grain of salt, adds a squeeze of limón y chile to make it flavorful and is more than happy to laugh at himself, especially if he can simultaneously make fun of others who take themselves too seriously.

The epiphany got me wondering, "Who came first? Cantinflas or our cultural reputation for eternal cheerfulness?"

I'm apt to believe that Mr. Moreno merely embodied and projected the gnawed-up apple core of our culture; much like Vicente "Chente" Fernandez, Mexico's greatest living singer has interpreted the sappier side of how we handle life and it's endless bounty of little glories and it's occasional gush of lovelorn tragedy.

I also like to think that in my own small and somewhat-humble way, I too manifest my heritage with my optimism in spite of other's obstacles; a youthful wit that admittedly lies dormant beneath 14 years of angst-ridden and impatient parenting; the counter-corporate funny fotos of my family that I have hanging in my office; and my humility in the light of life...

...for, in the end, we must all bow before the light.

Some of the counter-corporate fotos of my family
that I have up in my office that show that
I am indeed a merry Mexican...

Ep 32: Running down Requa; the wrong side of the mountain

God bless America! We're slated to hit 77 in NYC today.

Friday, May 10

Running down Requa I caught a glimpse of the majestic mist hanging over the Hudson.

I wanted to soak it in, but I was running, late for the train.

My lament lasted only a few minutes because five minutes after our first stop the entire river was swallowed up by a magical blanket of fog and for a moment it felt like we were either on a vintage amusement park ride or in some scene from the Shanghai Express.

Alas, there was no Marlene nor any exciting episodes with Chinese warlords, and the thrill promptly ended once we rolled into Croton-Harmon.

Speaking too soon, we slipped back under cover as soon as we left the last stop before Grand Central and the dissipating heat of flanking thoroughfares fueled by exhaust and anxiety.

The beauty of the blur lasted for many miles, past the veiled prison-town of Ossining (i.e. home to Sing Sing), past the legendary Sleepy Hollow and its headless henchman, and past the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge*, until we came into the clear between the Palisades and Croton-on-the-Hudson.

Once we sunk into the Bronx and then Harlem all hope was lost; the swaths of red brick and pale concrete reminded me that my joy ride was over.

Back to work, back to worrying about mediating teenage angst and self-interest with parental duty and the bigger picture; back to banging my head against the wall of ex-spousal indifferences; back to the aggravating concern of absent-minded and perilous childcare; back to being the stripped screw at the office; back to being a greying grown-up at the top of the mountain of my life.

The view into nothingness looked good until it cleared; perhaps I'm looking down the wrong side of the mountain.


*Spanning almost three miles it is the longest bridge in the state of New York. It was named for an American Indian tribe from the area called "Tappan"; and zee being the Dutch word for "sea".

It is right to give thanks and praise to pace of the snail;
seen running with me down Requa

Ep 31: Outta Commission ['cause Life is Never Dull]

Every boys' home should have a basketball court.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

The Peekskill Commuter has been quite out of commission lately. With all that's swirling about in my noggin and all the calls to duty, there's virtually no space or time or place to conveniently compose these posts.

Life has been occupied by one task after another: assemble this compost box; now create a basketball court for the boys; pick up and move a 200 lb antique desk dresser into the house by yourself; move all of the furniture out of Dominic's bedroom, for the fourth time in a month, by yourself, so we can paint; take care of the baby; refurbish and refinish another antique armoir; take five minutes to eat some cold ribs, cheese and a beer; buy and set up a bifurcate faucet and garden hose system, so we don't have to drag the 100 foot hose back and forth across the flower bed every night...

A real man's lunch: cold ribs, cheese and beer.

And that's just a sample of the work that's waiting for me a home; don't get me started on the mountains they've got me moving back at the office. Ugh!

As a colleague commented yesterday after I told her about my latest childcare conundrum, "Life is never dull...[for the Peekskill Commuter]."

At least I've got that going for me. : )

PK

Turning another man's tarnished junk, into my treasure.

Ep 30: More like hour by hour

Friday, May 3

Here it is, Friday again.

For me, the realization is not the celebratory TGIF that it used to be.

Rather, it's the scary acknowledgment that yet another week has passed.

More than ever, I fully understand why old people often say "Enjoy them [the kids] while you can..." or simply "Time flies," because before you know it...you're dead. (See Ep. 11, Don't Blink!, April 3, 2013)

I used to believe that a positive twist on the inevitable - time does fly, but don't forget you're the pilot - could counter the disconcerting loss of control.

Alas, no longer. Now, at times, it simply feels that will power and the power of positive thinking are powerless against fate.

I am busier, and relatively happier, than ever, but sometimes it feels like I'm Bill Murray in Groundhog Day - I wake up, make coffee and Milo a bottle, take a shower, get dressed, kiss my beautiful wife goodbye, triple check that I have everything I need, run down Requa, and hop on the train. And before I know it I'm waking up at six AM to do it all over again.

This morning a conversation with a colleague who lives one stop north in Garrison, intervened.

We talked about art fairs and fishing licenses and secret keys that opened the gates to virtually private lakes. I responded that such leisures and pleasures might have to wait another season, because after two months I felt I was still busy moving into our new house.

She responded with an understanding smile, "Well I guess you've just got to take it day by day."

"More like hour by hour," I replied, with a tired chuckle.

I'm 45 and if I'm lucky I'll live twice long, it only seems that the next half of the journey will go twice as fast.

Guess, I better buckle that seatbelt.

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.