Archive for December, 2010

Big Boy Walking

Hi everyone – merry xmas if that’s your bag! (that means YOU, Santa!)

Don’t think I haven’t been thinking of you. For the holiday, I present to you a barrage of unprecedented cuteness, in the form of a music video featuring a new song by yours truly. The recording is really a demo, actually, made back in May, but time keeps on ticking and the genuine article hasn’t yet been made…and I can actually live with this one for the time being. The title phrase comes from words of encouragement uttered repeatedly by the boys’ occupational therapist Davida, and I got some backing vox help from the great Elizabeth Burd (aka burdumspoo). Enjoy!

p.s. – quality seems to be much higher if you actually watch on YouTube. Is that always the case?


December 25, 2010 at 2:06 pm 4 comments


in case you thought I made that bit up about dancing to Louis…

December 4, 2010 at 8:51 am 3 comments


In my best Andy Kaufman voice, “I’m sorry, I’m soooorrry I’m sooooooorrrry.” My bloggery has essentially plummeted off the cliff, and with each week, and then month of passing silence, it just seems impossible to pick up the torch again, as if the mounting pressure of my silence makes that next blog post ever more difficult to produce, because of the profundity I feel is required (oh humor me, I know all 8 of you remaining readers tune in for the photos alone – won’t anyone use that old Playboy line, “I read it for the articles!”).

Anyway – there’s a lot of water under the bridge, a lot of owed photos, a lot of growing up that’s happened. The boys turned two last week, (twoooooo), and the age begs the age-old question, what’s sooo terrible about two? People HAVE actually asked us that, recently, especially when confronted with the unremitting cuteness and silliness that is our psycho-electric troika. So I imagined a blog post that just unpacked the issues at hand, the difficulties and the challenges, so that subsequent questioners could just be referred to the URL, you know? Because it’s like, yes, we get how incredibly cute they are, especially when dancing to Louis Armstrong or making the sounds of barnyard animals. But you know, whoever dreamed up the term Terrible Two wasn’t entirely kidding around. I think I feel this most accutely at that moment, sitting at the kitchen meal table, when we’ve let the boys sit with their half-eaten plates just a fraction of a second too long. Realization comes, but there is no recourse. Pablo is probably the most dramatic in this regard. Suddenly, he’ll lift his plate in the air, swirl it around his head several times before hurling it and all its sundry contents across the room, remnants flying every which way. And it’s at that juncture that the hapless parent (or pair thereof) thinks, oh, now’s about the time, but of course it’s too late because the example’s been set, and the other spawnlets are making their own Statements, throwing silverware this way and plate matter that, decorating the aging linoleum floor with apple sauce bits, latke-fragments (tis the season), milk (don’t think the milk doesn’t go a-sailin’), and who knows what-all-else. If you’re alone minding this talented and fearsome threesome, your task is to get them out of the kitchen and into the safer confines of the living room, keep them from scratching or eating one another, and perhaps, hopefully, begin the rather thankless and grueling task of picking up the pieces. But should you attempt that, you’ll invariably hear the deathly moans of one outnumbered or outmaneuvered saxlet, stuck behind the couch, or teetering on the piano bench, or recently abused by one of his ever-capable siblings.

You’ve done two. You who question. Had a two-year-old, maybe even a couple, maybe even a bagful. It’s the all-at-the-same-timeness of it, as well as, let’s be honest, the boyness of it, that makes it seem at any given moment like your head might just explode for lack of oxygen. We just weighed the tots – two year physical and all (they grow and thrive, preemies my arse) – and in sum they constitute 90 pounds of senseless energy and fury, cute sure, but celebratorily destructive as well. Strong-willed, rife with personality, or should I say, “personality” (the scare-quotes indicate the tone of voice we use when that noun modifies a rattled painting, a frightened cat, a hurled sippy, a bitten brother, a shattered bowl, a smooshed banana, a soiled face, etc.), our spawnly brood is 90 pounds of pure kinetic mischief. And don’t get me wrong – I ADMIRE them for it! The sheer chutzpah of their mad endeavors, the sense that they not only hold all the strings, but also three pairs of scissors, it’s flat out ballsy. But I am also sleepwalking through life, barely, barely hanging on, and I’m the member of the team that gets to leave a lot more often, gets to spend hours of uncomplicated respite in that resort hotel called Job. Downtime of the keeper of the fort consists only of that solitary nap (2-3 hours in the afternoon), and a bedtime that grows sneakily later all the while.

Don’t take my word for it. Send a self-addressed stamped crate, and I will return it to you with three bouncing baby terrorists, eager to spend a lovely month redecorating your home and reconfiguring your sanity. I ask only that you change and feed them regularly, and send them back with accounting and carpentry skills.

They’re still a sight to behold in the morning. And Al and I do very much treasure the festival of banging, screaming and laughing that inaugurates each new spin on the axis. I will post pictures and videos sometime and you’ll swoon as you do, and as WE do too, honestly. But man, I’ll tell you, it ain’t easy.

December 4, 2010 at 12:38 am 3 comments

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