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Reunion Weekend

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When I was a senior in high school, one of my good friends died in a tragic accident that was related to our hard-partying ways. Many people in our school and community thought we had it coming to us. That attitude seemed somehow not right back then. And 18 years later, I still feel that receiving that kind of support was somewhat tragic in itself.

Timmy Ryniker, or “Ryno” as we called him, was one half of a twin. His sister Kerri was also a close friend, but I was tighter with Tim. After Timmy died, I pulled back a bit from this group of friends. We all processed the loss differently, and my way seemed a bit more head on at the time. They all grieved at first but went on with life as if nothing had happened — until it was late at night and the drinks and marijuana had been flowing freely. Only then would the tears also flow. So in the last months of my senior year, I distanced myself from them. I didn’t even go to prom.

I kept in touch with a couple of the girls throughout college, but not with Kerri, and not with any of the guys. Years later I’d heard through the grapevine that Kerri married a boy from college. His name was Tim.

Then she joined Facebook.

Kerri reached out to a few of us living in the city at the end of last winter — me and Scott (my upstairs neighbor) included. She was coming to New York and wanted to see us. So on a Thursday night last May we got together for drinks downtown in the financial district. It was wonderful to see her. Other than having much shorter hair, Kerri hadn’t changed a bit. Her beautiful green eyes and easy smile were as if I were still looking at my 17 year old friend.

night_out_with_kerri

Scott, Ruben, me, Jay and Kerri in the foreground. Ruben’s girlfriend is behind me.

The festivities continued and ended that night at our friend Ruben’s rooftop Manhattan apartment. After several more drinks and a couple of pizzas, Kerri commanded our attention. Her hand trembling, she emerged from her pocket a photo, and began to explain the real reason she was in the city. She planned to have Tim’s face tattooed on her arm the next day. She became very emotional. It seemed the entire city had fallen quiet at that moment.

Of our group of friends, I was the only female there. She then addressed the guys, of which there were four. “The year after Timmy died you held a golf benefit in his honor, which made me and my family so happy. That was the first year and also the last. Why?”

Kerri's tattoo

Kerri’s tattoo

My heart went out to Kerri, who was clearly still working through her loss. But I’ve made peace with Timmy’s death. While I think of him often and of the carefree lives we led back then, I felt terrible (but also remarkably healed), that I did not share in her tears that night.

I saw Kerri again last October at the after party of the golf outing that Ruben organized in memory of Timmy. The next one is this September.

Timmy Ryniker Golf Outing 2012

Timmy Ryniker Golf Outing 2012

Little did I know that I would have even more time with Kerri months later.

Over the winter, one of the girls from my group in high school wrote that she needed a break from her family in Florida and would be coming to New York in May. Another was willing to take time off from her job in Texas. Kerri was up for driving down from where she lived upstate. Two of us were already in Brooklyn. It was going to be a reunion!

In anticipation of the five of us together for the first time since high school, I offered up my home and made plans to bring Mylo to my parent’s house on Long Island. I even planned a big reunion party for the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend.

It was a much-needed week of bonding and patching up old friendships. I was especially happy to have rekindled my friendship with Kerri, who sat with me in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a rainy Friday to bring Mylo out to my mom’s.

girls

Janna, me, Kerri, Rachel and Jaaron… together again for the first time in 18 years.

Growing up had made us vastly different. Kerri is a hardcore omnivore with a husband who hunts their dinner. I’m the only vegetarian of the lot. One is still pretty much “the hippie”. She likes to grow her own vegetables but dons a Louis Vuitton crossbody satchel. The one we’d never expect to be the most gainfully employed, is. Only three of the five us are married with children. Two of those three have healthy marriages.

Had we met for the first time today, there aren’t that many commonalities that would tie us together. It’s nice to know that a childhood steeped in memories and later on, a profound loss, is what has sealed our friendships.  And I have no doubt that Timmy would approve.

Sidi’s Back!

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This is a partner post. Opinions expressed here are my own.

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Today, my dad resumed his weekly childcare visits with Mylo. Since I went back to work when my son was about eight months old, my dad began babyitting Mylo at least one day per week. And when my mother-in-law is in France each summer, he comes to Brooklyn from his home on Long Island to be with Mylo two days per week.

But all that changed in August. My dad’s love of sports and challenging himself physically finally caught up with him. For the last couple of years he developed what started out as an aching pain, and wound up as debilitating pain, in his leg. After many doctor’s visits, MRI’s and second opinions, it was determined that he needed a total hip replacement.

I’ve missed running with my dad these last couple of years. What began as a hobby became a way of life for my dad over the last decade. I ran a marathon first, but when the extensive training began to take a toll on my younger body, and my love life, my old man eventually surpassed me in running long distances. He even became a seasoned “ultra runner.”

Before the start of the 2003 NYC Marathon

The decision to do the surgery was a no-brainer, however the decision to speed up the date of it, happened almost overnight. It was a big adjustment for everyone, namely Mylo, who was used to having “sidi” around a couple of days out of the week. But I know it was just as tough on my dad. Holed up at home unable to drive, or to sit comfortably on anything other than a special highchair, I know that his romps around Brooklyn with his grandson, were sorely missed.

Sidi and Mylo in Brooklyn a couple of weeks before the surgery

I’d be remiss not to mention my mom’s role in all this. She woke at the crack of dawn to accompany my dad to the Hospital of Special Surgery in New York City on the day of his surgery. She was there to help decipher doctor/healthcare speak. And she was there when he woke up and came out of surgery… all while having her trusty iPad on hand. If she wasn’t playing Words With Friends she was playing Scramble With Friends. Lucky for us, my mom hasn’t feasted her eyes on FoxyBingo.com… yet.

So things are back to normal. Mylo’s in daycare Mondays and Tuesdays. He’s with his “goomah” (my MIL), on Wednesdays, with Sidi on Thursdays and with me, on Fridays. We save the best for last in this family. LOL

 

Guck-Guck

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In the early days of Mylo’s life, when the joy of knowing he was a boy began to set in after his birth, the day dreaming began. Having grown up in a family who loves sports and played sports, and having married someone who is also very athletic, I’ve been conjuring up images of an athlete. I have visions of kicking a ball with my son. I want to teach him how to head the ball without being afraid of it and I hope he’ll grow up to see the value and joy from running. My husband wants him to play football. He wants our son to negotiate a football field with poise, power and purpose. Jason’s a HUGE Eli Manning fan. Of course I prefer he doesn’t play any sport he can hurt his brain in, so, we’ve settled on baseball.

But it seems Mylo has settled on trucks. For now.

In raising a male, it somehow slipped my mind that little boys, even grown men, love things that operate. Case in point: last week we were at Cadman Plaza park while two men in a utility truck were fixing a lamp post with a crane. Mylo was enamored by it. I held him in my arms and got as close as safely possible so he could watch. It happened that he was not the only one fascinated by the operation. An older gentleman on a bench sat with his fist under his chin, staring too.

A hard covered tot book simply called “Trucks” became Mylo’s best friend when he was 14 months old. He would let us know he wanted the truck book and that book only by motioning toward it and urgently calling out “gat-gat, gat-gat!” Last night he went to bed with his Trucks book under his arm. He is almost two years old and they are still best buds.

On Mother’s Day while strolling through Chinatown with my parents I bought him his first toy fire truck. Mylo didn’t let go of his new truck for at least one week. It was the best $4 I’ve ever spent. The fleet has since grown to include a subway car, a mail truck, a bus and a plane.

Mylo's guck-guck fleet

Mylo’s vocabulary has also grown.

The word “truck” is no longer “gat-gat,” but “guck-guck.” And before I know it, it will simply become “truck.”

I look forward to having conversations with my son. To hearing him speak in full sentences and listening as his voice deepens and matures. But right now I just want to bottle up all of these cute words and annunciations he makes and open up the jar 3, 10 and 20 years from now to remember how happy they make me.

 

 

Making Sense of a Miscarriage

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On the last Friday in February at a music class/open play session with my son Mylo came a rush of something moist between my legs. I knew almost immediately what was happening but did not go to the bathroom. When open play ended we were one of the last to leave. Afterwards, we paid a visit to a neighborhood bakery and shared an over-sized vegan chocolate chip cookie. Even the cold February rain outside did not beckon us home. I was in no rush to discover what I was certain awaited me.

Not long after we got home the cramps started. I called my midwife on the phone who sounded less than optimistic, “Shit, why does this always happen on a Friday,” she asked, rhetorically. Gulp.

Weeks after the miscarriage I had a disturbing dream. A moving boat. An accident. Someone in the dream called for women and children to get off the boat first. I was toward the front helping someone, indifferent to the fact that the order applied to me. Then someone held a baby upside down in the air, asking “who’s child is this?” She was wearing fuchsia-colored  pajama bottoms and I gathered that she was being held upside down because she did not survive the crash. The baby had blondish hair, like my son, but it was not curly. After a few moments when no one stepped forward to claim her, they lowered her down a conveyor-like pole. The older women on board looked at me knowingly, and shamefully, as I continued helping the injured.

I’ve interpreted this dream in ways that has brought some closure and helped to make some sense of the loss. For a multitude of reasons I feel confident and sure that it was just not our time to have another child. At times I still feel sad, but I have also made my peace with it.

Our New Home

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We’ve been in our new home in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn for over a month and we love it. The actual move was a total bitch and it took us several days sans child (he was at his grandparents house in Connecticut) to make the apartment safe and ready for our son to come home to.

When people ask how our new place is I say it’s great, it is, but coming from seven years of living in a full service building I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was also a big adjustment. The three bedroom apartment with a deck is a total upgrade as far as apartments go but the one floor walk-up with no super has been a complete downgrade in buildings.

Mylo on our deck which has no furniture, yet.

For instance, we are responsible for sorting our recycling and taking the trash to the curb three times per week in our new home. In our old building we were one of 320 apartments in which anything you threw out went down a garbage chute at any time of day you wanted. In our new home recycling only gets collected on Mondays. I can tell you from two weeks of some of our refuse getting rejected that the Department of Sanitation is strict when it comes to having the right bags, the right twine and the right square foot of curb for your trash.

Now that we have our garbage routine down there is a nice ebb and flow to our lives here on Bergen Street. We’re a little worried about what the empty storefront down below will be. If it’s a bar we’re screwed but if it’s a burger joint as it’s rumored to be, even as vegetarians we could probably make do. But of course a shoe store that closes at 8pm would be the ideal downstairs neighbor!

Another awesome thing about our new home is that my friend Scott from junior high school, his wife Shelly and their 10 month old daughter Olivia, live upstairs from us. It’s been a blast. We drink wine in our pajamas, not to mention it’s proved convenient when we’ve locked ourselves out of our respective apartments. Mylo gave Olivia her first kiss the other night — my heart melted and Scott’s raced as he watched his little girl squeal in delight. Never in my life did I think our children would be playing together, much less stealing precious moments together. To tell you that mine and Scott’s relationship growing up was one built on a lot of joking around is an understatement. But it was also shaped and somewhat marred by the tragic loss of a mutual friend. I am so glad he is back in my life and of course it helps that I adore Shelly, too!

Mourning Our Vacay

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Back to reality. We came back from vacation two days ago and I’m lamenting returning from this trip more than any other vacation I have ever been on before. And we only went to Las Vegas! We’re not talking the tropics here people (just the Tropicana).

Undoing my unpacking. Never even knew that was possible.

But this WAS our first real vacation with our son Mylo, and it was a family vacation at that. And by family I mean five other people and 10 hands who helped with all the demanding baby needs! And it is perhaps that which I miss the most.

But it wasn’t all easy-peasy. After all, we were hit with a time difference that took it’s toll on Mylo the first two nights. My husband Jason wrote about his late night forays on the Vegas strip trying to coerce our son to sleep. Did I just use the words “sleep” and “Vegas strip” in the same sentence?!

The boy has become a rapid ball of energy with fierce opinions, amazing physical strength and the stamina of a marathon runner. Every time I turn around he is disheveling the cabinets, jars, drawers and potted plants in our home. Yes it’s amusing but it’s also downright exhausting.

The peaceful days of cooing at my newborn baby, of holding him in my arms and planting gentle kisses on his face, are gone. These days, Mylo only sits still long enough to breastfeed and even then, usually has ants in his pants.

Sometimes I want to run away from home, if only for a second. Sometimes I daydream about cultures in which the extended family aids in child-rearing. Other times I just want to return to Vegas… with my family. Never thought I’d say that.

The family.

My Community

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We’ve been very fortunate in the childcare department. Since the day my son Mylo entered the world this past August, there’s been a gaggle of grandparents surrounding him and supporting us. And we honestly could not be doing it all without them.

I am so very lucky and so very grateful that I got to spend the first seven months of my son’s life at home with him. We made new friends, went to the movies, hung out in bars and most of all, we bonded. My time off with my son has not only enriched my life, but has affirmed my opinion of this country’s lack of  standard, paid parental leave for moms and dads — which pales in comparison to Canada and European countries.

Because we’re not ready to put Mylo in daycare and because we wouldn’t be able to entertain a nanny salary right now, we’ve relied on our families for help.

Even though I haven’t worked in over one year I’ve figured out that I don’t want to be at home full-time. Yet I also don’t want to go back to work full-time. I know, not a ton of options out there for moms like me, but I recently took on a new project (that I have yet to unveil here on my blog) that will allow me to do just that. But because of this new project and Jason’s freelancing work, our lives just went from somewhat managed to insanely busy.

Thanks to my mom who has a demanding job in academia, my father who recently retired and my mother-in-law who keeps a busy social life, we’ve been able to carry out our zany and changing schedules from week-to-week. Not only do the grandparents drive two to four hours round trip to see their grandchild, but they also come bearing food for us to stockpile in our fridge. They keep us sane and they keep us well fed.

Granna Dianna, Mylo and The Bug.

And while these three forces have been very present in Mylo’s life since birth, I have only recently seen the value in the special bonds that are being forged. When one of the grandparents comes through the door he squeals with delight at the sound of their voice – even before he sees their face. He reaches out to be held by them. They play special games. My dad speaks to him exclusively in Arabic. My mother-in-law speaks to him exclusively in French.

I should also add that this has been great for me. I am learning a lot about letting go and handing the reins over to someone else — which for a neat-freak and self-proclaimed perfectionist, isn’t always easy. It has been invaluable for me to leave the house a few times a week to go out and be “Reedu” and not just a mom with a ton of responsibilities.

Horsin' around with Sidi.

And yet I am reminded even more of how valuable these friendships are following the recent, back-to-back news of two of our family members being diagnosed with cancer. I was 22 when my grandmother died, with whom I was very close. My son would be so blessed to have one, if not ALL of his grandparents in his life for that many years.

Of being a grandmother, my mom told me once, “It’s everything I thought it would be and more.” Another time my dad asked me if I thought he’d live long enough to have a drink with his grandson. And my MIL yearns to show her grandbaby her beautiful garden in France.

First bath with Grandma Claire.

I am so touched the grandparents feel great happiness in having an active role in my son’s life. He is one lucky and loved little boy…

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What about you, are you at home full-time with your baby(ies)? If so, how do you find relief? And if you work full-time I’d love to hear how you manage it all. Please share!

My Blog’s New Look

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As you can see, I’ve unveiled a new look for my blog!

Around this time last year I posted an ad on Craigslist looking for someone to transition my blog from Blogger to a self-hosted WordPress blog.

The move was successful but my blog-guy took the money and ran and offered little to no post-transition support.

Thanks to Google and YouTube I was able to make some minor changes but not before spending many days and nights banging my head against the wall. It was time for me to be realistic. Cracking code wasn’t exactly my thing.  After all, I majored in Journalism, NOT C++!

It was during a recent, nightly head banging that I asked on Twitter how to change the size of the # of comments, you know because I get SOOO many. No really, I don’t, but I do dig how it looks when the number is bigger. I didn’t expect anyone to respond but then Dave Clements of Do It With WordPress Tweeted me down from the ledge.

I never figured out how to change the CSS class even with Dave’s instructions but I did begin talking to Dave about going in a new direction with my blog. We decided to move to a different framework and I chose a theme which would allow me to control the majority of fonts, coloring and sizing.

So now I’ve got a second blog-guy, one who is extremely accessible and reasonable and I’m really hoping he’ll stick around! If you’re ever looking to do something with Worpdress, or well, Do It With WordPress, definitely contact Dave.

I would be remiss if I didn’t give the ultimate shout out to my husband Jason for designing my logo/header. The Brooklyn Bridge has a TON of scaffolding on it right now so Jason actually sat there in Photoshop and removed each iron bar after each iron bar. Tedious and time consuming and not at all easy in this demanding household. Not to mention that I drove him bonkers while trying to decide on just the “right blue” in Photoshop’s vast color palette.

The iconic Brooklyn Bridge is undergoing a bit of restoration.

I look forward to playing around with my new blog. Just bear with me as you see some things change, because as you may or may not know I am a bit decision-phobic and tend to change my mind more than once before settling. (I’m talking about my blog of course, not my husband.)

Elephant Stomps on GoDaddy CEO

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Well, not exactly, but GoDaddy.com CEO’s recent killing of an African elephant DID stomp on his business.

I’ve always been looking for a reason to jump ship from the web-hosting company where I own eight domain names, including this one. And if their Super Bowl commercials featuring scantily-clad women wasn’t reason enough, then shooting an elephant sure as heck is.

The company’s CEO, Bob Parsons, recently shot an elephant in Zimbabwe and posted the graphic, misspelled subtitled footage in a video for the whole world to see, and then dubbed it a “humanitarian” expedition.

Note that I’m intentionally NOT linking to the video which shows the CEO and other hunters looking over a farmer’s damaged crops, shooting at elephants in the night. The subtitle which was evidently not spell checked reads: “Team waits until the elephant are close then turns on lights duct tapped to their rifles & opens fire.” Parsons is then shown smiling while posing with the dead bull. The video depicts “hungry villagers” the next morning stripping the dead animal of its flesh while donning GoDaddy.com hats. The most boorish part of the video is set to AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells,” and is nothing more than an unscrupulous, self-promoting plug for the company.

If only this poor elephant could rise from the dead and wipe that grin off Bob Parsons face.

Parsons, who’s second elephant hunt this was, told myFox Phoenix that he is not ashamed of what he did. “All these people that are complaining that this shouldn’t happen, that these people who are starving to death otherwise shouldn’t eat these elephants, you probably see them driving through at McDonald’s or cutting a steak. These people [Zimbabwe villagers] don’t have that option.”

While I don’t condone the killing of any animal for human consumption, whether it be cows at slaughterhouses to hunting elephants, what I think is worth questioning is the need for an American CEO to carry out this gruesome task for the African villagers while shamelessly promoting his company.

After reading that Namecheap.com, a GoDaddy.com competitor, recently ran a promotion to raise money for the endangered elephants in Africa I decided it was time to leave GoDaddy. Coupon code (BYEBYEGD) allowed up to 10 domain transfers at just $4.99 per domain, $1 per domain of which was transferred to Save the Elephants. Namecheap raised $20,433 for the elephants in Africa.

Even though I missed out on Namecheap’s promotion (and boy do I love a good deal), it’s still worth jumping. To join me in transferring your domain from GoDaddy.com to Namecheap.com, click here.

What Parsons does not know is that elephants are extremely intelligent, sensitive animals, and that there are strategies that exist to protect them which combine community and creativity. As Stephanie Feldstein wrote on Change.org last November, conservationists and farmers have devised plenty of clever and harmless methods of keeping elephants away from crops.

For example, draped fences made out of string first dipped in chili-infused grease (because elephants don’t like chili peppers), or elaborate cowbell systems that trigger wires to warn when the intruders arrive, are just two ways to preserve villagers’ crops and preserve an ancient species who is highly social and intelligent.

It’s doubtful, but perhaps next year Parsons will trade in his rifle for a cowbell.

A Song With My Son

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My husband Jason and my son Mylo have a song. When I saw them dancing around the room to it for the first time I was touched. Moved. And jealous. Mylo’s daddy’s best dance move resembles that of “a hold” on a football field. Mommy on the other hand, well let’s just say that I’ve been known to cut a rug. A damn pretty good one, too!

Because Mylo adores dancing and because I don’t want him to look like Lawrence Taylor on the dance floor, it was imperative that I find a song to dance to with my son.

There is the song that I heard over and over again when I was in labor for 30 hours: “Heartbreak Warfare” by John Mayer. The word “war” in the same sentence as my son? I don’t think so. And let’s face it, John Mayer’s a douche.

There’s “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” but that’s what I sing to him while I’m nursing him before bed at night.  I wasn’t feeling that one either.

I was at my friend’s store the other night in the city and there, over the Pandora radio waves, I heard it: “Starlight” by Muse. It’s upbeat, it’s fun and the words are poignant.

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I hold my son in my arms and twirl around the room while his lips are pursed in a perma-smile. Then there’s our other move where I hold his hands and he shakes his hips while stomping his feet on the ground screaming with delight.

“You electrify my life…” That is for sure.

Dancing to Starlight with my boy.