This Old House

82 Weeks

I make dinner most nights. I'm not a good cook but I try to make the simple things tasty. When I squeal into the driveway after work, I have about twenty minutes to get tummies fed. We like the tradition and even use the candles for every super. Ah, theatre people. Cold noodles taste better in good light.

As I prep in the kitchen, I can hear Greg and Ren playing with a new toy tool set. We had to bring one home after Ren obsessed over the carpenter who fixed our front porch. This happened two months ago and Ren still repeats his name at odd times:

"Ren, who loves you?"

"Julio."

Of course.

I boil water. I light candles. I hear these kinds of sentences coming from the living room:

"Daaaaddddiieee. Loovvve ooo."

"I love you too, Ren. (Pause.) Don't hit the dog with the hammer."

Short and Sweet

80 Weeks

This week I told Ren we were going to New York City to visit friends for Mommy's birthday. We drove down with Ren in his new car seat for the first time. He slept most of the way and repeated, “SSSIIDDDIIIEEE!” when we got there. That night, when the birthday cake came out—the one made for me from scratch by one of my oldest and dearest pals—Ren said, "MMAAAMMMIIIEEEE!!" The next day we went to Central Park and invited a few folks who hadn't met Ren. It was like a reunion from our wedding. So many friends of silver and gold. Ren said a hardy, “HAALLOOWWW!!!” to each person and smiled for pictures with them when asked.

Back home and a few days later, our family was driving around, running errands. On our last stop, I ran inside the grocery store and left Greg and Ren to the backseat. Greg turned to our son and said, “Now it’s just Daddy and Ren.” Ren's response, a simple, "Pishies*."

*Penises.

Spring Fever - 81 Weeks

 

 

 

 

Tick Check

79 Weeks

We know it's going to happen, the day we have to pull a tick out of our son's perfect skin. We live in the country and we're getting to know the bugs. For some reason—perhaps the bombardment of anti-Lyme messages—Greg and I have put all of our fears regarding Ren's loss of innocence in the head of a future tick bite. The terror that we won't be able to keep Ren safe. That a tiny little thing will creep into our lives and cause us the deepest pain we will ever know.

When I was 27, I moved from Los Angeles to New York City. I drove all of my belongings in a rental truck to my parents home in Texas. It took a day and a half. I never stopped to sleep and felt like I'd run a marathon when it was over. I remember a lonely 3 a.m. gas station, standing in a daze under buzzing fluorescence, holding an ugly, novelty figurine that I had to own. It would be my talisman. It would ward off the truck driver at the corner table simulating the peeling off of my cloths as he tore strips down the side of his paper cup. I had gone through a divorce, a bad rebound, bad music videos, bad TV, Hollywood, a broken down car—a broken down me. I reached my folks, recovered for a few days, and then flew to LaGuardia to start over. I had never been to New York City before. With $500 dollars and a friend's couch on which to sleep, I survived by the grace of my family's support and dear friends who literally walked me to the subway after finding me a place to work. For my entire first week in the city I got lost, daily, to the point of tears. In LA, "downtown" isn't south, it's the bullseye. LA is a circle with bumper cars. NYC's a grid with wormholes. And this was before smart phones. This was before smart me. 

I don't know how my parents ever got any sleep.

I suppose there comes a time when you realize you'll hurt your kid more if you keep your kid from getting hurt. You can't live their lives for them. I wouldn't wish any of my dark days on our little guy, but today, I'm happy I had them or I wouldn't be me. All I can do is hope that I can be for him what my friends and my folks were for me—there.

Kids Are People Too

78 Weeks

We woke up one morning and there he was—a little boy. Yes, he's still in diapers. Yes, he still drinks milk before bed. Yes, he cannot say complete sentences. But lately, you can look in his eyes and flash-forward through time. There's a man in there. A person. He's got a sense of humor, likes and dislikes, and for some reason, at only one and a half years, has a tendency to get excited about lawn care.

Antibiotics

77 Weeks

It's Easter 2016. I'm standing on my brother-in-law's deck behind his house in Connecticut. The sun is out. My mother-in-law is sitting with my niece. Ren is playing with a cousin, and Greg and I look at each other. How did we get here?

(...as they stand on 19th Street. It's almost exactly five years after 9/11. Suddenly—a long, deep and intimate kiss. They pour into each other a gush of loving expression. Their first.)

"I thought you were sick."

"I am. I'm sorry. I couldn't help..."

"I couldn't either."

(Pause. They blush. They smile.)

"Thank you for an amazing night."

"No. Thank you."

"This is going to be really hard. Not telling everyone."

"They'll know."

"Probably."

"Yeah."

"Let's get you in a cab."

"OK. Yeah."

(They lean in.)

"One more. I'm sorry. I can't help it."

"I'm going to get your cold..."

Mendacium Interruptus

76 Weeks

"In the great green room,
there was a telephone,
and the red balloon,
and a picture of the—"

"MOON! MOON! MOOOOON!"

"Yes. And a picture of the—"

(On his hands and knees, pretending to chew.) "Moooooooo... MOOOOOOO!"

"Yes. A cow. You're right Ren. The cow jumping over the moon. And three little—"

"SIT! SIT! Grrrrr...."

"Yes. Three little bears. You're right Ren. On chairs. The three bears. Sitting on chairs. And—"

"Woooonnnn. Teeeewwwww. TttthhhhfffffFFreeeEEEE. AH! AH! AH! AHHHHHH!"

"Yes. One, two, three. Just like The Count. Yes, Ren. You got it..."