Ep. 41: This, Our Daily Bread

Olivia Luz, our little princess was born two weeks ago tomorrow.
She is merely one of my many daily blessings.

Lately, almost all of my one hour of "free" time has been spent playing semi-mindless WWF during my daily commute to work.

I'd word-whittle my time away on the return trip too, but these days I'm almost always the guy with a little drool sliding down the side of my snore-hole.

The first true love of my life, writing, has had to take a back seat to juggling two babies, a manor-of-a-home, a happy marriage, a blended family made of rambunctious boys, and my evolving 9-to-5 (i.e., there is no such thing as job security anymore, adapt to the culture of "constant improvement" and reorgs, or - be ready to fill that cardboard box).

I'm writing now because this catharsis is long overdue. No complaints apart from the fact that I don't have time to pen my thoughts, share my observations and express my appreciation for all the wonderful little things that fulfill my days.

As I told Margarita yesterday whilst shoveling in my last scoop of her heavenly Posole, "As veces, estoy en la oficina y me pregunto 'Porque estoy aquí?' Entonces regreso a casa, a mi familia y cenas maravillosas como esta-y recuerdo."

"Sometimes, I'm in the office and I ask myself 'Why am I here?' Then I return to my home and family, and wonderful meals like this and I remember."

Ep. 40: Eureka all over again

Milo and I went for a walk around the block early Saturday morning, while the whole hood seemed to still be in bed. During our stroll he reminded me of an invaluable lesson: less is more.

It is a lesson I've been learning all my life, one which I must be reminded of all too often.

For I've learned that much of the stress and anxiety we contend with in life is simply a consequence of pursuing more and ending up with less.

At first glance, our routine struggles may seem purely in the name of something better, when most often we are merely maintaining the status quo.

However, if we dig beneath the surface often you'll find a disconnect between our pursuit of luxury and a basic foundation for happiness.

Most of us have far more than we really need to be happy. Much of our limited time is wasted either simply storing stuff for nothing, never to be used again, or in the vacuous pursuit of being entertained; when with very little effort we can either entertain ourselves, or better yet, each other.

That's what Milo reminded me of when we took our little stroll about the block. Every walkway was a detour; every driveway was a beginning to a new adventure.

The treasures we found along the way were precious, the value of each piece punctuated with a genuine quizzical inspection and a declaration of pure elation and discovery, as if every infantile "Unh!" was Eureka all over again.

Our trove was priceless and included a flower, one dead and shriveled-up worm, un palito, three rocks, a Popsicle stick, a loose wad of dried grass and a whole lot of curiosity and appreciation for the little things.

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. 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.