Allow Me to (Re)Introduce...

"She was a fast machine. She kept her motor clean. She was the best damn woman I had ever seen." -AC/DC, You Shook Me All Night

There is a reason I used that line from that song to begin this post. Today my wife and I celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary. During the planning process, the only snag we really hit - except for the occasional grenade thrown by our meddling mothers - was the first dance. We couldn't agree on a wedding song.

Whenever we'd reach an impasse, I would suggest the song above to break the tension. To this day, my wife will point to herself and give a sarcastic wink and thumbs up whenever we hear it.

We rejected a lot of good songs, in fact. Among them, "Crash" by The Dave Matthews Band. This was the early favorite. If one song was our song at the time, this was it. But we didn't feel comfortable dancing in front of family, especially some of the older folks, to lyrics like "Hike up your skirt a little more and show your world to me."

Then there is "Lovely Day" by Bill Withers. This would have been it had either of us possessed any sort of rhythm to confidently fast dance in front of 200 people. We settled on "Someone Like You" by Van Morrison. Sweet and simple:

I've been searching my whole life for someone exactly like you.
Someone like you to make it all worthwhile.
Someone like you to keep me satisfied.
Someone exactly like you.

Our search for a wedding song is similar to my search for a new way to identify my wife in this blog. After all, I refer to our daughter as "the Peanut." It only seems right that my wife has a snazzy nickname of her own. But for months I've been hitting the same dead end.

My Muse/Boss/Editor chose this picture 

Here are the contenders:

I describe her in my about page as "My Muse." But that's only part of her role in my life. A big one, but just a part.

"The Editor?" She does have final say over what gets published in this blog. (So she thinks.) But that makes her sound like she stifles me. She doesn't.

"The Boss?"  Too trite and cliche.

I toyed with "The Megulator," which is a play on her actual name. Her brother and I often use this name to describe her when she's being particularly anal, controlling, and bossy. But no. Only we get to call her that.

This year as a joke, I started referring to her as "the lady I live with" in status updates on my personal Facebook page. Or "The Lady" for short. This in response to an app that told me the word I used most often in status updates in 2010 was... drumroll... wife.

She is a constant source of inspirational and humorous material.

She runs our family. She's in charge of the finances, the calendar, and most important... she keeps us emotionally centered.

In her actual job, director is part of her title. She manages several departments and a staff of eighteen people.

My Director & the Peanut

In my job as a television news producer, there may be no other person who is more crucial to my show's success (and to my sanity) when we are live on the air than my director. He or she has bailed me out countless times when things could have gone terribly wrong. Carried me when I was not at my best. We're in contsant communication. But sometimes we communicate without even talking. My director is always looking for ways to make me and my show better. My director always has my back.

Our life is a show. I am its producer. But I couldn't do it without... "My Director."

Give her a round of applause, and please make a note of it in your programs.

Happy Anniversary to the girl of my dreams. And the best Director I've ever had.

(Luna, incidentally, will always be simply referred to as...Luna)

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Cukes of Hazard

"Despite the gardener's best intentions, Nature will improvise." ~Michael P. Garafalo

I have some serious cucumber envy. My wife gets excited every time she plucks another one out of our garden. I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. They're big. Really big. And believe me when I tell you we have grown no fewer than fifty cucumbers this year. Five-zero.

All huge.

None bigger than this one, the mother of all cukes:

A lot of guys would feel inadequate.

Besides my feelings of inadequacy, I have another problem: what the hell do I do with all of these cucumbers? There are not a lot of recipes for them. You put them in salads, you make dips. I even sliced some nice and thin and put them on yummy sammiches one weekend.

All told, that accounted for maybe four or five cucumbers.

So now my cucumber envy has turned into cucumber fatigue. Problem is, you can't cook them. We've even given about two dozen away to friends and co-workers. That's when I emailed my friend Evin over at Food Good, Laundry Bad and told her I needed help.

She sent me two recipes.

I was psyched. Not only will I use these recipes, I'll write up a cool post about it for Evin's blog. I'll tell her readers how easy it was, how much my family enjoyed them, how there were no leftovers.

Well, there were no leftovers. But not for the reason you might think. A funny thing happened on the way to getting rid of the rest of the summer's harvest of cukes. They went bad in the fridge because I was saving them for this post.

Oh well. I didn't even fell bad about it.

Next year, we plant fewer cucumbers and more green beans.

Thanks again to Evin for her help. This post was originally published on Food Good, Laundry Bad last month. (You can follow that link for the recipes.) Please check out her blog and follow her on Facebook and Twitter. She's one of my favorites.

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Prepare Yourself

"Without other people, we might as well be zombies." -from Zombieland

It's just a matter of time. It's inevitable, really. So you need to be ready. Still, you can plan all you want and when it does come, you can expect the unexpected. Because no amount of planning can prepare you for what's about to happen. And when it does happen - and it will - you have no choice but to deal with it the best you can. Do everything you can to survive.

Do you know what I am referring to?

I'm talking about two things, actually: having babies and fighting zombies.

Right now, both topics are front and center with me and my wife. That's how I came to recognize the eerie similarities. Think about it. You can read all you want on the topic, talk to as many experts as possible, watch training videos, and nothing can prepare you for the intense drama of the actual event.

They're both messy, dangerous, and unpredictable. Literally a sh!tshow.

We are scared of both. Well, I am scared of both. My wife isn't nearly as concerned about the zombie apocalypse as I am. Thus, I am more and more resigned to the fact that she will most likely be zombie fodder rather quickly when the time comes. She's actually told me she's ok with that. She says she doesn't want to live in a world that's overrun by zombies. So the love of my life is basically going to force me to make the painful decision to shoot her in her zombie head once she turns. Nice.

I told her I am a fighter. That I would do everything I could to survive, and to protect our family. I would turn our minivan into a zombie killer on wheels. But I also recognize the Peanut could be a potential liability. Her inability to be quiet when we need her to be will undoubtedly attract unwanted attention. As can her stubborn refusal to listen to simple commands on occasion, like leaving the lights off. All I need is for her to be in a difficult mood while a swarm of zombies is hovering outside of our quiet, dark, well-stocked hideout. This is why I am also sure Luna, who barks every time she hears something - anything - outside of our door might not make it very long, either. She's dead weight, and probably a goner. Sad.

Zombies are fresh on my mind because the second season of The Walking Dead premieres tomorrow night. I will have to DVR it because it is on past my bedtime. And because my wife is a scaredy cat, I will need to watch it when she isn't around. I told her we need to watch it together, as a study guide. She's a doubter who is not sold on the possibility (I say probability) of the zombie apocalypse. She's going to be very sorry one day.

But until that day, we continue to plan and worry about having a second child. A child that will once again turn us into zombies. It's inevitable.

But just for the record, there is no baby yet. Or zombie apocalypse, for that matter.

I linked this post to the Zombie Tuesday blog hop at Motherhood Truth. Click to check it out:

>

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Have a Little Faith

"I will hold you up because your love it gives me strength enough." -John Hiatt

My wife and I are struggling with when, and whether, to have a second child. Had she not taken her current job last year, we very well may have a baby right now. But she did, and we don't.

So, we planned to start trying to have a baby this fall, in time for early next summer. (Assuming everything goes "swimmingly.")

But, as John Lennon sang, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. We're not really sure we're two-child people. It has nothing to do with being "ready." It has nothing to do with loving the second child.

It just has to do with us. Who were are. The life we're living. The life we want to give the Peanut.

Are we complete?

My wife recently asked me if I felt our family is complete as is, the three of us. (Four with Luna.) She was surprised when I said yes. Not that I don't want or wouldn't love another child. I just believe the Peanut does complete us.

I'm not one of these guys who feels the need to reproduce to carry on the family name. In the 21st century, I feel my strong-minded, independent daughter is very well capable of representing the family and passing on the tradition however she sees fit. And we're also not a couple who absolutely has to have another child.

Sometimes we do think we need to have one. Whether it's peer pressure, or family pressure, or Peanut pressure. Yes, the Peanut wants a sibling. So she says. And there is a part of us that wants to have a baby so she can have a sibling. So she has someone to go to other than us, especially since we won't be around forever.

While that's definitely a better reason than peer pressure or pressure from our parents... is it still enough of a reason?

There's also, I must admit, the financial reason. Right now, we live somewhat comfortably. And once Peanut is out of daycare, we'll be able to take nice vacations and finally put a decent chunk away for college each month. If we have a second, we wouldn't be able to do either of those things for either child for at least another five years, if ever.

Nothing could have ever prepared us for this

My wife and I are planners. And we totally get that you could plan for a child all you want and never really be ready. Physically, emotionally, or financially. Were we really ready for the first? Is anybody?

So we struggle. It's not a matter of love. Because we will love any child who blesses our family. We just don't have an answer. But I did think about it and pray about it after my wife asked me that question about whether I think we're a complete family. The spiritual person and the narcissist in me both think we are depriving the world of a life if we don't have a second child. That might sound a little crazy, but it's how I feel.

Once I was done thinking and praying, I looked at my wife and said the only thing I could think of. Because I am still siding with having a second, despite the concerns.

"I honestly have no idea how we'd do it," I told her. "But I just have faith in us."

Sometimes I think that's all we need. Call me an optimist.

We've been talking about whether we're "ready" for quite some time.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Scary Crazy

We have a problem. A serious problem. A Halloween problem. In our house, we treat Halloween almost as seriously as we treat Christmas. No, you're not reading this wrong. Your calendar is correct. It's still September... and I'm talking about Halloween already. It's because we have a problem.

How into Halloween are we? We host the annual party. It used to be a drunken kegger complete with vodka gummy worms and costume contests that lasted well into the early morning. Now, it's a kidsapalooza complete with backyard games and a pinata that ends in time for dinner.

This weekend, my wife asked me to bring all of the Halloween boxes down from the attic so she could "take inventory." Yes, inventory. I stacked them in the corner of our bedroom:

You can't see 'em all but there are nine crates total

This year, we decided to be ahead of the game. Planning early because all of our October weekends are filled with other commitments. We already made the trek to Target. Speaking of being ahead of the game, I even bought two sets of Christmas lights while we were there. I can't help myself. Like I said, we have a problem.

That's not nearly as bad as my wife, who bought a bounce house. Yeah... a freakin' bounce house. Called it an "investment:"

We Bought a House

And we complain we have no money. There's not enough therapy to deal with this problem.

Peanut's into it too... rummaging into the crates to find her Halloween toys, including the vampire Mr. Potato Head. But she didn't want him in her room at night because he's "scary:"

Still smiling for a guy sleeping in the hallway

Luna's excited to have her Halloween toys back too:

My what big fangs you have.

I wonder if the Peanut will be as into Halloween as we are when she grows up. Something tells me she will:

Reminder: it's still September.

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The Worst Pain in the World

"Children are a great comfort in your old age - and they help you reach it faster, too." ~Lionel Kauffman

Image courtesy of noiseushop.com

Nothing hurts a guy worse than a kick in the nuts. Physically speaking, of course. 

I'm sure the ladies out there will say the same thing about a smack in the lady parts. But I'm a guy and I'm telling you, a kick in the nuts is worse. THE. WORST.

It makes you hurt. It makes you sad. And it makes you angry. Very, very angry. Because nowhere are you more vulnerable. And when you get kicked in the nuts it's just like, well... getting kicked in the nuts.

Let me set the scene for you...


One evening, the Peanut and I were roughhousing on our bed. She was jumping as I was laying there, as we got ready for bed, right before we settled down to read a book.

But one rogue leap changed the mood.

She landed, full-footed, on my babymaker. Ironic, I know. And since we're on the subject, you should know that I was in my pajamas (a pair of Syracuse basketball shorts) and I don't wear boxers to bed. The point of that bit of over-sharing about going commando is to illustrate there was very little protection for my little bicep.

I immediately hid my face in my pillow. It hurt so much I wanted to scream. But didn't. Couldn't. Not in front of her. It's not a macho thing. It's a being a good parent and not scaring the bejesus out of the Peanut thing.

The initial surge of pain wore off. Then came the dull ache. Every guy knows the dull ache. It feels like your groin is 700 lbs. Then you get nauseous.

Covering my face with my hand, I turned over and told my wife to get the Peanut out of the room. Immediately if not sooner.

Here comes the anger. You can't help the anger. Even when you're with your buddies and they're all laughing at you and you're kind of laughing too, you're still just pissed off. And you can't wait until you're physically upright so you can punch the first guy you see in the face.

Even though it was an accident, even though she was sorry and actually felt really badly, I wanted to throw my daughter across the room. The important thing is I never would do that. "Just please get her away from me," I asked, and buried my head back into my pillow.

My wife kindly obliged.

The pain subsided. The Peanut apologized. Genuinely. I accepted. Genuinely.

And I'm sure I will live to reproduce again. If we are so inclined. (But still, not anytime soon.)

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Once a Fantasy

"Dream another dream. This dream is over." -Van Halen

Now for a quick lesson in fantasy versus reality. During junior high and  high school, I was big into hockey. I played regularly with my friends. We had even organized a club team. I was a rabid New Jersey Devils fan.

I was also, obviously, into girls. Girls that were mostly unattainable for a recovering fat kid like me, who as it turns out was more Duckie than Blane if we're casting for Pretty in Pink.

One of those unattainable girls I dreamed of was Alyssa Milano. I had a crush on her since the days of  "Who's the Boss." I watched her "blossom," in fact. She became the poster girl for my youth. Literally. There she was, hanging on my bedroom wall... a sexy teenager dressed in a Devils jersey holding a hockey stick:

huminahuminahumina

Oh, and did I mention Italian? All grown up + hot + hockey + Devils hockey + Italian = I was in love.

The things I did to that poster, with that poster, underneath that poster.

Fast forward two decades. I don't follow hockey much anymore. No time. I did, however, follow Alyssa on Twitter for a short time. But I found her annoying. She tweeted too much and about random things and sent out a bunch of stupid links I didn't care about. I wanted to follow hockey goddess Alyssa. Not this other version. Annoying Alyssa. Anissa.

I actually STOPPED following Alyssa Milano on Twitter. It was then I realized this was pretty much the death of my boyhood fantasy.

Turns out, the girl of my dreams was annoying. Very.

Then today, more reality. Cold, hard, reality: My wife, well aware of my teenage crush, sent me an email, and loved every minute of it. She wrote one sentence:

"She is a long way from the poster in your bedroom."

And she included this picture: You have to click on this link to see it because I don't want to get sued by People Magazine or Time, Inc.

Let me be clear: I think ALL pregnant women are beautiful and ought to be canonized. My WIFE sent this to me with that comment. Any gripes you may have are with HER. But you gotta admit... she's right... especially when you factor in the annoying Twitter thing. To be fair, this is not a flattering picture of Alyssa. But no teenage boy is posterizing that pregnant pose.

And sadly, this is the final nail in the coffin of that fantasy.

*UPDATE* Alyssa had her baby, a boy named Milo Thomas. Read >more here.

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Shelter From the Storm

"If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds and that old north wind should begin to blow." -James Taylor

My daughter will only know how terrified I was of Hurricane Irene if she reads this post one day.

Terri. Fied.

Why? Because I just didn't know. I didn't know if I took all of the necessary precautions and stocked up on all of the necessary supplies. I didn't know if I was making the right decisions.

I didn't know if I could do it without my wife.

She had to work this weekend. This was move-in weekend at the college where she works and it's her event. She had to make sure everything went smoothly. Make sure everyone was safe.

But what about us?

I protested. I guilt-tripped her. I told her she was putting herself in harm's way by staying in the city, which was expecting a direct hit from the storm. I said her bosses were being stubborn. I laid it on thick.

She told me, "I have two words for you: nine eleven."

She was right. When 9/11 happened I was gone for nearly a week. I stayed in the city. I put myself in harm's way. We were on high alert. My station was a block from the United Nations, a potential target.

So I relented. I knew where she wanted to be. The same place where I wanted her to be.

Still terrified at the thought of enduring a hurricane alone with the Peanut, I thought about driving her west to my in-laws, dropping her off, then turning around to stay with the house. I thought they might not get it as bad. (Turns out they lost power and we didn't).

I imagined hugging her goodbye, knowing what was ahead of us, and I nearly broke down. The thought of abandoning her like that just broke my heart. Even though she would not have seen it that way. She would have loved staying at her grandparents' house.

No... we'd ride it out together. I'd put on my brave face. I'd pray. A lot. I'd think about my parents. How the hell did they seem so calm during Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Or were they filled with the same anxiety I was feeling now? Did I just not know it because they had put on a brave face?

Peanut hungry for pasta & chicken cutlets

Luckily, some friends were coming over to wait out the storm with us. So I told the Peanut it was going to be a party. We kept busy. We played games. We watched movies. I cooked two meals because apparently I cook when I'm nervous. We drank beer. (Not the Peanut.) Lots of beer.

As the storm picked up, whipping rain and wind against the house, we went through our normal bedtime routine. Potty. Brush teeth. Wash hands and face. Book. Silly shadows. Race down the hall. Kiss and hug goodnight. Brave face.

My biggest fear was something happening to the house, and Peanut freaking out. A power outage. Or worse... One of the many trees around our property crashing down. I woke up a few times during the night to check on everything. I looked out the windows, scanned the trees in the yard, checked on the Peanut, and inspected for possible Luna bombs on the living room carpet downstairs.

The little pump that could

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Dude Looks Like a Lady

"I'm not a girl's toy. I'm not. Why do you guys keep saying that?" -Michael Keaton, in his masterful performance as Ken in Toy Story 3

There I was. Laying on the floor after another long day. I lay on the floor for several reasons. To play with the dog. To stretch out. And to cool off.

But my fun and relaxation came to an abrupt end when I innocently turned my head for what was supposed to be a split second. I couldn't believe what I was staring at. I was face-to-face with him.

He's so pretty.

Ken.

And not just Ken. Buck-naked Ken.

Suddenly, I was awash in awkwardness. Partly because I couldn't take my eyes off of him. So disturbing and yet impressive at the same time. And partly because not only was I marveling at his physique, but at his situation as well.

Quite the pool party

You see, Ken was laying there, with a big sh!t-eatin' grin on his face, in the Peanut's Barbie pool... with two women. Having a good old time. Lucky dog.

I stared at him, more like grimaced uncomfortably. With the Peanut safely tucked away in bed, I had an open forum.

"Why is Ken naked?" I asked my wife.

"That's what she does. She takes off their clothes and plays with them naked. We could be in trouble when she's older."

And then, my wife... the reserved one of the two of us. My straight man, if you will. The Abbott to my Costello... she says, "Maybe she's headed for a life on the pole."

Oh. My. Gawd.

I couldn't believe she had just said that. I definitely didn't want to think about it. Thankfully, she changed the subject saying, "I most certainly remember Ken having underwear. And he certainly wasn't as pretty."

I looked at Ken again. Is he pretty? Now a new set of emotions is bubbling up inside of me.  She was right. He is pretty. I'm not afraid to admit it.

Bad enough he's got the perfectly chiseled body. Now he's got to be pretty too? Just look that fabulous head of hair. So jealous. And if I'm not mistaken, he's wearing lipstick. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now it was time to investigate the first part of my wife's statement. I forced myself to look where his underwear should be. I said the only thing that came to mind.

What the hell is this?

"So you're saying your Ken doll growing up didn't have a man-gina?"

"No," my wife said holding back laughter. "He definitely didn't have a man-gina." (I love her for repeating "man-gina.")

What is UP with Ken's man-gina? They couldn't mold him some plastastic boxers or something? All the clothes they have for this guy... and he suddenly goes commando with his man-gina?

Barbie is one thing, with her stereotypes, curves, and cliches. And always with her constant nudity too. Now I've got to deal with Ken and the whole other boxload of innuendos and awkwardness he brings. A Pandora's boxload, if you will.

I'm not sure which situation is more disturbing: the Peanut's insistence that these dolls always be naked. Or the fact that I can't stop looking.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Evidence

When I was growing up my mom had a particular term she would use to describe the messes I left in the house. She would walk into the kitchen and perform a 360 degree scan of the all of the rooms. She'd spot a cereal box on the counter, an empty glass on the coffee table, a textbook on the floor where I was doing homework.

Then she'd ask, "Why do I always have to come home to evidence?"

Evidence. Genius.

Last weekend, my wife said something similar. "Why does all of your crap have to be strewn all over the counter all of the time?" I had no answer, except to compliment her on her exceptional use of the funky word "strewn."

She was right:

Laptop, iPod, running watch, 2 pairs of glasses, keys, and more....

A few days later, I noticed a similar trend when I stayed at home one day with the Peanut:

We played princesses

We camped out in the kitchen

And of course, the chair train. All aboard!

My wife mentioned the famous chair train in her now viral guest post that she wrote for my birthday. Click here to read it.

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Does Daddy Know Less?

My amazing wife wrote this guest post for me for my birthday. Enjoy:

Who is DKL really? He writes freely and honestly, but how honest can anyone truly be about themselves? Well, in this first ever guest blog post, I, his wife, am here to tell you on this very special day- his birthday, who he really is.

He is indeed all of the things he says he is: narcissistic, needy and self-absorbed. But he sells himself short. He is also sensitive, kind, and loves me more than I ever thought one person could. Does he have a temper? Yes. Is he moody like a woman at that time of the month? Often. Self critical? Too much. In fact, he asks a little too often for a male if I think he looks fat (a side effect of being a fat kid growing up). But what I have always been drawn to is what is underneath that gruff exterior once you scratch the surface.

He truly is a 36 year old man.

If asked, I would have to say that one of my favorite traits about my husband is that he is a big kid at heart. He becomes whatever character the Peanut asks him to and allows that character to consume him. Whether it's Zurg from Toy Story or Aladdin her prince. It does not matter how foolish it may be. He stays in full character.

He often gets annoyed with my mom when he comes home from work and the playroom is staged from their latest pretend world. But you know what? On the days when he is home with the Peanut, what do I come home to? A pretend world and a mess. Most recently it was a train made out of chairs with all of her stuffed animals in the seats with him at the head as the conductor!

Oh, he and my mother are more alike then he would ever be willing to admit...

No one is funnier than dad.

What only enhances his being a big kid is that he is also truly very funny. No one, and I mean no one, can make the Peanut belly laugh harder than he can. Our house is filled with the echoes of "More Daddy, do it one more time" until they are both on the floor laughing. Exhausted. One of her favorites is when he collapses on her and pretends to be asleep until I come to save her and tickle him.

During a recent tour of the Ben and Jerry's factory in Vermont, the tour guide was having some very embarassing technical difficulties when trying to show a movie. The crowd was hushed. That's when my husband asked the group if anyone had checked if the TV was on Channel 3.

He got more laughs at that moment than the tour guide did the whole tour. What warmed my heart the most is how my daughter turned to me and asked with a smile on her face, "Were they all laughing at Daddy?" She was so amused by that. In that moment, I was reminded of one of the many reasons I love him.

I see his humor in her and will be forever thankful that she got this from him because laughter will always allow us as a family to enjoy each other and for others to enjoy us.

Always reminding us that
there is no reason to cry
over spilled milk.

DKL is also the person who grounds us and keeps us real. At times I have a tendency to get worked up over the smallest things. He is always the one who brings me back to reality. Reassuring me that we can handle anything.

One of my favorite pieces of advice MY father ever gave me was right before we became parents. He told me as long as we put each other first as a couple our family will remain strong and intact. He said, "Your children are of course important and you will love them more than you ever thought possible. But it is your relationship as husband and wife that is the most important. If your kids see that you are a unit and are always there for each other, your family will be stronger for it."

Now, I don't mean to brag, but those who know us often say that one of the most obvious traits DKL exhibits is his love for me. It is for this alone, that I know our family will always be alright. His ability to love. I know he has the largest piece of his heart reserved for me and next in line is the Peanut (and Luna).

We are definitely a couple who bickers, but our ability to move past our differences and always work on making us better is what will allow us to live a long happy life together.

DKL and me: Best Friends.

I don't mind that our daughter sees us in our best and worst moments together because she also sees the commitment we have towards each other.

Over the past four years, I have loved being able to see my husband express himself to all of you through this blog. I worry at times that his writing for the masses may cause him to lose himself and write to please all of you. My promise in all of this is to always be the one behind him making sure he is true to himself because to me, DKL in his purist form is the man I love and the blogger who is going to go far.

Happy Birthday to a Daddy who says he knows less, but knows a lot more than he thinks.

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It's Up To You, New York

"If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere." -Frank Sinatra

There are moments when I truly love New York. When it shows you its heart and soul and you really wonder why the greatest city in the world gets such a bad rap.

Then there are moments when I just want to punch the city in the face and then demand an apology for making me do it.
This is the story of one of those punch-in-the-face moments.

On the Friday before Fourth of July weekend, my wife took the peanut to work with her. Daycare was closed and my wife had a half day because of the holiday. The peanut actually gets excited for these days. The train ride in, the subway, all of the attention from co-workers. But these days are exhausting for her.

Always an adventure. Especially this time because my wife had decided to leave the stroller at home. "It's too heavy," she proclaimed. "Besides, she's old enough to walk the few blocks from the subway to my office." Fine.

The large bouquet of flowers

I left my work in midtown early to meet them downtown where my wife works. We were ready to start our vacation together. That day my wife's boss had given her a large bouquet of flowers for her birthday. My primary function was to carry these flowers three long blocks to the subway, three stops on the subway, one long block to the bus station, and on the bus ride home.

Remember, the peanut is walking this whole time and being such a good sport about it despite the heat. She's holding our hands, listening, and even staying within reasonable distance when she had insisted on walking by herself.
We get on the subway and, naturally, there are no seats. At this point, the peanut starts complaining. Out loud. "Mommy, I really want to sit down."

Nothing from the other passengers.

She says it again.

My wife explains that there are no seats.

Nothing still.

One woman is actually looking directly at my daughter as she is requesting a seat. And still she doesn't get up.

This is when I want to punch New York in the face.

What possesses people to sit there while a little girl is asking to sit down? She's not even whining. Just stating that she's tired and wanted a seat.

Someone finally gets up to offer her his seat. But it turns out he was getting off at the next stop. So to me, that doesn't count.

We all get seats at that stop. A dad and his little boy, a kid about a year younger than my daughter, slide down to make room for me.

Remember I'm still holding this enormous vase of flowers.

The moment I crouch to sit, I hear the dad who moved over for me start screaming. Yes, screaming.

"Whoa! WHOOAAA! WHOAAAA!"

I had accidentally tipped the flowers and some of the water inside had dripped out onto his son, who was sitting next to me. This father then proceeded to make a ridiculous scene out of the whole thing. Shaking his head in disapproval. Scowling. Checking his son's black t-shirt for, I guess, water stains.

It was a disproportionate response that was so out of line he probably didn't hear my heartfelt apology because he was screaming so loudly. I no longer cared that his stupid kid was wet because of me. I kind of felt at that point it was payback for everyone else not giving up their seats for a little girl.

My wife, annoyed at this moron and the rest of the car full of jerks who wouldn't give the peanut a seat then chimed in, "It's only water. It'll probably cool him off on this hot day."

Had my daughter not been there, I may have added a " you a$$hole" before he and his not-quite-soggy kid got off at the next stop.

These are the moments when I want to punch New York in the face and then demand an apology for making me do it.

Luckily, a ten day vacation followed.

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A Show of Support

"I'm in love with her and I feel fine." -The Beatles

You never know when you're going to get that proverbial knock on the door. It rarely is - if ever- an actual knock on the door. The knock on the door that makes you realize something you knew all along, but mostly don't have the time to really think about. Although the comfort of knowing is usually enough, sometimes you need to say it out loud.

My wife was out walking the dog. The peanut and I were playing, waiting for friends of hers from daycare and their parents to come over for a backyard barbecue. She was giddy in anticipation. She was wearing her bathing suit, waiting to jump in this new inflatable water sprinkler playmat thingy we had set up.

Then came the knock on the door (It was actually a ringing of the doorbell). The peanut screeched with excitement. "They're here," I shouted. "Come with me to get the door!" She followed closely behind me. Contagious, nervous thrills pumped through my veins, seemingly jumping from my daughter's skin to my own.

I cracked open the door and peered down, expecting to see two little familiar mischievous twin faces staring back at me. Instead, I saw sandals attached to a woman with a face I'd never seen before.

"Who the hell are you?" I wanted to say. She stopped me before I could say anything. "Hi, I'm your new neighbor." She and her family had moved two houses down from ours just the day before. We hadn't even had the opportunity to welcome them to the block when this surprise visit unceremoniously cut through that ceremonial red tape.

She told me her son had fallen and needed some stitches on his chin. She wanted to know where the nearest hospital was. Pretty standard information any parent should be able to recite upon request. She was surprisingly calm for a mother in her situation, especially considering my less than helpful response:

"Uhhhhhh....."

It was impossible for her to feign surprise at my gross lack of knowledge of a key and seemingly elementary piece of information. Yet, I had no idea what to tell her.

Hospital? What's a hospital? I know of hospitals. You want a specific one? How specific? You want directions too? You knocked on the wrong door at the wrong time, lady.

"Believe it or not, we recently moved here too (a year ago) and I'm not sure which one is closest. Hackensack?" Even I knew that response was lame. This woman would clearly learn in a short amount of time how long we'd been living here and that the father in the house on the corner has no idea what he's doing, where he's going, or where's he's been for that matter. She was probably surprised that I was even competent enough to be wearing pants at that point. Wait, was I wearing pants?


The next thing out of my mouth was the most logical solution to me. "Well, my wife will be right back if you want to wait. She'll definitely know." But this couldn't wait the ridiculous amount of time it would take our high maintenance yet endlessly lovable dog to finish her business. I sent her across the street to the next closest parent - knowledgeable parent - I knew was home.

This little anecdote, other than highlighting my ignorance and making you second guess my ability to deal with a child emergency of my own, clearly shows the importance of my wife in the parenting relationship. She rules.

She provides logistical support, technical support, and perhaps most important, emotional support. She gets the directions, sets the itineraries, makes the lists, packs the gear, rids the computer of bugs, deals with the moods of her daughter, her husband, her dog.

I - we - would be lost without her. An uncalibrated compass spinning out of control with no way of finding north. She dresses, addresses, and redresses every aspect of our lives with patience, understanding, love, and affection. And she doesn't mind doing at all.

Today is her birthday, my favorite day of the year. There is no better cause for celebration than the birth of the woman who has brought unlimited, unbridled, unending happiness to my life in too many ways to count.

There's a story I often tell to describe just how generous she is with her time,  her love, her patience. And how needy, incompetent, and clumsy I am. We were skiing in Jackson Hole, Wyoming one winter. My wife, despite not having an athletic bone in her body, is a very graceful and adept skier. I, on the other hand, am Fred Flintstone on skis. I had finally acquired the skill, gained the confidence, and conjured the courage, to graduate off the bunny slope to the next step up.

I maintained this confidence even though the slow climb up the ski lift made it seem to me like we were headed for the clouds. When we finally got off we were far from the bottom of the mountain. I'm not sure if the hill was marked with blue squares, black diamonds, or green clovers, but I am quite certain I did not bring my lucky charms to the top of that mountain.

Pizza, french fries

I began my descent very well. I was doing what I was taught. Pizza, french fries. Pizza, french fries. I was doing it, doing it, doing it well. Then I fell. No problem. I got back up. Fell again. Doubt started to creep in. Got back up. Another spill. Now I'm thinking, "how the hell am I going to get down this mountain?"

I get up again and fall like you see on blooper reels. I was John Cusack in "Better Off Dead." Tumbling, stumbling, swearing, losing everything I was wearing. Including my skis. Both of them. I managed to get one of them on myself. But you need to lean on someone else to get into the other.

That's when my wife, the snow princess, effortlessly glided towards me, the sun majestically reflecting off her blonde hair as it blew in the chilly breeze. We were standing there, side by side, on the side of a mountain covered in snow so powdery you could sprinkle it on top of an ice cream sundae. I leaned on her with all my weight, which was nearly twice hers, as I tried to click my second ski into place and get off this God-forsaken bump in the earth.

She nearly buckled under the immense pressure, but she wrapped her arm around me, held me up, and encouraged me as I put all of the weight of my body onto her shoulders and slammed my boot into that stupid ski.

Safely inside, and off skis

Once successfully upright again, I looked her in her beautiful, sparkling, goggled eyes and said, out of breath, "I guess this is why they make you take wedding vows." For better or for worse.

Lesser women would have left their putz of a husband on top of that mountain. Would have complained of the enormous strain of the task at hand. Would have said, "just slide down on your butt." Not my wife. My confidence, my pride, my dreams of a successful solo trip down the mountain all shattered, she held my arm and guided me down after helping me back up.

She's all the support I need (tear).

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What a Difference a Year Makes

I'm regressing. In my anxious anticipation about the pending arrival of our baby, I have morphed back into a teenager. My face is breaking out. I'm an awkward kid wondering how to ask the girl I like to the prom, so I can't sleep either. I know the end is near, I just don't know when it's coming. It's kind of like when I was pledging my fraternity. I've been told to pack a bag, and wait for that final step: "Hell Week." I just have no idea when that phone is going to ring, summoning me to the next stage in my life.

Coincidentally, exactly one year ago this weekend, I was also finding it difficult to fall asleep in nervous anticipation of another blessed event. There was no baby on the way. Not fraternity involved.  No one was getting married. We were about to host our annual St. Patrick's Day pre-parade party. Say that five times fast.

2006: So young and irresponsible (and fun) 

But this year, the annual Hoboken tradition went on without us. It is a tradition that we, as transplanted Hobokenites (people whom the natives of this fine city refer to as "yuppies," as if it's a bad term), have embraced over the past 8 years like, appropriately enough, a drunk embraces a toilet. Neither one of us is Irish, but we have marked Hoboken St. Patrick's Day on our calendars since we moved here. It's part of our lore, and has been for a quarter of our lives now. It can't just be dismissed merely by saying "You're grown-ups now."

You may be looking at your calendar thinking St. Patrick's Day isn't for another two weeks. You would be both correct and incorrect. The day most people celebrate is March 17th. But in Hoboken, land of mozzarella and cannoli, we do it on the first Saturday of the month. In order to achieve maximum financial capitalization, the city, in its infinite wisdom, holds its parade a two weeks before the actual St. Patrick's Day, as to not compete with the one in Manhattan. Now, if it can only solve the parking problem.

2006: You don't have to be Irish to love bagpipes

Now, when I say parade, I can only speculate because I have never actually seen the parade. I know of it. I've been too busy drinking Guinness and eating Lucky Charms right out of the box in some bar. Yes, even the hairiest of Italians in the salamiest of cities is Irish on Hoboken St. Patty's Day. I do remember bagpipers, but they always come into the bar and play for us after this alleged parade is over.

I used to receive an excited email from my wife sometime each January, reminding me to take the day off, since I work Saturdays. In years when I couldn't, I would meet up with people afterwards, when they were as coherent as the assembly instructions to our baby swing. Those years the party would continue until well after sunrise. It was like Christmas for grown-up children in March. A day where you can relive a little bit of college. Drink all day, eat a couple of really big slices of really good pizza, and pass out and spend Sunday on the couch drinking Gatorade.

We would host what we termed "bagels and booze," early morning pre-game drinkfests that feature a smattering of breakfast treats (Mimosas, Bloody Marys, bagels). Others may refer to them as "kegs and eggs," but I will not serve them kegs and eggs. Not me, not I, nor my wife Megs. See? I have already learned the way of one Dr. Seuss.

2006: The parade before the parade

You may be thinking, this guy's going to be a dad in a few days? He's complaining about missing out on a day of drinking? But you have to understand: this is like celebrating New Year's Eve without a Times Square countdown. Like the 4th of July without fireworks.

Last year, we led a convoy of 25 people from our apartment, to a fine drinking establishment. Everyone wore a green & white T-shirt that read "O'Boken 2006." You see, we don't do things half-assed in our household. All or nothing.

The key to the pre-bar party is to get everyone satisfied enough so they will not mind the hour-long wait outside of the bar. Once inside, some years we had food delivered so we could stay and keep drinking. It's like the Wonka factory: no one ever goes in, and no one ever comes out. If you do leave, you have to wait in that line all over again. We made sure we ordered enough for the people taking care of us: the bartenders and bouncers. Hey, they're working on a holiday. It gets me so nostalgic, I feel like bursting out in a rendition of "Glory Days."

2007: So pregnant, sleepy and ready for Peanut

This year, we woke up at 9:30, a full two hours after our pre-game would have started . I had to get on a conference call for work. Yawn. Then we walked the dog to get bagel sandwiches, while watching scores of geeked up non-parents saunter by in their leprechaun hats, excited about the day to come. When we got home, I saw someone had stashed an empty beer bottle in the lobby. I said, "Can you believe this?" and picked it up, and threw it away. Then realized, I am an old man. That's something a dad would do.

Some of you may say, "if you're so hardcore, why didn't you go without your wife? You can still drink." My response to that is a resounding 'No thank you.' She's my sidekick, my wingman. I don't like to go anywhere without my wife. I married her because I enjoy hanging out with her. I'm not one of those husbands who counts the days to "boys' weekends" or "guy's nights out." She's fun, especially when she's had a few Bloody Marys and swig of champagne right from the bottle before 9 AM.

2006: What a difference a year makes

She is my straight man. The Abbott to my Costello. The Moe to my Larry and Curly. The Alice to my Ralph Cramden. I'm not nearly as funny if she's not around. She's my comic co-pilot. My biggest fan and my muse. So I'm not going anywhere without her. Just forget it. We're a team.

She's as depressed about missing this as I am. We were even holding out hope, telling our friends that maybe we'd have the pre-party anyway, and then they can go to the bars without us. But it just wasn't worth it. We're too close to the finish line to be host to a bunch of half-drunk fools just to feed them muffins.

Next year, we're going to be back. We're going to party like it's 1999, the year we moved to Hoboken. And Peanut will be fine without mommy and daddy for a day. We're going to be the coolest parents on the block. We're too much fun not to be.

Then again, can you call yourself cool, and still be cool?

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