Past the table, which is surrounded by an expert team of nurses and doctors poking around inside my wife, sits the anesthesiologist on a wheeled-stool. My wife, Amanda, and I are having our second child (both in this room) — the gender is a surprise (again). Sporting a fashionable, very in-season COVID zip-up surgical suit and mask, I sit on my own wheeled-stool next to Amanda trying to think of something funny to say — both to comfort her and to show the surgical team that I am a totally normal person capable of comforting my wife during major surgery and the birth of our child.

The anesthesiologist scoots over to say hello. He wears glasses and sits with his hands rested upon two beepers clipped to his pants as if he’s preparing a quick draw from his side holster. He has perfected the type of monotone speech and steady emotionless gaze that would indicate extreme boredom. Further investigation and chit-chat reveal that he is a very nice person who is currently sitting at his version of the office water cooler. The three of us form a mini-team and think of general subjects to discuss, such as missing the New England Patriot’s first pandemic game and, of course, the weather. While sitting within the space of this operating room cubicle, I fumble with my smartphone, awkwardly jabbing at numbers to open the screen so I can be ready to take a picture when the baby arrives. We all express collective agreement that face identification has become somewhat useless in this new age of mask-wearing. 

Amanda blinks and smiles. We hold hands and wait underneath the bright lights. I briefly remember that the first time we had a baby in this room, I was so shocked when I saw it (him) that I forgot to tell Amanda that it was a boy. Our boy. 

I was determined not to let that happen again.  

Approximately thirty miles away, at our two-bedroom apartment in East Boston, Amanda’s mother, Nonna, and sister, Auntie, are taking care of Jack, our son. He is a busy little two-year-old with a full agenda that includes eating a bountiful variety of snacks, locating trucks, buses, trains, and construction vehicles for his viewing pleasure, and adhering to a rigorous daycare schedule. 

Jack is a boisterous and wonderful handful of a kid with a beautiful grin and a mischievous sense of fun and adventure. He enjoys clambering up dangerous structures he’s been instructed not to ascend, devouring both sliced and cubed pieces of cheddar cheese, and running around the neighborhood shouting “hiiii” with an outstretched hand waving through the air as if he’s running a very aggressive campaign for the local mayorship — it’s possible he is.   

While we stay in the hospital for a few days trying to remember how to take care of a newborn, Nonna teaches Jack to dip waffles and graham crackers at breakfast into his applesauce and how to lick the almond butter off his fingers. Auntie sings his favorite songs and plops him outside in the yard to watch a small, sturdy-sized orange digger move around dirt and rocks at the construction site next door. They take him to school, where he hangs with his friends and learns from his teachers, running happily through the doors each day past the Sesame Street characters on the outside windows to dance, color, sing, sleep, eat, and play. His parents are nowhere to be found, but he is happy and content and mostly very sure that the world is precisely as it should be. 

Outside, the world is changing again. The streak of summer heatwaves has come to an end, and along with the fall season is the beginning of the annual changing of the leaves. Once green and clearly secured onto tree branches, the leaves fall off one by one, covering the yard. 

“Leeeves,” says Jack. With a look of minor surprise, wondering why the leaves are now on the ground.    

While the human race finds itself smack dab in the middle, or perhaps still the beginning of a global pandemic, life is good-ish. Our family is growing to the final number of four that we always thought it would. We have jobs that provide us with money for food and shelter. We have each other. We are good-ish despite almost every aspect of life on Earth deteriorating and becoming more and more dangerous, terrifying, and downright strange. 

With the pandemic came the lifting of a curtain that revealed not one but an entire fleet of issues our country has swept under the rug for far too long. The United States now a ship steered into stormy waters at an exhausting pace as headline after headline drives our anxieties and fears to levels our generation had never experienced before 2020 came along. 

Tacked onto the COVID-19 pandemic, we’re experiencing everything from extreme climate crisis to widespread racism, police shootings, a crumbling government, and millions of people out of work. It feels like we have entered into an alternate dimension of reality where every terrible thing that could happen is happening all at once. Of course, many of these issues have been brewing for years or more. But perhaps worst of all is the insane, unintelligible orange man sitting at the helm in the White House. Tweeting horrible tweet after horrible tweet as his GOP-henchmen prove themselves to be the corrupt, disgusting, pathetic supporters they are now free to fully embrace. 

What’s worse is that we have many people here in this country who support them, mostly against their own interests for who knows what reasons. I have no love for most Democrats, but if you support the Grand Old Party … well, I suppose if you support the GOP, maybe you don’t understand just how messed up that is at all.  

In short, this is not an ideal time for bringing children into the world. And yet, here we are … number two on his or her way. As we prepare to meet our child, Nonna and Auntie make preparations in the apartment, getting it ready for our eventual return. This last-minute nesting ritual includes moving the swaddles and diapers into our bedroom, buying more clothes (for fun), and dealing with an ongoing infestation of drain flies multiplying at a ferocious pace to slowly, but assuredly become the new tenants of the two-bedroom apartment in our absence. 

Approximately three weeks before Amanda’s c-section, I bumped into a fuzzy little fly in our bathroom, clinging to the wall as if it didn’t have a care in the world. This short, mini-moth-like creature didn’t even seem to mind as I swatted it into the wall with a piece of toilet paper and plopped its remains into the flushing toilet. 

Plop!

As quickly as the first one disappeared, two new flies materialized on the far wall. That can’t be good, I thought to myself. With a little effort and a few misses, I disposed of them as I did their predecessor. And then … four more appeared. This is really not good, I thought to myself. 

A thorough Google search identified the species as clogmia albupunctata of the Psychodidae family of flies. Further reading on Wikipedia describes the larvae of these psychos as living in sludge-based habitats and congregating in bathroom areas, particularly drains. Hence their fancy nicknames, which include enough AKAs to qualify them as the criminal elite of the fly world: drain fly, sink fly, filter fly, and sewer gnat. Nice.

Apparently, drain flies are nocturnal creatures, erratic fliers, and often attracted to light, such as the radiant glow of a Kindle — which I can testify firsthand as being quite accurate. Some nights, as the birth of our child grew closer, I would lay in bed reading a book by Mark Kurlansky called Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World. While I learned about salt cod and the Great Banks and trawlers and dogfish and minor international fishing wars, a drain fly would keep me company at the bedside by lightly pinging itself against the Kindle, erratically, of course. 

One night I woke to go to the bathroom, only to be greeted by a mighty battalion of at least thirty of these carefree little buggers sitting still or flying around aimlessly. I suppose if you could ask a drain fly in their language whether or not they would seriously mind being scooped up and flushed down the toilet, they would shrug their tiny drain fly shoulders and reply with an air of indifference that it really didn’t matter either way. And so I went to work, getting rid of the drain flies one at a time. 

It’s a very odd thing to have to do. But it’s a Dad thing — a tangible task I can perform because I have a wife and a child, and stuff like this happens every so often. I can’t fix the toilet or build a bookcase or solve the dozen or so major issues in our country, but I can dispose of some flies. 

Sorry sewer gnats.

Because I am a father now, I think a lot about why so many people in this country are against giving its people basic human rights and resources. Every other first-world nation provides healthcare — sure seems like a no-brainer to me. But here in America, that is called communism or some form of imaginary, made-up socialism that will set our country on fire if it ever finds its way here from across the oceans. 

I know people that this affects personally. Very normal, kindhearted, hardworking people who have demanding jobs that don’t provide healthcare benefits and often don’t provide a living wage. In the United States, a person can work an exhausting job and be told that it’s not enough. They can work two or three exhausting jobs and be told that it’s not enough. Sorry — it’s the American way to deny our own people a basic standard of living and dignity. But it’s OK because who knows, you might make it big someday on your own grit and determination and become a billionaire or serve on a board that decides it’s best not to provide a living wage to the human beings that make them all their money … someday.

So we have money to socialize the funding of war, military, and bombs, not to mention the very best health care for our own government officials … but not to provide health care for our citizens. OK. We have money to fund the police and fire departments, to subsidize industries that need money that otherwise go belly up, but we can’t figure out how to provide health care for our people? Not even a pandemic seems to be changing anyone’s mind about that.

If there is one obvious thing, it’s that the middle and lower classes exist for one reason — for the wealthy elite (Republican or Democrat) to siphon our blood, sweat, tears, time, money, and energy for their own pleasure. Because they will always want more. The deck is stacked.

This is the country we are bringing children into.

This is the country that when my children are old enough to ask me why we let it become like this, I will have no good answer at all. Other than to say I was busy with work and family and life, and that I also wasn’t really sure what to do about it.

I can vote. We do vote. But we live in a country where in order to elect the lesser of two evils (not a great choice to begin with), we must have millions of more votes in the right places, towns, and counties because the popular vote by the people doesn’t elect anyone at all. The evilest of two evils knows this and has gerrymandered their way across the country, knowing that to maintain power, to dictate their personal mission of taking everything, they don’t even need the will of or the majority of our citizens. Cool.

This is the world we are bringing children into.

When we first arrived at the hospital, we met a pre-delivery nurse named Kim. “Right this way,” she said, shuffling us into a nearby room for an examination. Amanda’s c-section was scheduled for Thursday. Although it had only been Saturday night, Amanda began experiencing contractions. Her body was not aware of the schedule.

And so early Sunday morning, Nonna came over to take care of Jack, and we drove to the hospital. Kim, the nurse, hooked Amanda, my wife, up to the doodads and gizmos, checked her vitals and told us it wouldn’t be long before they determined if maybe she was indeed already in labor. This left plenty of chit-chat time, during which we somehow learned that Kim’s birthday was September 28th. This was a point of interest because Amanda’s birthday is also September 28th. 

Hmm … was this a sign from the universe? We weren’t sure yet.

But as the doodads and gizmos went beep beep beep and scribbled jagged lines across the screen, more nurses and doctors came in for fun activities such as COVID swabbing and cervix measurements. It turned out, that Martha, the floor nurse, has a wedding anniversary on September 28th. 

Upon learning that information, brains began exploding, and an even more in-depth investigation into additional examples of synchronicity started in earnest. With an enormous smile plastered upon her face, Kim asked, “Wait … Matt, what is your birthday?” Excited to join the fun, I replied, “November 7th, it was a good day.” To that, Kim shared the news that November 7th was, of course, her brother’s birthday. 

Can you even believe it? 

Once the labor and delivery nurse came in and professed that her birthday was none other than November 8th — which, of course, is the day after November 7th — it was concluded that Amanda was indeed in labor, that her cervix was dilated, and we would, of course, be having a baby that day.

How could we not after all that? 

Only slightly amused by all the synchronicity in the air, the doctor eventually came to tell us that the baby was “thick and floating.” Not quite sure how to reply, we nodded our heads slightly and looked at each other and then back at the doctor. “That’s a good thing,” she said. “Oh! Great,” we replied.

An hour later, in the labor and delivery operating room, with the surgical team poking around inside Amanda and the anesthesiologist zipping around on his wheeled-stool, our baby arrived. I remember thinking to myself, as I did when Jack was born, “she’s so gooey!” And, of course, forgot once again to announce the gender to my eagerly awaiting wife. “And what is it?” The doctor asked me so I could tell Amanda the excellent news.

“It’s a girl!”    

And so it was. We named her Emilia. 

She weighed in at a healthy seven pounds and seven ounces. Her birthday was September 13th — my mother’s (Nana) birthday (can you even believe it?) — at 3:06 pm during the New England Patriot’s first pandemic game, and more importantly, their first game without Tom “TB12” Brady. With dark hair unintentionally styled as a party-in-the-back sort of mullet, she was gooey and perfect.

Compared to our first-go-around with Jack as totally new parents, our stay in the hospital this time was rather uneventful. Thankfully, we were able to conjure much of the taking-care-of-a-newborn information we learned several years before and apply it again. The nurses were friendly and helpful, and whether due to the virus or because this was our second child, mainly left us to ourselves and Emilia. 

We used this time to re-familiarize our bodies with sleep deprivation and our taste buds with the hospital’s infamous chocolate chip cookies. While Amanda wasn’t allowed to leave the floor, I found plenty of excuses to wander by the little snack shop to fill up another bag, making sure to buy more at each visit for fear that we would never have access to these oversized scrumdiddlyumptious baked goods again. 

Like Emilia, the cookies were gooey too.

Eager to see Jack, we found ourselves finally walking through our apartment door a few days later. Amanda was feeling sore and moving slowly as she was still at the beginning of her recovery. I picked Jack up from daycare a few hours later and smiled as he saw me through the window and began freaking out. He waved and waved and then grabbed the attention of his teacher as he pointed toward the window. He paddled his arms through the air, running to get his lunch box and gather his belongings. 

A big hug. Kisses. Warm hearts. 

“Momma?” He asked.

As we get used to our new routine, Nonna sticks around to help us acclimate while we figure out how to take care of two kids at the same time — no easy task. But Jack is a good boy, and although he mostly ignores Emilia at first, he races through his daily activities happy as a clam, content that he has his parents back and convinced that they are in no way going anywhere anytime soon without him. 

There are school and his friends, walks to the park to see the choo-choos on the subway and the big blue busses he has come to love. We kick the soccer ball in the yard and watch as squirrels scramble up the trees and collect acorns on the ground. He plays with the pumpkin on our stoop.

Life is good-ish.

It’s good-ish because there is still everything and all things terrible happening in the background. The election nears. Trump embarrasses our country once again during a debate. He contracts COVID and then leaves the hospital to expose countless people around him, declaring that we, the people, should not be so afraid. The GOP scurries to nominate and appoint a new conservative judge to the Supreme Court to dismantle the Affordable Care Act and Roe V. Wade because, of course, we still have enough insane people in this country who would prefer to focus on determining who gets to have control over a woman’s body and destroying our health care system rather than the thousand or so major issues of our time.

This is the same conservative party that still has no problem with putting children (who are already alive) into cages because their parents weren’t born here.  

Countries around the world laugh at us ... but also express concern — showing compassion and shock at how drastically a nation has become divided, spiraling down into chaos that has no clear path to resolving itself. While now obsessed with our future, we also find ourselves simultaneously confronted with the demons of our nation’s past. 

How long will the pandemic last? Will there be a vaccine?

Can we survive the climate crisis?

How do we address racism, systemic poverty, and the murders of black Americans by police officers?

If one thing is clear, it’s that we must be brutally honest about our past and admit how it’s affecting our present. And if we can’t build a future that includes everyone and every voice, then there won’t be a country here for any rational human being to feel happy or content or proud of anyway.

How can we one-hundred percent enjoy our families and our own lives (even if we are lucky enough to have everything going well) when others suffer so much?

The wildfires rage on. There are peaceful protests and protestors met by violent police forces armed but untrained in military-like weapons, vehicles, and tear gas. Sea levels rise. The hurricanes keep coming. Insane people politicize wearing a mask during a pandemic — the most basic and simplest form of protecting those around us.

There are corporations that dictate what happens in our government. And a government populated by officials who are happy to take their money. How people like that can live with themselves and not feel the weight of responsibility or karma or something eating away at their souls … I do not know.

This is the world we are bringing children into.

At home, we have stopped watching the news as much as we used to — it had been something I enjoyed listening in on while it played in the background. But with every new daily headline comes another injustice, another horrible decision or action or way to screw over the people of this country. And yet ... I can’t help but watch, like an observer witnessing a train wreck thinking they’re seeing it all from a safe distance when in reality, it’s coming straight at them. 

As Emilia sometimes prefers to be awake at night time — not understanding that outside the womb, there are hours for waking and hours for sleeping — I sit on the living room couch with her nestled in the crook of my arm while scrolling through headlines. None of them good. It creates anxiety, a new form to supplement my regular anxiety that builds and builds and builds, like an internal pressure cooker with no release valve. It doesn’t go anywhere — I am soaked in it, absorbing it all into the muscles, bones, and blood of my body, the psyche, and spirit of my being. 

Adding to my concerns is a new health diagnosis I received back in March, almost at the start of the lockdown phase of the pandemic here in Massachusetts. Apparently, I have earned myself a movement disorder called Cervical Dystonia. It is a not entirely rare, but not very well-known or popular neuromuscular disorder. At least several very intelligent doctors and researchers believe that dystonia derives from some sort of hiccup occurring in the basal ganglia.

Just as Wikipedia has helped me catch up on the specifics of the Pscyhodidae, a quick search tells me that the basal ganglia are a cluster of neurons in the brain associated with many functions, including control of voluntary motor movements. Unfortunately, as if some all-knowing entity in the universe is definitely playing a bad joke on me, I can no longer keep my head straight, literally. Instead, my neck constantly turns entirely toward my right shoulder. Over. And over. And over again.

It is uncomfortable to walk as I’m constantly trying to push my head back to the center. To drive, I smoosh myself back into the headrest, and the padding embraces it enough to keep it still and allow me to look straight ahead. Ironically, it is the best driving posture I have ever maintained in my entire life. At night, I learn to sleep in different positions to brace my head against or into a pillow to stop the movement. I am often sore and constantly feel like my upper body has twisted itself into something that cannot be untwisted. It is … not good. 

I first noticed my head moving back in September of 2019 when I went to get my driver’s license renewed. For some reason, I couldn’t keep my head still when the nice woman was trying to take my picture. I thought maybe I had too much coffee or was nervous, neither of which is unusual for me. Eventually, after several attempts, and with a shrug of confusion, she settled on a picture described as “good enough.” It still captured my head twisting to the right — the first empirical evidence that something was wrong. 

In March, the issue made the leap from something weird occurring only once and a while to holy heck, I can’t believe this is happening all the time. While Jack was now permanently home from daycare, and Amanda and I tossed him back and forth while attempting to work, I started my research. I Googled for hours and hours. Hunting for information. Eventually, I finally figured out what I thought it was, and a neurologist confirms my diagnosis — cervical dystonia. 

Dammit, I thought. 

But like anyone with a chronic health condition, I went to work with the hope that I could make it better, if not make it go away. I visited new doctors, found online support groups, called and went to see chiropractors and therapists from all sorts of backgrounds and specialties. I freaked out and lost my mind. I cried. I even got Botox shot into my neck, which worked pretty good actually and is the main form of treatment for this disorder. Go figure.  

And over time, I think I’m learning to cope with it, to accept it as a part of my life now. Oddly enough, I am lucky. Many people with dystonia or other disorders, diseases, and ailments have it much, much worse. This is not a degenerative disorder, I will not die, and it’s possible my symptoms won’t progress any further. If you saw me, you might not even notice anything different unless you knew. I often hold my neck with one hand, as if rubbing a kink out, to prevent the movement from occurring.

And so while life is good-ish, I’m learning to live with another challenge, another thing I can’t control. And that’s OK, I suppose. Maybe there is something I can learn from this.

But for now, I’m walking around yelling and shouting at Mitch McConnell and Devin Nunes and Donny Trump and Bill Barr and Kellyanne Conway and Stephen Miller and all the other terrible people running this country. I’m performing internal monologues and screaming matches at people who aren’t there as I listen to podcasts or watch the news, the temperature of my blood boiling as my head moves back and forth, back and forth, everything feeling twisted. 

But even with the abundance of supervillains that 2020 has given us, I’m surprisingly able to separate the good from the bad. To laugh and play with my children and my wife, while suppressing, at least for several moments in a row, all of the everything else.

I have realized that I can now think of my kids, of Jack and Emilia, whenever I’m feeling down — that their image brings me joy and back to a smaller, more suitable place within myself that feels good. I’m on paternity leave. Thank God. I wasn’t when Jack was born, and that was … hard. This time around, I can enjoy the experience a little bit more. I get Jack up in the mornings, and we pick up his blankets and his stuffed elephant in his crib. We choose an outfit for the day and put on a new diaper. He’s becoming a big talker and a very decent conversationalist, surprising us daily with words we’ve been trying for some time. 

Elephant.

Squirrel.

Mailman.

All leaving his mouth as if he’s been saying them forever. We eat a breakfast of cereal or waffles or oatmeal. He loves kiwis and will sometimes eat apple sticks. It’s off to school in the next town over. “Big truk!” He shouts from the back whenever he spots an 18-wheeler or a construction vehicle. “Yellow!” He howls whenever a school bus rolls by. 

“The traffic light is green, Jack. What does green mean?”

“Go go go!” He yells from his seat. We drive past the “lybrary.” “What’s in the library?” I ask. “Books!”

“Back,” he proclaims when we arrive at the school. Sign the COVID forms, say hello, and the happy little boy runs inside to see his friends. “See you later,” I say. “I love you.”

Back at home, the Psychidodae have made a retreat. Our landlord informs us that pest control may have found the source in the building’s basement — the sludge-based habitat, a big-bang epicenter of their universe — which may mean their days are finally numbered. Instead of swatting dozens of flies per day, there are only a few here and there. And, of course, they don’t mind much.

We spend the days falling in love with Emilia, just as we did with Jack. She likes to poop a lot while resting on Mommy — just like Jack. She makes funny faces as babies tend to do. She can sleep with her arms in the air and looks at you with dark blue eyes as if to say, “just what the heck is going on here.” She sleeps and eats, and so do we. 

Neighbors and family bring over presents of clothes and diapers, and new toys for the new big brother. Jack has made out like a bandit, expertly learning how to quickly discard tissue paper and bags and wrapping and clothes to more efficiently locate the next toy truck or car that is undoubtedly sitting there waiting below. 

I pick Jack up from school in the late afternoons. “How was your day?” I ask with eagerness and excitement.

“Good. Momma?” he asks. “Let’s go see her,” I say.

And, eventually … “Momma? Baby?” He asks.

It took a few weeks, but Jack comes around favorably on his baby sister. Maybe it was all the presents. He rubs her head and points to her eyes without poking them. “Eyes.” And then, “mouth, ears, toes,” he giggles. We read books now at night as a family of four on the couch. “Is everyone ready?”

Jack is getting bigger, and Emilia is too. Jack now says “ice” as he prefers ice water for some reason. I fill up his sippy cup only to be told to return to the freezer … “ice.” Amanda is walking and lifting and cooking and feeding and doing a million things already, whether she’s supposed to or not. She keeps me laughing and shifts my focus from somewhere inside my head, from those internal shouting matches and anger over my moving neck, to a better place. 

We sit and wait together with Emilia while listening to the RMV’s classical music for people on hold. Twenty-five minutes. Forty-two minutes. An hour goes by. It’s her turn to renew her driver’s license. The music isn’t bad. 

We wrap Emilia up and walk her around the neighborhood, showing her Jack’s favorite parks and the harbor and the city and the shipyard, and, of course, the buses and the trains. Amanda asks me why doesn’t anyone make mixed flavors of creamsicles? Chocolate and orange. Strawberry and lemon. Over lunch, she says, “now that I can drink again, we need to get into boozy milkshakes.” I agree while choking on a tater tot. We laugh about how bad I am at eating, constantly stuffing something down the wrong tube, or eating so fast that everything gets stuck somewhere along the way. “Maybe I have a skinny esophagus,” I tell her. “Please don’t start researching that,” she not-so-jokingly requests. 

We discuss our local composting company’s ongoing escapades — the one that sometimes shows up for pick-ups and sometimes does not. They recently sent us an email stating the following:  

“I understand that many of you have been experiencing service issues, so I wanted to provide an update to everyone. There was an unexpected reduction in staff last week. Unfortunately, law enforcement was involved.”

Unfortunately, the email didn’t disclose the juicy details of why law enforcement might be involved in the reduction of staff for a local composting company. And so we joke and tack that line on to the end of random sentences.

I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich today. Unfortunately, law enforcement was involved.

Jack had a great time at the park, but he fell down after climbing onto the metal bench at the soccer field. Unfortunately, law enforcement was involved.

Emilia pooped twice while feeding just now. Unfortunately, law enforcement was involved.

Putting Emilia down on her couch cushion pillow, Amanda says, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Before they let you into the operating room, the doctor told me I had a great set of ovaries AND fallopian tubes.” 

Everything is good-ish.

While we no longer have access to the delicious hospital cookies, we have plenty of other desserts and baked items to keep us busy. I start eating over the sink or the trash bin to minimize the mess. I develop a temporary online shopping addiction once I realize Jack doesn’t have a fall wardrobe or jacket, not to mention the zipper on his lunchbox is now a real pain in the butt to zip. There’s talk of a second COVID wave hitting Massachusetts as cases rise. I keep shopping, just in case.

Boxes filled with toddler clothes and paper towels and cleaning supplies are delivered daily to our apartment. I stress clean to stay busy. I dust the floors with a wet paper towel because it makes me feel good. I empty diaper pails and trash cans. I vacuum and scrub down the bath and the toilet. I clean the mirrors and take out the garbage. There is enough recycling for several trips a day. I take the compost bucket out on Wednesdays in case they are fully staffed and able to come. I begin talking to myself out loud, declaring to no one in particular that I should do this or that next, announcing my to-do list to the universe as I discover it in real-time with thought bubbles turning into real speech. 

My head moves to the right, and when it’s bad, I pin it to my left shoulder because it will stay still when I do that. I walk around sweeping and Swiffering and recycling like I’m talking to someone on an old phone braced between my ear and my shoulder. I’m arguing with Mitch and Donny and Lindsey and all the buffoons who somehow found a way to sleep at night despite everything they have done. 

And still, everything is good-ish. Absolutely exhausting, but good-ish. As I said, we have jobs, savings, shelter, food, each other. That is a lot. That is more than many. 

I love watching our two kids do anything. It’s fun to be a family of four, a crew. And naturally, I want the best for them, and all the kids everywhere, because how could you not? And so I’m not sure what we do next. Or how we go about it. But I do know that it starts with voting. Voting these people out. 

The so-called President. 

His entire family. 

The GOP. 

Hundreds of thousands of people are dead, their families in mourning. This is not business as usual. We no longer need to respect the opinion of anyone who supports this regime. That old trick where we’re supposed to “respect the opinion of the other side” doesn’t apply, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I don’t have a lot of love for Democrats, but right now, this is the lesser of two evils, and it must be done.

The so-called President owes $400 million to “somebody.”

The so-called President uses radical right-wing media like FOX News and Rush Limbaugh to advance his brand of hate, evil, and chaos.

The so-called President and the GOP support and encourage fascism and right-wing terrorist groups.

The so-called President is a failed businessman and does not pay taxes.

The so-called President openly mocks and is disgusted by the people who support him.

The so-called President does not believe in science.

The so-called President and the GOP have sucked the life out of every rational human being left in the country.

It is what it is.

I hope that one day our country can be a place where our children don’t have to ask us why we let it become something to be so ashamed of. To be terrified of. That maybe it can still be a place for all of us, taken back from the insane and evil and corrupt. I’m not worried about two-year-old Jack or one-month-old Emilia. These versions of my children are perfectly fine, happy, and content. I’m worried about them five years from now. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. I’m worried about the world and country they will inherit. 

So please. Vote.

Get these people out. Out of our lives and out of the news. It must be done. Vote and support and donate to all the democratic candidates running across the nation, especially those running in swing states.

Here is an easy link at Swing Left to find out where help is most needed right now.

It’s nighttime here in East Boston, and Jack’s ready for bed. Our family of four huddles together by his crib for a big hug. “Kisses?” We ask. He rubs his head against Emilia and then moves in for his Mommy. There’s a furry little moth-like creature perched on the wall, probably not paying attention to anything in particular. For now, everything is good-ish. But hopefully tomorrow, or someday soon, everything will be just a little bit better. 

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For reference, a cheese stoop is a step or series of steps located inside or outside a home used by a toddler as a safe perch for the eating of cheese. Typically, this act of consumption is reserved for keeping the child distracted (and somewhat satisfied) while you rush to cook dinner after he transforms into a ferocious hangry monster demanding to be fed. 

In our case, we have a small single step-stoop at the end of the kitchen that leads to the door. Open and pass through the door to the outside world, and you’ll find a concrete stoop, more of a platform than a step. On that outside stoop sits a black compost bucket, and atop that black compost bucket sits a hefty purple rock we found at a beach long before its duties ever included battening down a bucket from the wind.   

When the sun is shining, Jack enjoys the simple pleasures of standing on the outside stoop and studiously inspecting the compost bucket with a keen eye. “Buckt. Purpel,” Jack will say. “Ruk. Biggg ruk,” nodding his head in agreement with himself and looking up at you with a big smile.

The rain is relentless, spattering its way through the open door and across the threshold of the stoop with little pitter-patters tap-dancing toward the little toddler happily munching on a fresh piece of American cheddar.

“Cheeez. Cheeez. Cheeez,” says Jack. Over and over and over again until we ask, “would you like some cheese?”

“Cheeeeez!” Jack replies with a smile. It is the only word he will say until a fresh slice reveals itself from the refrigerator, and he’s devouring it on his stoop like a predator protecting his meal.

The next thing he will say is, “More. One mo,” with a single finger waving through the air.

From the stoop, Jack has been watching the world move round (from the eyes of a child) since the beginning of the pandemic and his ongoing hiatus from daycare. One thing he loves even more than cheese is trucks. Big trucks. And although ours is just a little side street, set away from main roads and busy corridors, there is plenty to see if you have a comfy stoop and need to pass some time.

We’ve spent entire mornings watching as UPS and FedEx trucks shuffle up and down the road delivering packages. “Truk!” Jack will shout from inside the apartment at the sound of an engine, racing to the door or asking for a lift up to the window for a peak. “Mayelman!” He howls. Then there are the moving trucks. Not as consistent, but esteemed for their ability to remain stationary for long periods during which Jack doesn’t seem to get bored.

“Where is the truck, Jack?”

“There right there (no comma)!”

When asked where anything is, it is always “there right there.”   

Back when the pandemic started, we experienced a bit of unintentional chaos at home. Oddly enough, not one out of the three of us had ever experienced a pandemic before. Nor had anyone ever worked full-time jobs while taking care of a child. And nor did the child ever have to be cared for by two busy parents not paying nearly enough attention to him.

We were all confounded.

As the parents, we never thought to establish or attempt to identify some sort of routine, some rules-of-the-day for sanity’s sake to usher us all forward safely, hour-by-hour until bedtime arrived and we could all breathe a sigh of relief. 

It became apparent that we weren’t quite sure if Jack still needed two naps or was old enough to get by with an afternoon siesta — he seemed grumpy sometimes after breakfast. Would he happily eat lunch by himself while we typed away, scrambling to finish some work? How many snacks can we give him to stop crying before he would never eat a scheduled meal ever again? Is there a deeper psychological reason he keeps infiltrating the tea cabinet and dumping the bags out by the boxload? Why is he all of a sudden terrified of bathtime? When did he decide to stop liking every single type of food we know how to make? 

Also relevant — why does 10:00 a.m. always feel like it should be at least 5 p.m.? And most importantly, are we all allowed to cry at the same time, as a family? 

It turns out the answer is yes.

It wasn’t that neither of us wanted to or didn’t love spending so much time with Jack — quite the opposite — but aside from learning to build a brand new routine, the laptops, more often than not, felt like magnets propelling our bodies back at all times. It didn’t matter how far a walk you took, how many laps around the building you drove in Jack’s shiny red big-boy GT Mustang, or how nice and cozy you felt buried in a pile of books together on the bed. The laptops beckoned us back for more work … work … work.  

Poor Jack was tossed between the two of us as we juggled sippy cups and snacks, laptops and earpieces, toy cars and stuffed animals, conference calls and laundry and brooms and more snacks and dirty diapers and bathtimes … all a bunch of spinning plates ready to come crashing down at any moment. 

And sometimes things did come crashing down. But eventually, as time passed, we started new routines, and those routines changed again and evolved as Jack’s appetite for local exploration found us seeking out new adventures. A thousand moving parts as we all remained in place, in semi-quarantine lockdown with only our family walks around the neighborhood to escape. And so we counted our blessings, that we had jobs and shelter and food ... that we were safe.

Not to mention, we could all watch together as our family of three slowly turned into four. 

Amanda’s belly was growing from a normal-sized belly into a bump. And then from a bump into a basketball. “Baybee,” Jack says while poking her in the belly/giggle button. He brings delicious snacks to that spot to see if he can somehow send a freeze-dried yogurt bite or a strawberry crispy chew through to the other side. “Snok,” he would say, nodding his head before giggling with Mommy in their secret squishy funny faces and shoveling the snok away for another yummy treat.

We made rainbows out of construction paper and put them on the windows with all his stuffed animals. His cardboard fort became a garage for his pushbike and toys. We read books on my belly and wrestled when we should have been napping or working or who knows what. We monitored the penguins and the sharks and the fish at the aquarium on the tablet screen. 

Toes were tickled, and bellies poked. Amanda, my new and only co-worker, kept everyone fed, sane, and moving along toward whatever lay ahead in this strange and tumultuous inside-adventure. And Jack helped me clean — from dusting and brooming and Swiffering the floors to taking out the trash and learning to push the vacuum. He can even point at each of the houseplants that need watering.

For an assistant helper who gets paid in snoks, he does a pretty good job. And let’s not forget the laundry, his favorite task of all. With Mommy at his side, he throws in the dirty clothes one at a time, presses buttons, watches everything spin, and stands watch as the clothes spin round and round and round ….  

We Zoomed and Facetimed with Nanas and Papas, Nonnas and Peppers, Voos and Aunties, and cousins too. Jack gave smooches and hugs, and of course, high-fives on the screen to anyone and everyone that needed a little bit of love or some virtual snuggles.  

As we always did, Amanda and I would sneak into his room at night to watch him sleep for a few minutes. A cozy little lump of a boy with his blankies, bunny, and elephant. Somewhat oblivious to the daily mounting troubles of his country and this world. Peacefully snoring away while Amanda hides a collection of secret surprise binkies underneath the contents of the crib — her secret weapon for keeping Jack happy for a few extra minutes each morning while we sleep.  

Together, we learned how to use our toddler backpack (“bckpck”) in which Jack could sit from a much higher perch than his cheese stoop, surveying the land and feeling the wind blow fresh air on his face and through his delicate strands of hair. A smile plastered and fastened securely in awe of the big wide world out there.  

With our masks on, we marched our way through the airport grounds bordering our neighborhood, past the rental car center and the bus stations, then back across to the walking path along a small peninsula that pokes its way out into the harbor across from the city and past the fireboats and water taxis.  

All deserted enough to feel safe, and a little like maybe we were playing bit roles in a post-apocalyptic zombie movie that was definitely not funny at all. Through the old shipyard and past the cider house, down the pier to the red Nantucket lightship. Continue by the park that sits across from the city and, at last, turn down the walking path back for home. 

A nap time truly earned for everyone. Daddy, Mommy, Jack, and baby too.      

The best days were Thursdays because Thursdays were street-sweeping days, and aside from cheese and trucks, Jack sure does love a nifty street-sweeper.

“Shhweep,” Jack says. Sometimes he could hear it a block over, and I would explain that it wasn’t quite here yet and that we had to change his smelly poo-poo first. He would slap his butt and nod while saying “pooh,” then run or slither or wriggle away out-of-reach and back to the stoop to keep an eye out for what his ears were telling him was something he just had to see. “Shhweep.”       

Beyond the outdoor concrete stoop, there lies a small patch of grass followed by an old metal fence. The fence itself resembles a long line of rusty old spears thrust into the ground one-by-one to guard the space between us and the sidewalk. The grounds boast a rare city yard expanding beyond the walls of our corner apartment. The grass there is lightly decorated with a few large oaks that provide shade and shelter for the neighborhood bunny rabbits and squirrels — of which there are many, and all fearless city-dwellers, indeed.  

“Treeee,” was one of his first words he used to say as we formed a new work-from-home childcare pandemic routine many months ago. Jack would stumble from the stoop to the yard through the rough up-and-down chunks of exposed roots to place his palm against the trunk and say, “hiiiiii, tree.” 

Three trees.
Three stumbling walks.
Three hellos.

It was out there he started to walk. Then one day, he walked a little faster. And now he runs ... with arms pumping vigorously forward and back, palms facing toward the rear like he’s paddling the air with hand-like oars propelling him every step of the way.

From the outdoor stoop, Jack often points to the nearby unfilled hole-in-the-ground with equal parts located underneath the sidewalk and in the yard. Despite several attempts to reason with both the local government and the building managers, the hole remains a hole, and at that, a hole filled with trash — ergo, a trash hole.

Claiming that the hole originates from the building’s private yard, the city will only go so far as fastening a bright orange barrel to the fence along the sidewalk using a set of efficient-looking bungee cords. 

I expect there must be a rulebook somewhere (created by a very professional committee) that very clearly states that when dealing with a hole not more than 50 percent on city property, the best that can be done is the fastening of a bright … orange … barrel. To warn the people, that is, of the dangerous hole, of course. 

Standard procedure.  

Although the entrance to the trash hole is located on our side and therefore sheltered from the street, it nevertheless finds plenty of trash to pile up, courtesy of its friend, the wind. In addition to random trash, Jack has witnessed both neighborhood bunny rabbits (“bunnee”) and cats (“moow”) emerge from the hole on several occasions. It is always a shock.

Mondays and Fridays are trash AND recycling days. This is important because the trash and recycle trucks are “big truks” and quite the newsworthy (and noisy) spectacles for a little toddler. The first run is always for the garbage cans — although few look like cans anymore. The city workers attack it with a quick pace, chucking the contents of the bins into the mouth of the monster that chews it all up. Jack watches as the chompers of the big truk take great delight in its constant feast, consuming garbage at an impressive rate. 

Moving their way down the road in a methodical routine, the city workers put on a show that Jack will watch from as far as he can see in both directions. He won’t lose focus until the truck drives beyond the horizon, or around the corner, whichever comes first. He will then shake his head as if awakening from a hazy dream that couldn’t possibly have been real, except maybe it was. What was that thing?

Typically, it is considered rude, awkward, and not very nice to stare at someone from a short distance as they go about their professional work. But Jack loves trucks, and more importantly, he will cry if he doesn’t get to watch the action. And so, we watch the city workers, from an awkwardly short distance, as they go about their professional jobs in the midst of a global pandemic emptying trash bins. To show them we mean well, I spend my time convincing Jack to wave his hand at them in a gesture of good faith. I tell him, rather loudly, that he can wave hello to the nice men. 

Of course, the nice men are very nice, and wave back at Jack and shout hello whenever he’s out there supervising from the stoop. “We’ll be back soon for the recycling,” they assure him. 

A neighborhood is a funny thing. I imagine back in the day, they were all full of people who knew each other, shared meals and gossip, traded favors, and found friends. I’ve never really felt like that anywhere, but now with Jack … people see him, and they smile or laugh and say how cute he is. He’s a bridge to conversations I would have never had on my own. 

There’s the smoking man who lives across the street. He has slicked-back hair, an enormous black SUV, and a wife with blonde hair who decorates their small lobby according to the next holiday. Jack and the slicked-back hair man often find themselves stooping it at the same time, one with a cigarette and the other with a piece of cheese — we all have our vices. 

Jack now knows the sanitation workers, one UPS driver, most of our apartment building neighbors, and approximately forty-seven or so local dogs. 

“What is that, Jack?” 

“Dawgee.” 

“What does it say?

“Woof, woof,” he replies, his tongue lapping. 

We had never seen nor did we know the property-manager-lady across the street and next to the building of the slicked-back hair man. One day Jack was walking me around the sidewalk, and she happened to be taking in the garbage cans and recycling bins, a smile on her face.

“Is that my beautiful little boy?” She suddenly shouted from across the street. Do we know this woman? I asked myself. And then, “if you ever need anything, let me know, OK?”

Wow, what a friendly stranger she must be to offer another stranger potential future assistance with nothing in particular. “Thank you so much,” I shouted back. “Anytime, I mean it,” she went on, “I’ll leave you my number inside, in the mail slot.

Confusion began to set in. Mail slot. Why would she leave me her number in a mail slot across the street in a building I don’t have access to? And then, “does he want some chocolate chip cookies?” Not knowing what to say, I stuttered something that sounded like, “I’m not sure, maybe.”

The gears in my poorly functioning brain finally started to generate some power, and I realized this was a case of mistaken identity. Unless, of course, this woman schemed to lure in unsuspecting toddlers to her mailroom with the hope of chocolate chip cookies that may or may not exist.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you think we live there?” I ask while pointing to her building. “Ahhh!” She gasps. I thought you were another baby. A couple just moved in. I’m sorry … you can still have a cookie, though!”

Stoops are good. Trucks are good. Lunches and snacks and the occasional Sesame Street binge are good. But the glue holding any halfway decent pandemic-quarantine-lockdown toddler routine is walks — lots of walks. 

In March, Jack was still stumbling around, his hand held while canvassing his route across those exposed roots of his favorite trees. And so one of our favorite and, more importantly, time-consuming activities became our strolls along the secret airport walking paths at lunch. 

With Jack in the stroller, the baby in the belly, and Mom and Dad at the helm, we entered the airport grounds each day from the west by the hotel nearest our apartment building and forging a path deep into a space we never thought to go before. It turned out that the walkable areas within the airport were an excellent place to stroll for many reasons. 

First, it was immediately apparent that nobody else knew that the airport had a pleasant walking path. And second, there were plenty of buses around to make things interesting. 

If there’s one thing Jack likes more than cheese and trucks, it’s buses. Boy-oh-boy does he like a good squeaky bus. While the airport was nearly void of life, the big blue electric shuttle buses maintained a regular schedule shuffling non-existent passengers from the Airport Train Station throughout the little city that lay within. So many buildings we never realized were there. A gas station. Parking lots for taxis and Ubers and Lyfts. A fire station, offices, and maintenance yards. 

“Strowl,” Jack would say, following his second mid-morning snack or after lunch and before naptime. And off we would go, pausing often and any time a big blue bus or truck came barreling down the road.

Soon, Jack was not only a neighborhood regular but that little kid waving to all the bus drivers. And eventually, many of those bus drivers waved back at their little airport mascot cheering them on during what was otherwise a bizarre time for everyone. Jack would shout out to stop so he could concentrate on watching the buses fly by. As we strolled, he could see the tail fins of airplanes swimming around their bays, the bodies hidden by walls protecting the path from the runways and gates.  

As the mom in charge and the parent with a real tip-top mind, Amanda knows most things. For instance, she knows before we arrive at a crosswalk what color the lights are from every direction. She knows who goes next and when the crosswalk sign will switch in our favor. She knows when buses arrive and their route numbers. When trains come and go and approximately how many minutes before the next one arrives. And so, as Jack and I mindlessly admire the vehicles, Amanda is methodically moving us like oblivious pieces of a chessboard across and over and through this new frontier according to her schedule. On and on we go.  

There was one entire month that the Blue Line Subway Train shut down for maintenance. And although ridership was extremely low, the city contracted what seemed like a billion shiny Peter Pan buses to shuttle people around. While waiting their turn according to whatever schedule they followed, the buses parked in a lot right along our route. 

During this time, buses appeared from everywhere and in all directions. They fell from the sky and dropped out of thin air. Jack could barely contain himself, often erupting in gasps and triumphant shouts of glory and glee. What a time to be alive, his tiny toddler brain would scream with excitement. 

“There right there. There right there. There right there. Busss!”

But then, one day, and all of a sudden, arrived a smothering, soupy heatwave that never really went away. The meteorologists announced the official coming of what they referred to as a heat dome. It didn’t sound good. And so the strowls came to a screeching halt while we waited for the heat dome to subside.  

Located near the trash-hole is a sewer grate. By all appearances, it looks and acts like a perfectly functioning sewer grate — granted, there’s not much for it to do most of the time. But whenever the rain pours down, rattling its drops against the asphalt, some type of invisible magical shield prevents the water from draining down that grate and into the sewer. Instead, a massive lake forms along the side of the road, rising up and up almost to the halfway point of the tires of the cars parked no more than a few feet from the outdoor concrete stoop.

With this minor flooding comes the local city sewer and water commission to investigate the mysterious magical shield. As our new routine dictates, if someone is working or trying to perform a professional-type job near the outdoor concrete stoop, we must observe them from a very short distance. And the city sewer and water commission would be no exception.

The commission workers arrive in only a measly pick-up truck, which isn’t bad, but given all the truk action around these parts, it is not the sort of thing that will captivate Jack’s attention for very long. 

However, what if it was a pick-up truck with a crane attached to the bed? A crane that picks up sewer grates so city workers can inspect the drain for mysterious magical shield-like entities or an excess of unseasonal clumps of leaves? 

Well, in that case, get me two snoks and a comfy stoop, because this is going to be good. 

The man from the truck stood approximately eight to nine feet away from a grown man (me) and an almost-two-year-old (Jack) watching his every move as he uses the remote on the side of the vehicle to control the crane. The crane lowers a big metal hook carefully down until it clunk clunk clunks against the sewer grate. Taking some time to attach, the man raises the grate just enough to lay it safely down on the ground. 

Wow! I can assure you Jack had never seen anything like that before. The nice man waves and smiles, and even inquires about the mysterious lake formation that is all the chatter these days in the neighborhood — but of course, the water was gone again. 

The man could not detect any magical shield, nor did he find an unseasonal clump of leaves. The neighbors across the street gathered and watched, possibly wondering what was stuck in there, only to be disappointed that the mystery would not be solved that day. 

Lucky for us, that meant more visits from pick-up trucks with cranes to remove the sewer grate near the trash-hole for inspection.   

Eventually, the heat dome subsided to a slightly less overwhelming heat. And we learned that just as Jack could maintain a laser-like focus until his pleas for “cheez … cheez … cheez” were answered, that his requests for “woks oushide” could not be deflected until satisfied.

We put on the “sukz” and then the “shooz” and got the “sok.” The sukz are socks, and the sok is the soccer ball, which Jack excitedly, and with much enthusiasm in his fast-paced waddle, demands be brought on the wok. 

All woks start in the yard with the sok. But for the most part, the sok is immediately thrown into the yard underneath one of the treeez and abandoned immediately.

We then amble over to the locked gate within the speared fence along the sidewalk. Once Jack has closed the gate and has my hand, we walk several yards to the building’s front steps. From there, we trapeze our way up the short flight of stairs back inside to the lobby and another set of steps leading to the mailroom. 

Before you know it, Jack is galloping up and down the stairs on either side of the complex and racing his way through the halls. Occasionally, he stops to “nok” on a door or stand on a new “mat,” and since he can’t say “down,” everything, for now, is “up.”

Eventually, we make our way to the parking lot. Look both ways and cross the street, there you will find five sidewalk boxes filled with rocks and one single tree each. The wooden beams of the boxes provide a perfect challenge for balancing.

Saunter further up the slight hill, and the opening to the park welcomes you with its big black open gates. Hop onto the curb and walk in the tall grass at a height that almost makes a toddler feel four-feet tall. Look at the doggies that go woof in the park underneath the overpass. Then quickly run to the fence next to the three tiny pines. Plop down on the dirt-grass, and sit and watch as the metallic trains come barreling in and out of the tunnel like rumbling thunder, the vibrations felt from toe to head.

Pick up the pine cones, just the ones you need, and make a pile. Run back to the walking path and further into the park. Wave and say hello. Try not to hit anyone with pine cones. Make your way past the train tracks and the soccer fields and finally arrive at the bus and train station.

There you have found the source of those much beloved blue buses. The people are sparse, but be careful. Wander through the inside of the station when the trains rumble and choo-choo their way to the platform. But be alert and ready to run outside again as soon as another bus approaches. Back and forth you go until it’s time for dinner. If bathing suits are on, hit the splash pad and run through the spouts and sprays until you’re good and soaked. Then back to the path for the homeward journey. 

A walk well done. Don’t forget the sok.   

From March to September, all this time has passed, and while we’re mostly still sane, the world has changed. Jack has grown, the baby is coming, and we ramble on. A family of almost four, wondering if the pieces of our former lives will ever fit together like they once did. But probably they won’t, not exactly. 

If there’s one thing we’ve learned while trying to keep Jack’s world intact, it’s that our much larger adult world isn’t working so well and that it took something enormous and terrible to shake everything to its core, pleading for changes to be made so that maybe a better world can take the place of the old.    

And so, we’ve kept track of time not by counting the days or the weeks, but by tragedies and a blustering news cycle. But also by new words and routines, strolls and walks, and, of course, watching various forms of transportation. 

We count the smiles behind the masks that Jack is responsible for all around the neighborhood. The ones we see from strangers or new friends whenever he waves his hand in the air and shouts “hiii!” It is a good number. 

It makes me think that those smiles can’t help themselves, that they naturally form when witnessing cuteness and joy. And that sometimes, maybe that person remembers their child or niece or nephew or brother and sister, and what a special time that age was for them.     

Dump trucks are particularly awesome. Junk trucks are OK. Crane trucks. Fire engines. Excavators. Cement mixers. And in a pinch, a pick-up truck will do just fine. Soon, Jack will return to daycare to his teachers and friends and start another new routine.

It’s not’s raining anymore. The day is bright, the sun shines down on the stoop, and the rain from the water has gone. Up along the sidewalk putters the truck with the crane in the bed to investigate.

“Jack, where is the truk?”

“There right there,” he points and then breaks into a paddling sprint back to the stoop and the open door while squishing the inside of his face inward to form a double chin, his tongue wagging in concentration.

He looks back at Amanda as she makes dinner.

“Cheeez?”

Our 19-month-old son is playing a version of indoor bocce with a set of balls from what is sometimes referred to as a “toy hammer pounding set.” Wow — what a name! In this version of the game (which he came up with all by himself), Jack masterfully chucks each ball across the room at a velocity that you would not guess a 19-month-old to be capable of velocitizing. These makeshift bocce balls from the toy hammer pounding set seem abnormally solid, heavy, and substantial. Enough so that when a ball makes contact with a wall or chair or anything at all, it makes a very terrifying noise — the kind that indicates that, without a doubt, something just broke. 

THWACK!
THWACK!
KABLOOM!

Using a stern voice and a serious face, we say things like:

“No, Jack!” and …
“Those balls aren’t for throwing” and ... 
“That’s not how we use those, remember?” 

In response, Jack scans our faces for a split second as if he’s calculating the probability that he can still get away with another chuck. The calculations all check out.

THWACK! 

Nothing is broken … yet. But when the bocce balls are taken away and hidden out of sight, Jack moves on to a muscle roller massage stick that is almost brand new while also being several years old. He struts along his usual route, waddling round and round through the kitchen and back to the living room slash dining room slash playroom slash office. He wields the muscle roller massage stick like it’s a staff, and him a tiny wizard Gandalf striking it over and over again on the faux-wood floor while telling some imaginary foe that they “shall not pass!” Except it sounds more like “blash gabiddle blum,” in Jack’s language.

A quick glance at the clock shows that it’s 8:37 am. My best guess is that it’s probably a Thursday. It’s been approximately one hour and thirty-seven minutes since Jack woke up for the day and ate a hearty breakfast consisting of a crunchy waffle covered in almond butter, many scoops of delicious applesauce, and half of Mom’s cereal bowl. Like a proper gentleman, he enjoys taking his post-breakfast snack of yogurt crisps at his little toddler table in the living room. We sometimes call this “breakfast dessert.” 

In approximately ten hours, Jack will go back to bed, and I wonder if it’s possible to live an entire week in a day? Yesterday felt like a week, and I think the day before that did as well. Quarantine life is a hard life. As I ponder this, I also think to myself that while I thought we were paying too much for daycare, it turns out we aren’t paying nearly enough. God bless those humans. 

It’s not as if I don’t enjoy spending time with my beautiful son. On the contrary, this new period of social and physical confinement is partially a gift that we get to spend together while we laugh and read and giggle and walk and wrestle and play … to learn a little bit more about each other as a new routine rises to the surface. 

But a toddler’s day is a busy day. And as two non-essential workers still working away remotely, my wife Amanda and I still have not found a proper magical spell capable of preventing Jack from investigating every nook and cranny of our apartment. Ideally, one such spell would confine him to a safe space nearby while sending messages to his brain about how sitting quietly and reading books all day would be a very excellent idea indeed.

Instead, Jack’s daily agenda reflects his age as a studious new human exploring his world for information and knowledge through first-hand experimentation. His agenda moves swiftly from one critically important task to the next, as if he’s always running out of time and has a thousand to-dos left to do.

And while our two-bedroom apartment is packed with books and toys and wagons and mini-bicycles, baby automobiles and stuffed animals, sometimes he just wants to sneak away and find the pack of seltzer cans hidden from sight next to the Ikea buffet table slash work desk and throw one of the cans on the ground as hard as he can. 

Somewhere upstairs in the penthouse of his tiny toddler brain is a cluster of neurons huddling together saying: wouldn’t-cha-know, we have no idea what happens when you smash one of those cans on the ground. Sending instructions ....

Instructions received! Those tiny toddler neurons check in with another cluster in the hippocampus-amygdala-frontal lobe region in charge of facial expressions and communication. It turns out, those are the ones that know exactly how to create a mischievous face whenever a concerned parent wanders over. That mischievous face says: “I hear you telling me NOT to do it … but I’m going to do it anyway.”

Say it with me:

All hail daycare teachers. 
All hail daycare teachers. 
All dail haycare bleachers.

PASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHEW.

That is the sound a can of grapefruit-mango seltzer makes as it hisses away its essence onto the floor and all nearby objects, including the small child responsible for its escape. Jack checks it off the list but notes that if he gets the chance, he should definitely try it again just in case, and also because it was pretty cool. 

Once breakfast dessert has been chomped, chewed, and crunched, Jack waddles over to the kitchen to lean against an antique armoire to take care of some urgent business. The armoire is a third-generation family heirloom Amanda inherited from her Nonna, and it stores our vast collection of herbal tea. Recently, it’s become clear that Jack feels most comfortable doing his urgent business (that means ‘morning poop’) while propping himself up with one tiny toddler arm gripping the armoire. While this process doesn’t appear to be painful, sometimes his face does turn a shade of red that would indicate he’s having a rough go of it.

As business concludes and the shade of red subsides, Jack waddles full-speed ahead, laughing and pointing and giggling as he rushes back to see if he missed any pieces of his breakfast dessert. Standard protocol dictates that we let Jack “work it in a bit” (the urgent business) and wait at least until we can no longer withstand the power of the poo poo’s pungency to change the contaminated diaper.  

While I do get dressed in normal clothes each morning, I’ve also implemented a rule that allows me to wear the same outfit for three straight days before it can be considered for the laundry basket. I take a moment to review the state of my pants and make a mental note that today’s the day. Jack nods his head in approval. 

Gripping a new-ish sippy cup the size of his head, he gulps down some water as if he’s been stranded on a desert island for three days. He then begins shuffling through his collection of literature on this tiny toddler table. I ask him if it’s OK if I fire up my laptop and check some emails real quick. He looks at me as if to say, “of course it isn’t.” So instead we read an excellent book called Moo, Baa, La, La, La! five times in a row. The plot involves a variety of farm animals and the various noises they each produce. For instance, the duck goes “quack,” and the cow goes “moo.” While this seems pretty standard, there are some discrepancies over whether or not three local pigs were, in fact, dancing and singing the lyrics “La, La, La.”

The realist narrator is hesitant to believe these pigs capable of such a performance (them being pigs and all) and claims the only sound they could have possibly made is along the lines of the typical oink, oink, oink. There’s also some hullaballoo as to whether or not they can tap dance, which now that I have the time to think about it does seem rather suspicious. The book concludes with a request that the reader, in this case, Jack, comes up with a noise of their own to complete the ritual of becoming a fully integrated farm animal. Luckily, being a squeaky little rugrat, Jack has plenty of noises to contribute.

Laptop. Check.
Earpieces. Check.
Phones charged. Check.
What day is it again?
When did this happen to the world?
What are we going to do?
Eighteen rolls of toilet paper left.
Why are there hundreds of people on a beach somewhere?
Who goes on cruises?

Amanda’s phone stays busy for most of the day, and Jack helps her on conference calls and is able to assist with some emails and minor office memos. We pass him back and forth … or rather, we take turns chasing him around, monitoring his explorations to make sure he’s not leaping off a couch or tumbling into a door or raiding the pantry for more snacks. He seems oblivious to the fact that there are two enormous boogers lodged respectfully in their natural habitat, one to a nostril. While this also occurred the day before and the day before that (and so on), I’m absolutely sure those were already expertly extracted. This pair must be a new, even stickier batch clinging for life and stronger than me by far. The boogies remain. 

All hail daycare teachers.

I’m holding Jack, and he says something like “outside” that actually sounds like “outside” in his tiny toddler language. He points toward our side door where his magnets of narwhals and watermelons, soccer balls, giraffes, and pieces of fruit hang steady. We open up the door, and he says “hello trees” and “hello world” and waves and waves and waves. An airplane flies overhead, and his mouth opens wide in excitement as his eyes follow suit. He points a finger up into the air. He extends his neck out the door as we stand on the little apartment stoop, and he gazes outward in amazement as if it were not an empty street but a road busy hosting a traveling circus parade. “Look at all this!” his eyes say. 

Jack’s neurons begin busily explaining to him that while although it may seem as if he recently devoured a large, nutritiously delicious breakfast, that it’s already time for First Snack. A tummy rumbles and a tiny toddler finds his way into the food pantry, pointing at puffs and fruit gummies and cereal bars and yogurt crisp crackers. It occurs to the neurons that the parents should have anticipated this moment, and while it only just occurred to Jack that he’d like to eat something, it’s a real shame those very same parents couldn’t have a snack ready by now. 

Sending instructions …

Instructions received. Commence with devastating sad lip and scrunchy pout face. Give Mom and Dad ten seconds to fix this, then proceed with tears and turn the crying up to medium-high. Standard protocol.

The day moves along. Sometimes time does too, and sometimes it stands still for what seems like forever. Calls are made, and work is worked as much as it can be. Family and friends are checking in to make sure everyone is all right and also to compare grocery store stories. My best line is telling everyone that I saw a man with an entire shopping cart filled with liters of Coca-Cola. I wonder how many he has left.

We talk to Nanas and Papas and Nonnas and Peppers and Voos and Aunties and Uncles and Cousins. To friends still working and those already laid off, kicked to the curb even though this whole fiasco has just begun. Takeout delivery drivers buzz up and down the street shooting pad thai, burritos, and large pizzas out of a cannon as they drive the deserted streets. No touch. We are a touchless society ... for now. 

Our freezer is packed. 
Our pantry is full. 
And our toilet paper stock ... isn’t terrible. 

In times likes these, it feels like we’re always making the next grocery list. Just in case. Not in a panicky, I need 30 full liters of Coca-Cola kinda way, but more like we’d all feel a little bit better if the freezer was full and we had some canned beans we could dust off someday and have a good laugh. 

“Do we need eggnog?” Amanda asks me while looking at what’s available on an app for the city’s local market. “We could get a bucket of ice cream. A dozen bagels. Or six crab cakes for thirty-five dollars?”

We provide Jack with a bowl of stir-fry for lunch. Unfortunately, the neurons are not cooperating. You see, we have entered a phase where the only acceptable meals are either a quesadilla or macaroni and cheese. What those pesky neurons haven’t figured out yet is that the quesadillas all contain pulverized vegetables, and the macaroni is made out of chickpeas.

The thing is, I know Jack likes rice. I’ve seen him eat an entire bowl by hand at a restaurant not too long ago back when restaurants were a thing. And if I threw those same vegetables sitting on top of the rice into a blender and stuffed them into a tiny toddler squeezable food pouch with the right branding, he’d be gulping it down like it was toddler tiramisu. “All done,” Jack says after only trying a bite. Two hands in the air waving back and forth. “All done.”

One quesadilla later and it’s time for Jack’s post-lunch snack we sometimes refer to as lunch dessert. A few minutes more and I look up from my laptop as my ears recognize a familiar sound. It is the sound of a tiny toddler tambourine smashing against the glass of a TV stand cabinet. Over. And over. And over again. He’s off to the races now, circling the kitchen and riding his bicycle. His sweatpants are rolled up like he’s been wading into a lake with his fishing gear to catch a bass. His socks have been discarded, and his indoor slippers are probably in the trash.

Now he’s sitting in his toy Radio Flyer wagon and absolutely flummoxed as if he has no idea how he got in there and certainly no idea how he’s going to get out. He removes each wagon item one by one, performing an extensive inventory to make sure he hasn’t been looted.

One snuggly sing-along-bear. Check.
One pair of tongs from Mom’s ice-cube party set. Check.
One extra-large squishy baseball. Check.
Two packets of chamomile tea. Check.
One light-blue octopus (stuffed, not real). Check.
One Beanie Baby pug named Wrinkles. Check.
Two flashlights for emergencies. Check.

All of a sudden, he’s sitting in a crate inside the food pantry lounging backward as if it were an easy chair. “Outside,” he squeals. We watch a large impressive truck from the stoop while it collects a dumpster because that is a good way to pass the time. We walk the halls of our building; an old middle school repurposed and renovated thirty years ago. I ask Jack if he’d like to go up or down, and he points. I count the stairs because it seems like something that someone in isolation would do. Amanda holds Jack while taking a call, and he listens intently for a chance to chime in. We stroll around the neighborhood, and Jack looks for doggies and fun people to wave at from an appropriate distance. We play on the bed. We play in his room. We run around in circles while I make dog noises and Jack makes high-pitched squeaks like a dolphin.

From one task and activity to the next, Jack bounces from wall to floor to furniture. Not because he’s secretly hopped up on sugar, but because that’s what toddlers do when they’re figuring out that whole walking-around-on-your-own-two-feet thing. 

He runs.
He falls.
He gets up.
He falls the other way.
He runs again.
He falls again.

When your head is the size of a bowling bowl, and your skinny little legs and torso don’t have enough weight to slow your momentum, it doesn’t take much to fall on your face a million times an hour, approximately. Right now, Jack is upset that I won’t let him use the collapsable footstool and so he cries a bit while I take it from him. Except that I don’t realize his finger is stuck in the corner of the stool and so he cries some more. Thankfully, it’s time for Second Snack, which used to mean oranges and apples but now is more like crackers or more yogurt crips and fruit gummies. I take each snack out one by one and wait for a nod of approval.

No.
Nope.
Keep going.
That’s the one.

Jack’s nod of approval indicates that fruit gummies will suffice for now, but that I better not skimp and only give him half the bag, or there will be heck to pay. Together we all sit on pillows in our proper positions, and Jack touches our noses, and Amanda and I both say “nose” when he does it. He touches his own nose and then points to us to follow along. Amanda asks Jack if he has seen my belly button recently, and a full-scale investigation is launched. Once the case has been closed, and a proper belly button has been found and beep-beeped well and good a few times over, Jack extends the investigation over to his Mom. Another belly button. “Damn,” he thinks to himself, “am I good at finding belly buttons or what?”

Calls come in, and messages are received. The corporate entities of our life trudge along. At some point, the adults in the room eat actual food and take turns walking around the local park in hazmat suits and armed with samurai swords.

An orange-faced reality television star pops up on the tube to tell everyone how well he is handling the first worldwide pandemic of this caliber in quite some time. He assures us that non-American affiliated cruise ship companies require our immediate help. Off goes the tube before our brains fizzle away into blah blah blah or explode and call it a day forever. This alternate timeline of reality we wandered into recently is not working out well.

I stress clean, as is my way. I wipe the floor with wet paper towels to remove the dust and the crumbs and the rubble from everyday life. Jack waddles over and lays on the ground with me to watch. I let him wipe a few spots. He takes a piece of something and walks it over to the garbage can. Smart kid. He sweeps with the broom and swiffs with the Swiffer—although not very effectively, that will come in time. His pants are gone, and it’s possible we haven’t changed his diaper in many hours. I’m pretty sure it’s a Tuesday now, and that time is no longer linear, but it could be I just need to eat dinner. I click on a million websites to see what’s going on — a lot and also nothing at all.

It’s dinner time, and we can’t remember if Jack had a quesadilla or macaroni and cheese for lunch, but we’re pretty sure it was a quesadilla, so we make him macaroni and cheese. He approves. The neurons in his head tell him it’s time to wind down. The laptops are closed. The parents are picking up toys and clothes along with pieces of their sanity here and there.

Jack plays with turtle and octopus (plastic, not stuffed) and Nemo and Dory and whale and crocodile and a pig that sings La, La, La in the bathtub. “Bath time,” he says, and it sounds like “bath time.” Splish splash Jack is taking a bath. We read his bath book, and without warning, he transforms into a Splashosaurus Jack—a terribly dangerous splash monster whose only satisfaction comes from creating massive bathtub wave pools and soaking the closest available parent.

While the tiny toddler tyke puts up a good fight, the jam-jam-pajama-jams are successfully wrestled onto his body along with a globiddy-gloo’s worth of moisturizing baby cream. Phew. The lights are low, and the rain is falling now. The TV is off, and an adult dinner is simmering on the stove. We read pieces and parts of a book called Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, and then something a little more serious called The Pout-Pout Fish Goes to School as Jack rifles through at a furious pace. We spend a few minutes staring at his favorite page in That’s Not My Dragon, for which the neurons will not allow the page to be turned in fear that it will never appear again. He is smiling and giggling and squealing and jumping from Mom to Dad, who each sneak in a few tickles here and there because they just can’t help hearing that laugh. Jack is a rambunctious, wild little man, and his little toddler belly is full of laughter and joy. ”Bloooobiddy blummmm blum bladumdoo,” he says quite seriously while pointing at a wall. “Of course,” we say, “what an excellent observation.”

With a kiss and hug and a song and cuddle, Jack is snug as a bug in his cozy sleep sack suit, clutching his blankets and ready to dream about whatever a tiny toddler tyke dreams. We can’t complain … not even a bit. Not even at all. Jack is a happy little guy. In the morning, he will find his bocce ball set once again, and we’ll play this record back. And for now, in the midst of all this strangeness, we are content that our family is safe, and we thank those who make sure the world goes round even when the world itself seems a most frightening place. Goodnight Jack, see you in the morning.

Instead, the hands spin round and round and land on random digits that may be close but not quite—perhaps to reflect our own bleary-eyed warped sense of time as we wander the night as zombie-versions of our old selves.

Our five-month-old son Jack is crying and thrashing and squirming his mini-body in his mini baby-bed that lies in between Amanda (my wife and his mom) and me. Our regular adult queen-size bed is precisely large enough to fit all three of us—as long as Amanda and I sleep like number two pencils and do our best not to move a muscle.

Lately, Jack has been sleeping in short, restless fifteen-minute bursts … this week. Last week he was a champ, sleeping for many hours in a row several times. Next week, who knows.

I carefully post up on an elbow and watch as he brings his chunky baby fists to his enormous blue eyes and begins rubbing aggressively. As his co-sleeping mates, it’s difficult for both Amanda and me to ignore the rustling little man beside us.

Our instincts command us to pick him up at the first sign of trouble, telling us that if our tired bodies refuse than clearly, we don’t love him enough.

“This is what happens. He’s a baby ... and as far as we know, every baby is different,” explained our old-school-cool pediatrician.

With a fondness for faded tennis sneakers, an impressive collection of dad pants, and a consistently prickly gray beard, he was the clear winner in the pediatrician sweepstakes we played a few weeks before Jack was born. “He’s the one,” said Amanda,”I like him.” He’s the kind of guy who no matter how many neurotic questions you have he will simply laugh it off and say “your baby is perfect, he’s fine just the way he is.”

At each visit we find ourselves poking and prodding him with long lists of sleep-related inquiries as he pokes and prods Jack, assuring us that our pocket-sized dumpling with his three chins, an enormous belly, and silly giggle is doing just fine, even if he doesn’t sleep so great.

With a practiced look, he assures us that “a baby can’t self-soothe their way back to sleep until at least six months of age. You’re almost there. Keep doing what you’re doing.” Apparently, we’re not quite ready for the infamous and sometimes controversial phase of sleep training. Not yet.

Together, my wife and I nod our heads respectfully, even though this piece of information runs counter to the emergency baby sleep book (there are thousands) that Amanda bought at the recommendation of a recent Instagram post by one of her most trusted reality television celebrity friends. We continue nodding and silently agree that it may not be the appropriate time to bring this up.

Keep doing what you’re doing. OK. So … according to our current nighttime baby sleep routine that would mean …

Current Nighttime Baby Sleep Routine (Based on Science and Other Stuff)

Step 1: Since you’ve not yet stumbled upon the notion of preventing a baby from mustering up a ‘second wind’ during the evening hours, you should definitely continue to play peek-a-boo, make loud noises, and perform squishy farting sounds to entertain your child even well beyond the last feeding.

Step 2: Once baby is properly riled up, and the eternal flame of your soul is about to extinguish forever due to extreme exhaustion and the classic mistake of eating too many crab rangoons on takeout night, you should probably start the process of beginning to consider how to get this baby to bed.

Step 3: Change baby’s diaper and dress him or her in a fresh pair of jam-jams while conveying the sternness of the situation through a neutral and unloving facial expression that shows you mean very siriwiss bizness—there will be no more play play tonight. If perchance baby smiles directly into your heartless face while staring lovingly into your eyes, do NOT reciprocate, even when it feels like you are most definitely being a serious meanie pants.

Step 4: Because your baby is essentially brand spanking new, unspoiled, and as close to ‘how nature intended’ at this very moment, it is vital that you enact a rigorous, nightly skincare routine to introduce all sorts of chemically-infused, possibly organic, assuredly-not-natural lotions and toxic creams into their perfectly designed and until now, uncontaminated human body.

Bonus Tip: If said baby has a drooling issue, in which water flows, churns, and discharges from their mouth at a rate faster than the most treacherous of meandering river channels, be sure to lift each of his or her chinny-chin-chins up one-by-one and apply a very generous portion of Aquaphor healing ointment to properly combat that pesky chin rash.

Step 5: We’re rounding the corner now. Turn the lights off. Set the humidifier to full blast. And begin to pray as you snuggle baby over your shoulder and perform the bounce, rock, bob, and weave routine of your choice. Even better, turn on those sweet, soothing melodies you found of Led Zeppelin and Tom Petty tunes that have been ‘lullabied’ for the sole purpose of hornswoggling tiny little tykes off into a deep sleep.

Step 6: Once baby has finally dozed off in the comfort of your arms, the binky is still, and your legs are about to crumble from fatigue, it’s time to gently place baby in their mini-bed, which should be properly inserted into the crib facing the mounted camera security monitor system.

Step 7: The very moment when baby senses that, once again, you are selfishly abandoning him or her, their brain (compliments of that brand new internal highway of neural pathways) will send out an all-hands-on-deck alert that intensifies with every inch you lower their body downward. Culminating in a full and total wake-up upon making physical contact with the mini-bed, the process ends with you shoving the binky into baby’s mouth and running for the door. Do not feel bad, this is an official protocol, based on science, and other stuff.

Step 8: If after performing Steps 1-7, you find that you were successful, proceed to the couch and turn the television on to watch either Celebrity Big Brother or whatever the latest Netflix documentary on serial killers happens to be.

Alternatively, you may also grab a bag of Doritos and stare at a wall, if you so choose. It is vital that you DO NOT engage in such activities as personal hobbies, lovemaking, food preparation, laundry, woodwork, cleaning or personal hygiene—your body does not have the capacity to perform such actions and you should do so only at your own risk.

Step 9: As baby is not ‘super pumped’ about being in one room and Mommy and Daddy being in an entirely different room, they will most likely wake up crying every twenty to thirty minutes. When this occurs (and it will) simply repeat Steps 5-7 as many times as necessary (probably a thousand, or so).

Step 10: When you and your significant other are ready for your own bedtime, baby will understand, somehow, that it is perfectly acceptable to continue not being ‘super pumped.’ Per the standard protocol process, the parents should rock, paper, scissors, shoot until one bleary-eyed loser must (quite dangerously) remove baby (while still laying in the mini-bed) from the crib and carry them (this is definitely a No-No listed on several warning labels) to the big people bed in the big people bedroom where baby can be plopped down in between the parents for the remainder of the night.

(The end of the 10-step routine)

When our quirky, fun-loving, I definitely go to Jimmy Buffet concerts on a more than regular basis pediatrician said “just keep doing what you’re doing,” I’m not entirely sure if he was fully aware of all ten-steps of our sleep routine or maybe just had a general idea that we were probably doing something at least okayish.

At the moment, Jack is still rustling. It would be great if we could tell him to just chill out, dude. Relax. Roll onto your side and go back to sleep. But babies don’t work like that, and just like grown adults, they usually don’t respond to words like dude, or chill.

And so, using his razor-sharp wolverine-nail-cat-claws that we either forgot to trim or chose not to trim (because it’s just about the scariest baby maintenance responsibility a parent must perform), he attacks his eyes and forehead with everything he’s got.

It’s … concerning.

Jack is a beautiful baby boy, a fact that has been confirmed by everyone we know, including Ph.D-level college-educated specialists who have spent their lives dedicated to studying babies and how good looking they may or may not be. This is an entirely unbiased, matter-of-fact, authentic piece of knowledge that everyone from random pedestrians to our favorite burrito delivery driver to our own family and friends has confirmed over and over.

Its indisputability has been made abundantly clear.

That being said, this tiny tot of ours has without a doubt inherited his father’s cursed ‘bubble boy syndrome,’ which has plagued me for all of time. Unfortunately, not only does this mean that his pale, see-through Irish skin will automatically reject such things as direct sunlight and pleasant excursions to the beach, but that it will also scream in silent agony over stuff like dust mites (those microscopic scoundrels) and pollen.

If, it turns out, that he is anything like his father, the list of somewhat concerning allergies may also include additional items such as coniferous tree; deciduous trees; garden gnomes; bushes; soil; heating vents, indoor areas; outdoor areas; nature; cats; carpeting; dogs; stamp collections; leopards; weaved baskets; some rare birds; styrofoam; sea life; air (go figure); squirrel pelts (seriously); comfortable sweaters; blankets; and most everything else on planet Earth.

While we do not yet know (although signs are pointing to a definitive yes) if this affliction will be accompanied by an eternally leaky nose, constant sneezing, and the catching of deep, bone-chilling colds on the regular, we do know that the temporary baby dermatitis on his head is more than a bit frustrating. It stinks to watch him clawing away at those itchy spots time and time again—especially at three in the morning.

Tomorrow, we’ll awkwardly hand him off to the nice teachers at daycare with a few passive words regarding our parental nail trimming neglect and a shrug of the shoulders, scampering away for another eight hours while hoping there isn’t an anonymous tip line to report parents for nail trimming-related infractions. There could be.

As a new parent, I’ve learned that being tired all the time is not nearly as bad as it sounds, but it’s also not fun and can be kinda horrible sometimes, too. Confusing?

And Jack, well he’s a super cool dude. He’s chill. His head is enormous and growing even bigger without fail—like a hot-air balloon attached to a tiny basket of a body. His smile will melt your heart no matter how many times you’ve seen it. And when he’s excited he squeals like an adorable and shiny river porpoise—happy to see you and ready to play.

In short, we are very lucky parents. And like almost every parental unit has claimed throughout the course of time, it’s absolutely impossible to quantify how much we love him—because that number doesn’t exist. Sentimental, I know. But nevertheless, the truth.

As a bonus, he seems to have been born with complete autonomous control over each of his eyebrows. I’m assuming this skill will come in handy if he ever decides to become a professional wrestler or just some normal person who enjoys confusing people with asymmetrical expressions of intrigue—so that’s pretty great, too.

I get up this time. It’s possible that Amanda got up the last three times and so I feel like it’s my duty as the Dad who tries to somehow keep pace with the Mom to snag this one.

Don’t worry, I clean rooms and change stinky poo-poos and do all sorts of things, too. But, since Jack’s birth, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how tired I am or how much I think I’m contributing to this tandem parenting partnership, that Amanda has always done more and is always somehow a thousand times more tired than me—even though she would never admit it. The very act of breastfeeding every three hours is proof of that.  

While kneeling awkwardly on the big bed, I remove a squirming Jack from his mini-bed, which is aptly named a DockATot. I can’t remember if it’s branded as a luxury mini-bed for babies or if I made that up because it seems preposterous that babies have access to mini-beds with bowling-lane bumpers they can bounce back and forth between all night.

Plenty fun to say aloud, the DockATot is marketed as a cozy, co-sleeping space that ‘reinvents the womb’ while also offering its own microclimate. It’s really quite nice.

“This tot is docked!” Is a witty catchphrase we’ve both said many, many times after proudly getting Jack down for a nap, which typically lasts between seven and thirteen minutes, on average.

How could we not love saying something like that over and over again? It’s amazing. And also makes it sound as if the baby is some sort of significant section of a space station that requires a complex docking process during which any number of a thousand possible wrong moves can occur.

Which, funny enough, is actually not too far off.

Amanda’s most recent strategy, after rocking Jack back to sleep in her tired but strong Mom arms, is to insert him carefully into the DockATot while maintaining a hard press against his body, her arm still underneath his back, her heart pressed naturally against his chest, thumping to remind his sleeping body that all is well.

And hold.
And hold.
And hold.
Disengage.
Press the arm downward and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiip it out fast and smooth.
Step back.
Start breathing again.
Don’t look.
Simply lay.
Like a number two pencil.  

Right now, I have a lot of work to do before I get to that stage. With Jack in my arms, I rock left and right, I bounce him up and down. Now right then left. Down then up. Repeat over and over until I hit a rhythm. Until it becomes a waltz performed in the darkness to the hum of a noise machine … the swoosh of the heating vents … the light snoring of the new neighbor who now sleeps on the opposite side of our bedroom wall … my own breathing … Jack’s crying.

We rock and bounce and shush. The shushing sounds like it should.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ...

Of course, ‘shush’ in baby talk means either ‘please’ or ‘for the dear love of God’ or ‘I really can’t handle this anymore, and I may be watching my brain melt out of my nostrils and into oblivion so please, please fall asleep.’

And so I shush. I bounce, rock, bob, and weave. My eyes adjusting to the darkness, enough to calculate distances to bed corners and doorways and any other objects that might consider attacking my shins or face for no good reason. The waltz transitions naturally into a two-step, then into a jig, or maybe it’s a foxtrot—it’s difficult to tell.   

Jack squirms some more to let me know what he thinks of the shushing. His eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping yet. I increase the intensity, doing my best to discover the exact pace and pattern of movements that will transport him to slumber town—that magical land where a baby can dream of chugging breastmilk and pooping all day without anyone fussing over bibs or diapers or wet clothes or applying creams and ointments to patches of dry skin across his head.  

But he’s not there yet. Something isn’t working. I might be bobbing when I should be weaving. Or breathing too heavy, or maybe not enough. Perhaps at this moment in time, factoring in the local tides and the new super blood wolf moon, with an emphasis on the current gravitational pull and the recent dip in the stock market, I should be considering the influence that this winter’s below average snowfall might be contributing to his wakefulness at this very minute.

The right sequence is a real tough nut to crack.

Not impressed, a wriggling Jack begins to engage in another newish move he has recently perfected. Using his tiny hands (that somehow also look like enormous catcher mitts), he removes the green binky from his mouth and looks at it as if to say: “what is this bullshit?” He waves it around and around in a circular motion, generating speed, his eyes still half shut, winding the binky up as if it were a discus to be launched into the night sky.

Those enormous blue eyes whiz their way around the room, feeding his baby brain with the information he needs to quickly calculate distances, measure obtuse geometric angles, and apply the complex algorithmic genius necessary to accurately toss a binky into the nether regions where it shan’t ever be found again.

I watch helplessly as he launches that great green binky into the air and across the room. It bounces off this and that and other things—I don’t know because I can’t quite see anything at all actually, let alone a projectile binky that up until now was the focal point of my get this baby to sleep strategy.

It’s long gone now. The binky has disappeared. It’s possible that Jack dispatched it through some sort of mini black hole that his little genius baby mind conjured up out of thin air, transporting it deep into the multiverse or perhaps sending it off on its own interdimensional field trip where I can no longer detect or comprehend the binky’s existence.

A more likely scenario: Jack skillfully hucked it—like a rock smoothed by the rolling of waves over time and ready for skipping—across the room and into the shady underbelly of the bedroom dresser—just out of arm’s reach and gone for now, but maybe not forever.

There, the binky, personified and in the process of becoming self-aware, will begin a new life living amongst a community of other binkies that have suffered the same fate.

Eventually, it will come to realize that post-baby life isn’t so bad after all. Sure, it’s dusty, and there’s not much to do under the bedroom dresser. But occasionally, when the adults are at work, and the baby is away at daycare contracting hostile viral eye infections and seasonal colds capable of producing his bodyweight in mucus, you get to come out and play.

Stretch your binky legs. Grab some hummus. Watch some daytime television. Perhaps even venture out into the real world while slowly coming to the conclusion that maybe you’re the newest animated star in a computer-generated Pixar movie about your new lifestyle and the wacky hijinks of your new binky crew.

While I’m sure that’s the case, it doesn’t change the fact that Jack is still not super pumped about something. And it’s the middle of the night. And I’m tired. And my body hurts. And I’m a weak, weak human being compared to the sneaky woman sneaking up behind my body so sneakily like a lady vampire who makes no sound but is also really good at taking care of babies.

Amanda takes Jack in her arms, and after a few laps around the bed, all of a sudden everything is right in the world again. In a few moments, Jack is safely docked and whistling away his tiny little baby snores. His patches of ruffled red skin on his forehead and above the ears are left alone to settle down for the time being.

We lay our tired bodies down like number two pencils and drift off to sleep before the workday surprises us with its impending and most unwelcome arrival.

In the morning, we will take another go at sedating Jack with as much breast milk as it takes to buy us enough time to trim those sabertooth nails of his. If we’re lucky, we’ll clip and file one or two of them down to a level close enough to agree that they look okay enough for now. We will work and make food and do laundry and put gas in the car and take showers and clean rooms and fold clothes and fill humidifiers and change diapers and wash dishes and maybe do more or at least half of all those things that never stop needing to be done.

And in between, Amanda will somehow read a few more pages from whatever sleep-training book we once bought on Amazon and decided to dust off next. I’ll drag my tired legs around the apartment and collect the binkies from underneath the furniture, once lost and forgotten, but found again and boiled until they’re ready for the next midnight stroll to slumber town.

I’ll watch as Amanda, the engineer, requisite handywoman, and self-appointed person in charge of all construction-related apartment activities removes our trendy and fashionable timekeeping device from the wall. While sitting comfortably on our fern-patterned Ikea chair, she will crack open the back panel of the clock and expertly replace the battery. “Oh,” I will say.

In a few weeks, everything will change again. Jack—destroyer of modern-day swaddling technology; the Houdini of dual-zipper swaddle-like nighttime batwing flight suits; and evader of any and all nurturing bedtime clothing designed as close to perfection as possible—with the minor exception of not being an actual womb nor a Mommy or Daddy—will begin sleeping in his crib for the very first time.

Not only that, but he will do so through the night ... for many hours ... several times in a row.

Eventually, we will begin the process of not sleeping like number two pencils. Forging new stretched-out positions in which arms and legs and torsos are allowed to expand outward and even shift from side-to-side without thinking twice. Our bodies will greedily adjust to the extra sleep as if this was how it had always been.

And like I said, being tired all the time is not nearly as bad as it sounds, not when you get to hang out with a cool little dude you get to call your son. A perfectly tiny thing with a perfectly wonderful smile. I don’t know how he will sleep next week or the week after or the week after that. But for now, we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing, and that should be just fine.

After a long night, a full morning, and a medley of medical staff strategies and push positions, we all declared an end to the long slog. It was time.

And so, to help us complete the final reveal of our very first nine-month long magic trick, the doctors, nurses, and midwife escorted Amanda and me into a room prepped for surgery, plopped us down behind a curtain and … presto chango … alakazam … and abracadabra!

A baby appeared. We named him Jack.

Smiling through her surgical mask, the lead magician in charge — who happened to be a kind-hearted, jovial woman with a medical degree — lifted something up and over the threshold.

Voila!

There he was, our own little snuggle muffin caked in goo and more than just a little surprised by his new surroundings.

The magical assistants applauded. Amanda and I rejoiced. Jack cried his first cry.

Upon his arrival, those first few hours brought feelings of triumph and moments of pure joy. The experience of childbirth was so unlike anything else that had ever happened to us that it barely felt real.

And yet it was.

Together for the first time, we huddled as a family of three. Jack safely and expertly nuzzling his way into the cavernous crook of Amanda’s collarbone. My arms around them both.

Text messages poured in with congratulations and well wishes. Hands were shook, and hugs were had. Forming a queue, doctors, nurses, and family one by one assured us that Jack was absolutely and without any doubts whatsoever … the most adorable baby to ever be born.

It must be true.

It was a circus of happiness. Excitement hung in the air. A new generation begun.

Many hours later, as the grande finale ran out of steam, the messages stopped pouring in. Nanas and Papas and Nonnas and Peppers and Boos and sisters and brothers and cousins and friends said their goodbyes and marched their way home.

Even the adrenaline, depleted and faded away, left us to the exhaustion and sleepiness that had been there waiting to claim our bodies all along.

That evening, after what felt like only a few passing moments of sleep, there was a knock on the door of our new room in the maternity ward. Her name was Linda.

Hi, I’m Linda.
Hi Linda.
I’ll be your nurse today.

As it turns out, exhaustion is no excuse to remain sleeping indefinitely when you have a tiny tot to feed. Not when Nurse Linda is knocking on your door with Jack safely in tow from the nursery aboard his mobile bassinet, in search of his next meal now that he was unplugged and set loose upon the outside world.

Our unbudgeable baby was now ours and ours alone. Except now, instead of Amanda’s body making all the decisions and performing all the hard work while we kicked our feet up on the couch and left behind whatever we once categorized as a ‘tough day,’ it was up to us to figure things out using our own bodies and our own brains.

And according to Nurse Linda, we were just getting started.

Nurse Linda’s Terrific (But Also Terrifying) Baby Boot Camp

If I have learned anything, anything at all about the nurses who patrol the maternity ward, it is this: they love babies. All babies. And as such, it is their sworn duty to mold new parents into the most capable of caretakers in the few short days and nights they are given to do so.  

And of course, they do it with a lot of love and laughter along the way.

But still …

Our temporary barracks at the maternity ward began with a suspiciously smiling Nurse Linda and a formal introduction to the demands, schedules, and tallies of her impeccably detailed and expertly organized whiteboard.

This was our baby boot camp, and it was a very serious place to be:

“Look at the board. Here is my name. I am Nurse Linda. Later, a new nurse will replace me. But don’t worry ... I will always come back. Always.

Look at the board, Matt.

These are the tests that must be completed before Jack can be discharged. The forms to be filled out. The lactation specialist. The doctors. The midwife.

The whiteboard is law. It tells you what needs to be done. Always check the board. It will guide you.

Look at the board. Every time Jack poops, put a tally on the board. Every time he pees, you put a tally on the board. Never forget and always remember … sleep while you can.

And Matt, be a good partner. Support your partner. If she’s up, you’re up. I will be watching.”

While it seemed simple enough, it was not.

In fact, the first lesson I learned was that I had no idea what I was doing — a recurring theme in my time here on Earth. All those books I scanned, the blogs I skimmed, the classes … and yet, my mind was blank.

To comply with my new life and the person now running it, I made a practice of nodding whenever Nurse Linda spoke or instructed.

Up.
Down.
Smile.
Nod.
Repeat.

Nod to prove you are awake. Nod to prove you are paying attention. Nod even if nobody is speaking in your direction or at all. In fact, better to nod at all times, even if you find yourself alone in the room — just in case.

Sleep while you can. But never fall asleep while holding the baby. Look at the board. Eat. Hydrate. Attempt personal hygiene between feedings.

When the baby poops … add a tally to the board. When the baby pees … add a tally to the board.

When you poop … don’t add a tally to anything.

No stranger to being in charge, Nurse Linda packed our basic training regimen with a variety of cruel and invasive sleep deprivation experiments, parental survival training classes, and a long series of never-ending physical and mental drills that would poke holes in our equilibrium and explore our capacity for self-preservation — I even had my own cot.

Day and night, our threesome remained sequestered within the four walls of the maternity ward room learning the ins and outs of effective breastfeeding positions, textbook latching methods, and detailed instructions for safely securing the mother-baby milk-transfer process.

It was there in that room, hunched over the adjustable overbed tray table, that I practiced (over and over and over) assembling and disassembling the components of the breast pump and its many essential accessories.

Nurse Linda at my side, blowing her whistle to signal another round, timing me with her stopwatch in the middle of the night, with the lights off, with crying babies and visiting guests to distract me. Over and over and over and once more ... until I got it right, dammit.

Until I could do it in my sleep.  

Ever hear of colostrum? Me neither. Grab Jack’s toes if he falls asleep while feeding. Rub Amanda’s feet. Stay awake. Look at the board. What’s next?

Throughout our ongoing exhaustion, we were taught and tested on a range of operational procedures and systems: traditional diaper changing tactics, the execution of proper wiping techniques, established methods and best practices for swaddling.

Not to mention complex stratagems and contemporary theories for dressing Jack in his eight-button, standard issue hospital onesie and indoor baby hat without hurting his delicate frame.

We scrubbed, shampooed, and burped. We wiped, washed, and cuddled.

Our new daily grind slowly became routine. Nods of approval were earned. The barracks remained tidy and neat. We were surviving.     

And Amanda was doing great. Incredible actually.

Her superhuman will to recover quickly from major surgery simply because it was ‘an inconvenience’ was inspiring and very much in character. But post-surgery recovery was not easy. It was difficult to move, rise, walk, eat, sleep, shower, think and everything else that falls under the category of routine human tasks.

Let alone feed a baby.

Not only was Amanda the only one capable of producing food and nourishment for little Jack, but as newbie parents, we soon learned that meant she would be feeding him every two to three hours. It seemed impossible.

And what’s worse, the clock starts at the beginning of each feeding — leaving precious little time for anything else in between, other than passing out and maybe stuffing some food down while you can.

It was an intense and rigorous schedule. We learned to eat while sleeping. To sleep at the drop of a hat or a dime. To live our lives one nap at a time.

To aid her in every and any way possible, Nurse Linda dubbed me ‘the runner’ — a support specialist whose duty it was to perform the commands of the officer in charge.  

Whether it be morning, noon or night, I was responsible for transferring Jack from the bassinet to Amanda for all feedings. I would engineer and arrange expertly folded and positioned pillows around their bodies to support them as they bonded and transferred nutrients from one to the other. I would wait at the ready, at her beck and call.

And rub the feet. Always rub the feet.

I would run to and from the snack room and back a million times and then some to fill-up enormous water bottles, collect mountains of ice chips, and create experimental concoctions of juices containing mixtures of cranberry and apple and grape. The runner runs. Round and round and round.

And so I did.  

Wash the pumping tools in warm water and soap.
Clean and maintain the room in an orderly fashion.
Order the food from the cafeteria.
Rub the feet. Rub the shoulders. Rub the neck. Keep rubbing.
Order the pizza. Order the salads. Order the chocolate cake.

The feedings kept on coming, an endless stream of needs announced by the nurses’ bugle call relaying the signal that yet again it was time already.

Morning, noon, and night it went. A marathon sprint.

Our life had become a carefully constructed and sometimes chaotic ballet of constant movement around the room — with Amanda and Jack at the center.

Patterns formed. Duties fulfilled only to be begun again. A dance of intricate necessities to the tune of Nurse Linda and her flourishing conductors wand instructing my movements and responsibilities, either in person or through a voice that had burrowed itself deep inside my head.

We were becoming a unit. Amanda, the fearless leader, learning to call the shots. Pointing. Directing. Feeding. Recovering. Showering. Eating. Walking. Hosting. In short, doing all the hard work. Oh yeah. And also ...

Falling in love.

In the middle of it all was this wonderful bundle of joy we were learning to keep alive. Jack, a wrinkly little man, sometimes resembling a turtle, fragile but sturdy, curious but still frightened … the beginning of our next adventure and living the very first days of his own.

Over time the whiteboard tallies showed a little boy who could both pee and poop plenty. And one by one the tests were crossed off with success. The birth certificate filled out. The forms completed.

A perfect little bundle indeed.

Goodbye Nurse Linda, Goodbye Baby Boot Camp

During our time at baby boot camp, I survived, somewhat surprisingly, on a series of daily egg salad sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria. Those sandwiches were my lifeline, a reliable feast in a vast desert of underwhelming selections and unhealthy assortments of fast food and subpar soups.

When learning to keep a baby alive and well, one cannot rely on soggy pizza nor an endless supply of molten lava chocolate cake. One can only eat so many salads.

As the days passed by, our new status as parental unit in charge of things began to set it in for real. Confidence levels increased. Abilities had begun to form and develop. In short, we started to feel like we might even be capable of doing this raising a baby thing all by ourselves.

Amanda was up and walking the halls. One step at a time. Slow and steady. Jack by her side, pushed along in his mobile bassinet by his Daddy. A family of three. Their first leisurely stroll. Sure, it was disheveled and done in hospital issued nightgowns, but a stroll it still was.

Around in circles we went, doing our best to navigate the ward without accidentally setting off the baby tracking alarms installed to shoo away any attempts at baby thievery.

Although, we certainly set it off at least once, maybe twice. Only to quickly scurry away.

Soon enough, I no longer felt completely terrified by the act of holding a small, tiny little peanut man in my arms — an act I had been avoiding my entire adult life.

After only a few short days Nurse Linda had made sure I was a professionally trained baby holder. Swaying Jack this way and that, calming him but mostly myself with the comforting rhythms of the back and forth.  

Throughout our training, the Nanas and Papas and Nonnas and Peppers and Boos and sisters and brothers and cousins and friends were ushered in and out of the room to stay and keep us company. To hold Jack and say ‘hello’ and ‘welcome to this world.’ To fall in love themselves and sit with us as they spoke and we watched through our tired faces.

Once feared, Nurse Linda was now looked upon with affection for her passion and care for both Amanda and Jack, and with gratitude for her lessons. Another unit prepared. She had done her sworn duty, once again.

And then one day … it was time for us to go. We had graduated.

Boot camp had come to its natural conclusion, and our support team decided that we were very much capable of keeping a baby alive and well, with love and tenderness, and only the occasional series of expletives, profanities, and naughty words to blow off some steam and recalibrate our sanity.

And also, the insurance was done covering our days surrounded by professionals and living just a hop, skip, and a jump away from a very handy nursery right down the hall. There would be no more pressing a button to have someone whisk young Jack while we took another nap.

We were getting kicked out.    

A Brief Panic-Inducing Misplacement of a Car and a Car Seat

After a four-day intensive boot camp, after all the grueling training courses and late-night and early-morning feeding fire drills, we were tired. And still a little scared. But finally ready to return home with the knowledge that we knew enough to get ourselves started, enough to keep Jack happy and fed.

We were ready for clean sheets, fresh clothes, and our own refrigerated foods and home-cooked meals. It was time to not only show Jack his new place but to expand my diet once again beyond the nourishment provided by the delectable five-star egg salad sandwiches I had come to love so much.

My compliments to the chef.

One by one the nurses and midwives and specialists said their goodbyes and good lucks. Neither Nurse Linda nor our threesome shed any tears, it wouldn’t have been proper. Our unit was shipping out in tip-top shape, and that was just the way she wanted it.

Another job well done. Another family on their way. And another one waiting somewhere, ready for the molding to begin.

Jack was ready too. We could tell. After all the peeing and pooping and feeding and crying and sleeping within the close quarters of the maternity ward room, he was looking forward to finally sleeping in his own crib (or whatever swing or chair he would approve of) in his own home.

As the hours of our discharge day passed, the forms were signed, the appointments scheduled, last minute instructions deployed, and well wishes dispersed. Cheeks were pinched, and emergency snuggles were had by all. There was just one final task. One last duty to be performed.

As the runner, the husband, the father, it was up to me to fetch the car seat so we could strap Jack in and hit the road.

There was just one problem. The car seat was in the car. And the car was parked in the parking garage. And the parking garage was not a place I had visited for several days. Even still, I was pretty sure I could remember where I had left it, roughly at least.

It couldn’t be that hard to find a car. Our car. Could it?

Turns out, it can. And it was.

Sleep deprived and disheveled, I left Amanda and Jack alone in the room, now clean and empty, our bags packed, the two of them sitting together as I promised them a car seat and a return trip to the city and our apartment.

I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.
I said those words.
They came out of my mouth.
I was certainly not back in fifteen minutes.

Firmly believing that this final act would be nothing more than a very standard car retrieval, I grabbed as many bags as I could, slipping them over my arms, generously draping both sides with the heavy luggage, gear, and personal belongings we packed up that morning.

Besides, I was more worried about installing Jack into the car seat.

Would I know how to correctly put him in? Would he fit? What if the nurses didn’t like the way I did it? Would they make me practice before they let us go? That’s a lot of pressure.

And then, what about putting the car seat in the actual car? What would that be like? Is there a safety inspection team that monitors the process? To make sure Jack is indeed in good hands? Safe? Secure? Well-parented?

As I waddled and wobbled my way over to the first in a long series of elevators, it was immediately clear that I had overestimated my own strength and ability to carry so many bags such a long way.

My poor arms already buckling against the weight. The bags flailing left and right, leaving me to play the part of an unsteady anchor swaying in the wind like a lunatic as I apologized to the strangers I stumbled into.

To make matters worse, the parking garage was located at the far end of an intricate maze consisting of long hallways, tiny elevators, and winding staircases. It was a course designed to quickly eliminate the weak minded and faint of heart, to discourage those who didn’t commit hours to memorizing the passage back from the maternity ward.

The journey was a lot like playing the beloved childhood board game “Chutes and Ladders” — this time in real life. The obvious absence of ladders and the overabundance of chutes made it difficult to maintain my confidence as I navigated onward, or what I thought was onward.  

Wrong turns meant backtracking and attempting course corrections in real time and on the fly. Mistakes were made, sending me in circles as I chased my own tail and swore at my own blunders and miscalculations.

Where do I go?
Left?
Right?
Up?
Down?

At times the directional signage was unbearably unclear and more than a little absurd.

Unbearably Unclear and More Than a Little Absurd Signage

Go to the yellow wing of the hospital and take the eastern elevator to the third floor. There you will meet a bearded man wearing a charcoal colored overcoat and bowler hat with a pet rabbit name Sneakers. He (the rabbit) will challenge you to complete a series of ancient riddles in Yiddish that must be answered correctly before moving on to the northwestern corridor where you will then engage in battle with a small but fearsome pack of squirrels trained in the martial arts and who are known for not taking prisoners. And yes, they will be armed with nunchucks.  

If you are still alive, which you probably won’t be, take whatever bags you have left and proceed to the southern gate. There you may ride the purple elevator down eight floors to the rope swing and fire pit course. If you are so lucky to survive, please do not forget to pay your parking ticket, and beware of the alligator — he has not been fed in quite some time.

Thankfully, by mustering all my physical gifts and mental prowess, I managed to survive the ordeal, even despite a terrible fear of riddles and a few close calls during my battle with the squirrels.  

Unfortunately, the alligator did get my left pinky — he was just too quick. I will miss that finger very much.

Once I made it safely (and mostly in one piece) to the hospital parking garage, it turned out that the worst obstacle by far was still ahead. Upon my arrival at where I thought X would very much mark the spot, all I saw was a big … fat … empty … space.

Our reliable used 2012 black forest pearl Toyota RAV4 was nowhere to be seen. And it was there, after defying impossible odds merely to locate the parking garage, holding a silly amount of baggage, my body perspiring and my clothes soggy, that I began to panic.

The car is gone.
The car contains the car seat.
The baby needs a car seat to go home.
The car seat is gone.
How could this happen?

I knew, from past experiences and self-made oopsies in which I have faced equally disturbing, shocking, and seemingly impossible situations, that remaining calm and applying practical decision-making skills wouldn’t help me in the least.

Instead, I chose to let the panic in.

Heck, I was already sweating profusely, my heart beating too many times per minute, and still running on the fumes of Nurse Linda’s sleep deprivation experiments — I was clearly due for a good panic attack or at least some medium-level crying alone in a corner somewhere.

There along the wall where I parked was a sign that said ‘Valet Parking Only.’ How could I have missed that? A large print painted in yellow. Of course … I had been towed.

Our beloved chariot was roasting away in the August heat somewhere, most likely abandoned and lost in the forgotten fields of an expensive charge-by-the-minute tow lot. Probably sitting next to a faded metallic red Geo Tracker with no windows and an ancient pair of bygone Toyota Camrys, each with over 200,000 miles and long ago picked apart for scraps.

How could this have happened? Things were going so well. And now, I just wanted a latte and to go home. To eat a pizza with egg salad sandwiches on top and maybe some Cheetos. And most of all, to not be wandering around a town I did not know in search of a tow lot I did not want to visit.

But it was a Friday afternoon and the day was passing us quickly by. I had to solve this pronto and get back to my recovering from major surgery wife and tiny little newborn.

As I raced to find help, bracing the bags against my body and pondering if I would ever not be sweating at some point soon, I wondered if tow lots were even open on Friday evenings. Or weekends.

Would I have to buy a new car seat? A new car to put it in?

While bumping into my thoughts, each one produced by whatever the dumbest part of my brain is called ... each one less intelligent than the one before … I ran into a woman with a red shirt.

To my dumb luck, that red shirt had words on it. And those words said ‘Parking Garage Attendant.’

Are you a parking garage attendant?
(Silence and confusion) … Yes.
Can you help me?
I was actually just going home.
Here’s the situation.

I don’t remember her name, although I should have tattooed it somewhere on the surface of my body in honor of her heroic effort to help a desperate stranger in need of car location assistance.

Not only did she NOT think I was crazy (or maybe she did and kept it to herself), she took charge of the situation immediately. Without hesitation, she led me straight to the nearby valet parking station while expressing her utmost sympathy and telling me that everything would be just fine.

I’m pretty sure we don’t even tow cars here, sir.
Oh, really.

It was reassuring to hear those words, but until I actually laid eyes on the shimmering gleam of the black forest pearl, I would remain inconsolable.

The woman, speaking to the staff operating the valet rotary in front of yet another entrance and area of the hospital I had never seen before, explained my situation and pointed to me — the sweaty man with too many bags and a frenzied look about him.

Let me see your keys.
Here you go.
Thank you.

Without explaining, one of the men took my keys and started running at breakneck speed.

He was as fast as the wind … faster even. From our vantage point on the ground, myself, the kind woman, and the rest of the valet crew watched as the man ran up each of the parking garage levels — with an open style layout, the garage was both indoors and outdoors, allowing us to see him running from about the neck up, a single head moving at warp speed behind the concrete walls.

As he ran, he clicked the alarm button on the keychain over and over, revealing within minutes that not just any 2012 black forest pearl Toyota RAV4 was in the parking garage, but that it was ours!

Hurrah!

As he pulled our car into the valet parking station area just a few minutes later, I could feel the anxiety drain from every corner of my body, replaced with relief and thankfulness for these good people. Not only was the car not towed, nor lost, it had simply been misplaced and was very much available for a newly minted family of three’s return trip home!

To show my thanks, I tipped the kind woman and said ‘holy crap, I’m an idiot’ at least a dozen times. I tipped the man who ran like a bat out of hell. I tipped the valet crew. I tipped random patients leaving for the day as they exited the revolving door. I tipped the landscapers trimming the hedges and tending to the mulch beds nearby.

And finally, I placed all those ridiculous bags down in the trunk of the car, my arms falling to the ground like floppy, useless spaghetti noodles.

So … You’re Letting Us Take this Baby Home? By Ourselves?

Unperturbed and only slightly aware that I was gone for a bit longer than I had promised, Amanda and Jack were sitting together in their chair exactly where I had left them, cuddled and cozy, somehow managing to survive just fine without me.  

And as it turns out, the battalion of nurses, doctors, security guards, hospital executives, and representatives from the local government I assumed would be attending the first car seat strap in ceremony as delegates of the fictional hospital safety inspection team … was not actually a real thing that happens.

It was just us.

I strapped Jack in as he looked up at me with his enormous eyes resting peacefully within his tiny face, somewhat perplexed by this strange seat I was wriggling his little body into.  

And … that was about it.

Expecting a few more hoops to jump through, perhaps a last-minute surprise quiz administered by Nurse Linda and reviewed by a panel of judges, it felt odd to just pick up the car seat and walk out.

But that’s precisely what happened.

Four months and some change later, Amanda and I often find ourselves with our jaws dropped in astonishment, staring at this perfectly wonderful little man we created and whom she grew from the size of a poppy seed to an eggplant to a watermelon right there in her belly.

It’s quite unbelievable to believe that you could possibly be responsible for such a thing.

And yet, we did that.

On and on Jack grows, already sporting two fantastic chins, ten itty-bitty toes, a beautiful bald head, and a belly full of milk. His head, by the way, is enormous, his hands strong, his smile delightful, and his neck still hidden from sight — the doctor has assured us there will be a neck, eventually.

We drove home that afternoon, with lattes in hand to keep our blood moving and our eyelids afloat. Amanda in the back seat making sure Jack was OK and there to hold his hand as he cried for the first time in his life over frustrating traffic patterns.

We were a family of three, set loose in the wild for the very first time … together and left alone to ourselves at last.

Like all parents completely terrified that they’re going to screw things up, we took baby classes and read books and blogs and even managed to assemble the crib and install the car seat! Surely the more we prepped, the better off we would be. And by the time we officially had to turn in all our free time for a life of constant things to do, we would be a seasoned, well-oiled parenting machine ready to experience the drama free wonder of childbirth. That’s definitely how it would happen … without a doubt. Right?

Then there was the matter of our tiny little apartment. It would have to go. Or rather, it was time for us to say goodbye to our cozy, pint-sized little nook, with its raggedy old blue carpet, cheerful decorative Christmas lighting, perpetually troublesome plumbing issues, and ongoing barrage of never-ending upstairs neighbor noise. It was time for an upgrade, an expansion of space that would allow for the customary nesting process to begin its course — the official gathering of all the stuff we may or may not, and probably, most likely won’t need but better get just in case and because you just never know!

The extra bedroom addition at our new apartment located on the other, temporarily more affordable side of the city of Boston, would house not only a real live baby, but also all those neat contraptions, furniture trimmings, and baby gear, like a rocking chair and diapers and books and … wait, what else does a baby need?

Turns out, lots of stuff. Endless amounts of stuff. So much stuff that you could spend an eternity searching online and never even come close to finding it all. Not only are there the baby basics, you know, like tee shirts and onesies, strollers and car seats, burping bibs and blankets, but thanks to advancements in modern thingamajig, doodad, and gizmo technology, there’s a solution and product for every foreseeable baby catastrophe and minor inconvenience.  

Unlike the neighborhood birds, we wouldn't be building our nest with pieces of string or the leftover shards of styrofoam Dunkin Donuts’ cups or cardboard or any of the many wonders and unique treasures found in the city dumpsters — we would be using the time-honored tradition of a baby registry to stock our shelves, cabinets, and drawers with all sorts of baby-related things we had no idea how to use.

Upon receiving and scouring a very informative checklist from an all-star Mommy friend, we loaded up all the one thousand and sixty-three necessities that would become our baby registry. Did you know there exists a mechanical device made specifically to extract baby boogers from the deepest caverns of a tiny little baby nose? There is. Add it. Then there was the baby bathtub with the newborn hammock insert that takes a safety-first approach to scrub-a-dub time, while also providing a somewhat comical and casual setting for a naked wet baby to lay leisurely whilst looking ever so often at themselves in the adjacent mirror, legs lazily dangling from the sides, toes dipping into the warm water. Add it. Next item.

Swings, bibs, and burping cloths … diapers and wipes, so many wipes … hats and booties, socks and swaddles … nail clippers? Seriously, nail clippers? Add it. Screw it, get two. Do they still make rocking chair pads? Shampoo, triple paste medicated deluxe baby bum ointment and cream, organic baby coconut lotion, and good-old petroleum jelly. Tag it and bag it. A diaper pail. A diaper bag for her. A diaper bag for him. A diaper changing station. Diapers!

It was exhausting. How many binkies does a wittle bitty baby even need? Twelve sounds about right. An ultrasonic humidifier with a 24-hour fill tank and adjustable mist spray. We’d be fools not to. Add it. Baby sheets. Add it. First-aid kit. Add it. Bottles. Add it. Nipples. Not real ones. Advanced video monitor with two-way talkback, infrared night vision, and an interchangeable optical lens — umm … sure and wtf. A noise machine. A Rock N’ Play sleeper … a swing … a bouncer … a tummy time mat. And let’s not leave out the elite travel system: part stroller, part car seat, the travel system is the latest and greatest in baby transportation, fully loaded with one-pull harness tightening, energy absorbing foam, a sophisticated frame carrier, and a sporty parent tray for the iced-coffee you’ll be relying on to survive.

Once the easy stuff was out of the way, we made a frantic and wearying attempt to dissect the world of baby clothing — a process that bankrupted our sanity and devoured any emotional strength we had left. The sizes, the styles, the selections! Are we horrible parents if we don’t buy strictly organic cotton? Serious question, do babies wear pants? What are nickel free crotch snap closures? Bodysuits. Onesies. Footie pajamas. Coveralls. Overalls. Surely babies don’t wear overalls. They do! Add it.

And then the prints … foxes, elephants, bears, trees, mountains, stripes, lightning bolts!. Can you even handle the cuteness? No. Add it. Add it all. Good lord, there are some adorable baby outfits out there, and somehow your brain convinces you that the more organic, the more expensive, the more tasteful the onesie appears, the better off, safer, and more protected from the harsh realities of existence your future little baby will be. Add it.

As time passed, the baby room at the new apartment transformed from a blank slate to its coming together to oh wow, that’s a baby room. My wife, Amanda, who is no doubt a carpenter or construction site foreman in another dimension somewhere, assembled the baby crib ...  and then a pull-out futon daybed ... and then the nursery dresser … and then, to put the exclamation mark on my uselessness, drove to the local Target department store and bought the sheets and pillows. Following that performance, she found a bit of wiggle room in her schedule to read the car seat manual long before I was even aware what that new four-hundred-page monstrosity was sitting there on our bookshelf — available in twelve languages and intimidating even from long distances.   

As the baby room turned into a baby room, we followed along our favorite smartphone app — all the rage and pretty much expected of all new parents these days — counting the days as they turned into weeks and then into months, all the time learning how the wee little bambino was growing in scale compared to the size of common fruits and vegetables. Yes, that is correct. Fruits and vegetables.

From a teensy weensy poppy seed (ok, not a fruit or vegetable) to a sweet pea to a blueberry to a lemon to a peach! By week 15 it was the size of a navel orange, and then an avocado, a pomegranate, an artichoke, and a mango. Each week, communicating over the digital tablet video device app thingy, our four-year-old niece (who is awesome), would ask us what size the baby had grown to. When we explained that it was now as big as a very unspecifically sized stalk of cauliflower, she would abandon the call with a burst of excitement and race up the stairs to announce to her Nonna that the baby was now officially a calli flower, and also, what’s a calli flower?

From coconut to cantaloupe to kale the weeks kept coming, packed with new parenting tips and articles and what seemed like a continual stream of baby products and prenatal strategies and postpartum game plans that would determine how qualified we were to take care of a small human who depended on us for just about everything — no pressure. There was research to do and no time to waste.

We flipped through a gargantuan sized baby book given to us by a good friend to learn how Amanda’s body was changing and growing and turning into a badass baby making factory. The more we read, the more we flipped, the more we realized that I was experiencing far more pregnancy symptoms than she was. Anxiety - check. Constipation - check. Headaches - check. Mood swings - check. Insomnia - um, yeah. Cravings for ice cream and pickles - not new, but check.

Although it was her belly growing and expanding out into the world in all directions, we not-so-secretly wondered if perhaps it was I who was actually pregnant. Or that somehow my own body was so in tune with what was happening, and my connection with Amanda so strong, that we somehow were able to subconsciously transfer all the not-so-fun parts of the pregnancy ... subsequently giving me the opportunity to chip in, chin up, and take one for the team.    

As the pace of appointments with the midwife (yes, we got a midwife!) and doctors and ultrasound technicians became more rigorous, there were more than a few times we broached the subject of how best to explain this phenomenon of my unexplainable pregnancy symptoms to the professionals. Speaking of midwives, and contrary to popular belief, not all midwives are British or from the early 19th century — I really had no idea. Not only did we have a perfectly nice, highly qualified, slightly crunchy midwife, but she was from Ohio! No British accent. Just a regular person.

While the baby turned from an eggplant to an acorn squash and then into a zucchini, there were appointments and milestones and packets around every corner. Oh, so many packets. So many that we had no choice but to establish an official packet folder to house all these new reading materials. It seemed that everywhere we went we were handed a new packet bursting with critical information: vaccinations, immunizations, blood tests, insurance coverage, baby updates, sleeping positions, healthy foods, bad foods, and the list goes on into infinity.

Soon, our tidy kitchen bar was no longer a kitchen bar, but a makeshift podium with manuals and packets and pamphlets and baby books all turned to a page, all waiting for proper attention and completion. It was like finals weeks all the time, but you only had an hour to study each night after work. But mostly, you just wanted to lay on the couch anyway after half-heartedly reading a page about car seat installation or the benefits of hypnobirthing and watch television while eating ice cream or most of an entire bag of Doritos.

And yet, the pages turned. Sure, maybe we breezed through a few of them a bit too fast, skipped a page or chapter or an entire pamphlet once or twice, but for the most part, information was consumed and possibly even absorbed and digested for future use. Our brains were ready for something, whether that was becoming parents and having the slightest clue as to taking care of a baby on our own, well, that remained to be seen.  

To balance our studies, we participated in most of the usual activities that come standard during the pre-baby phase of the journey. We hunted far and wide for affordable daycare — which is a type of exotic creature that no longer exists, or if it does, much prefers to live a lonely life of solitude out there in the wild, unseen and unheard of by regular humans who were silly enough never to acquire nanny-level money before getting pregnant.

After much research, many visits, and at least several long sessions of leaving no stone unturned on local baby forums, social media pages, and internet blah-bidy-blahs, we found a lovely little sanctuary that promised to take care of our little one. Sure, we had to offer a blood sacrifice during the full moon, co-sign some student loans for some children we had never met, hand in the pink slip for our 2012 RAV4 as an enrollment placeholder, and finally, complete a short but rigorous obstacle course to prove our physical prowess within the set time limits based on our age and income. Is that really so much to ask?

The owner of the daycare center, a kind and quirky woman — the type you can tell is always moving a million miles a millisecond to keep her head on straight, as she is the sole ringmaster of a rowdy and rambunctious circus five days a week — assured us that we would most likely have a spot by the anticipated baby arrival date. Whoopee! Most likely! How promising. All kidding aside, the place was great, adorned with colorful walls, smiling happy staff (I’m pretty sure), and just enough messiness to know that some fun could be had there and it wasn’t just a place to stash your kid for the day — although it was that, too.

As I adapted to my new life of ongoing and persistent pregnancy symptoms, I had developed an odd, lingering sickness that resembled the flu in every way except for the fact that the numerous doctors assigned to my neurotic pleas kept telling me in no way at all, whatsoever, did I have the flu. I felt like I had a fever that would never break, and would ask Amanda over and over to feel my head and confirm that I was indeed running hot. No dice. It was just me ... alone in my theory that I was a sick man. Tired. Weak. Not quite right.  

Luckily, Amanda seemed just as happy and healthy as ever, still going to the gym every week and doing squats and burpees and upside down push up leg lifts or whatever other crazy superhuman moves her regular group of exercise friends did when they got together every Thursday night. Confident and able-bodied, she woke up and went to work every day, maybe a little more tired, a little less able to breathe normally, a little less able to peek over her belly and confirm that her feet were still there.

To her it was business as usual: cook food, eat healthy, sleep a lot, exercise, take vitamins … full steam ahead and no big deal. As the surviving bottles of wine in our apartment gathered dust, she replaced them with raspberry tea, kombucha, seltzers, and some sort of shrub concoction made of apple cider vinegar and pineapple, a decent stand-in for a Friday night cocktail.

Somewhere around the time that the baby was turning into a bunch of asparagus, Amanda organized and booked what modern culture refers to as a ‘baby-moon.’ Which, of course, with its clever play on words resembles a honeymoon — with the one major exception being that these would be our final moments and final days of romance and free time for the foreseeable future. Or so I was told.

Soon, we found ourselves ferry bound for the island of Nantucket, where we would spend the days wandering the beaches and gobbling down lobster rolls and fish sandwiches in the local taverns, me with a beer and her with a delicious, and very non-alcoholic mocktail that was hopefully something a tad more inspiring than lemonade and ice cubes.

One day, after renting some bikes and cycling over to the other side of the island — which turned out to be a bit further than we had initially first thunk — we discovered that the one and only sandwich shop, the one that came highly recommended by the rental bike agent, was by no means even close to being more than an abandoned little store with no signs of life and certainly no sandwiches. Turns out that there are many fine businesses and establishments on the island that don’t open until the busy summer months, and our babymoon, scheduled on the cusp of the season’s opening, did not make the cut.

Although hungry and sweaty, and Amanda also pregnant, not to mention stranded on the side of the island that did not have any sandwiches, we decided on a leisurely beach stroll before heading home to eat the first thing we could find. We walked, very romantically as I remember it, watching the waves crash along the shore, the birds diving for their lunch, and then at a pod of seals, popping their heads out of the water one by one, like a single file line of whack-a-moles bobbing their way down the beach. We took to the sand, sitting side-by-side, chatting and pointing and cherishing our time together before the baby would turn our family from two into three.

After many minutes of gazing outward at sea, I got up and gave Amanda my outstretched hands. It was, as the strong, formidably buff husband that I am, my duty to help a lady up. Unfortunately, something went wrong. In slow motion, as is the preferred speed for incidents such as these, I watched as Amanda went from almost all the way up to definitely slipping from my grip to yes, you just dropped your pregnant wife and she’s now falling back down toward the ground.

Being on the beach and all, the sand was there to break her fall. And although she was perfectly fine, I could have sworn I heard a laugh or two coming from the direction of the bobbing seals. Looking around to see if any of the offseason folk or pre-season tourists happened to have become witness to the farce, I offered my arms again, which were met with a doubtful look. The second time was the charm though, and soon enough, after a long and hungry ride, we found our way back to civilization, happy to rid ourselves of the bicycles, trading them in for a warm meal and tasty drinks.

The next day, having learned our lesson, we swapped the bikes for a Mini Cooper and managed to see the rest of the island in style: the beaches, the beers, and basically, what all the fuss was about … a beautiful foggy wonderland with some seriously New England-esque seascapes, streets lined with cobblestones, and some of the most charming and expensive looking homes around.

Wherever you turn, there’s something that looks almost impossibly perfect, curated houses with pristine lawns, decorative nautical ropes and buoys, and lighthouses … everywhere. And there was history. An oil industry. A whale museum. An atheneum (I think it’s a library). Then, of course, pastel fashion on display in every shop window, the latest in maritime streetwear that’s difficult to take seriously just about anywhere. And thankfully, after our failed sandwich hunt, we wolfed down a few days worth of some unbelievably delicious seafood.

At the completion of our perfectly peaceful midweek excursion, we were thoroughly stuffed, broke, and relieved (and almost surprised) I didn’t break the rental car. Happy and satisfied, we took the ferry back to the mainland, accompanied by our little bunch of asparagus and a pillaging horde of forty drunken (and still drinking) golfers, sunburned and boisterous, the perfect ending to our last bits of seafaring romance.

The summer months whizzed by, and suddenly, as if time had decided to skip ahead from the we have plenty of time to enjoy our freedom to the um, this is coming up fast, and our lives are over stage of the pregnancy, the baby had sprouted into a butternut squash.

By now, those who were at first flabbergasted, miffed, and absolutely astonished by the news that we did not want to know the gender, were now placing bets on the outcome. In fact, everyone had an opinion. Passerby on the street would stop us suddenly, grinning ear to ear, politely telling us after a meticulous evaluation that yes, indeed, it would be a boy. Family and friends were suddenly experts in calling the results … it’s a boy. You can tell by the shape of the belly … it’s a boy. I always guess right, every time … it’s a boy. Trust me on this … it’s a boy.

Measuring instruments appeared out of thin air: rulers, tape measures, levels … one person casually removed a protractor from their purse and performed an exceedingly in-depth analysis followed by the use of a calculator, a few personal questions, and then muttered what sounded like some pretty high-level algorithms only to boringly declare the same old foregone prediction: It’s a boy!

Surely, the aunts and uncles, the mothers and fathers, the nurses and midwives, the friends and co-workers could be wrong? At this point, it felt like our duty to defy them all by producing a little baby girl. But really, we didn’t care. As long as it was a healthy, happy baby … and not actually a coconut or large tomato, that would be just fine.

The months became weeks. A pineapple. A papaya. Romaine lettuce. By now my pregnancy symptoms had come and gone and my mystery illness, although still a mystery, was no longer. In those final weeks, Amanda began to know a few pregnancy ailments herself, with her swollen feet permanently wading in a makeshift foot bath of warm water and Epsom salt, her hip in constant and unrelenting pain, and her gigantic body pillow her only hope of a halfway decent night’s sleep.

We went to the final ultrasound, watching eagerly at the screen to see a squishy little face, as if our little baby boy or girl was pressed up against a glass door, sucking on a thumb, perfectly content with free rent, food, and oxygen — no need yet to even breathe on their own or worry too much or at all about anything in particular.   

The weeks became days. A pumpkin. A watermelon. And then … a watermelon, again.

Again? According to our smartphone app doodad, we had run out of fruits and vegetables. This was the end of the road, and that baby was staying put with no pressing desire to head for the exit and find out what would happen next. As the highly anticipated and very approximate due date came, went, and then said see ya never, we found ourselves two weeks past, and still the baby remained inside its little belly paradise.

Amanda, as they say, had had quite enough. She was ready to see her ankles again and be rid of the acid reflux that her previously perfectly healthy body had never known existed in the first place. And then, quite suddenly, the days became hours.

The Ripening

The freezer was stuffed with everything from frozen lasagnas to fried rice to waffles and stir-fries, and maybe even a pint or six of ice cream, for emergencies. The manuals were shut, for now. The packets and pamphlets put away. And the car seat properly installed and inspected by the local police department. The diapers and baby wipes sat at the ready. The changing table pristine and unspoiled. The humidifier plugged in. The travel system assembled and raring to go. There was just one piece of the puzzle still missing, hidden in the couch cushions or laying in stealth somewhere under the rug — the baby.

So, there’s no dilation.
Ok. What’s next?
Well, we don’t let you go past week 42.
Week 42, that sounds serious.
Well, it is.

We couldn’t reference the book any longer because there were no more pages. The smartphone app was assuredly confident that the baby would remain a watermelon until he or she, at the very least, had exited the womb. And our fun-loving, quirky, somewhat crunchy midwife from Ohio, was on vacation, in Ohio! Where was the manual, the pamphlet, the instructions for this part of the pregnancy? Our replacement midwife explained as vaguely and unspecifically as possible what would happen next.

You could call for an appointment to induce.
Ok, what does that mean?
Well, you’ll get things started.
Ok. When?
It’s up to you.
Really? That doesn’t seem right.
Just call to see if they have an opening.
Like, an opening to have a baby?
Exactly.

It seemed confusing, and after months of attending a very precise schedule of appointments to help us move along the baby making continuum with health and happiness intact, all of a sudden we were apparently playing it loose ... free to do as we pleased.

How would you like to proceed?

While we weren’t really sure, as there was no defined next steps or fluorescent blinking arrows pointing us in the right direction, we decided to call the hospital and make an appointment.

I’m sorry, we don’t have an opening today.
Oh, ok. Tomorrow?
You’ll have to call again.
Oh, ok. I’ll call again.

What the baby book should have said — with a few extra pages added at the end for those of us who needed to choose their own adventure — was that when your baby doesn’t come on time, or at all anywhere near the due date, that eventually you will have to follow the standard protocol for babies who stay inside the womb forever. Which goes like this:

Step 1: Call the hospital for an induction appointment.
Step 2: Get rejected, there are too many babies coming out that day.
Step 3: Wake up really early the next day and call again.
Step 4: Get rejected, apparently nine months ago was a very busy time.
Step 5: Repeat Step 2, several times, until your official appointment many days later.
Step 6: Attend appointment, finally learn what happens next.

Now, while we did have an official appointment (as I pointed out in Step 5 above), it wasn’t for many days later. And later meant closer to Week 42 — a day in fact before Week 42, which previously, we were told was quite serious, which is why we kept calling, as they said we should because you know, the sooner, the better, probably.

While I woke up in vain each morning, rejected before I could even say hello and how do you do to the maternity ward’s front desk, our official induction day eventually arrived, and we were able to proceed with Step 6 of the standard protocol. Not quite knowing what would be happening, if we would maybe even be having a baby in the next few hours or perhaps that day, or if we were even staying over or would maybe be invited back tomorrow, pending the nurses liked us and were able to save us a broom closet to continue this ambiguous induction ceremony everyone kept talking about — we brought everything.

And by everything, I mean the kitchen sink was the first thing we packed. We had pillows and tablets, laptops and speakers, clothes for days, baby outfits, a stack of fresh magazines, e-readers and phone chargers … sandals, shoes, and an essential oil machine. Our hospital go-bag had become a matching set of hospital go-luggage. Tissue boxes, toiletries, and tea bags. The list went on.

But better safe than sorry, right? And we, the well-oiled parenting machine, were aptly prepared for one heck of a prolonged labor. Swimsuits for the maternity room bathtub. Books and pamphlets for various breathing and stretching positions. Lavender and lemon scents to establish a calm and nourishing environment. Music to lighten the mood. We were ready to experience the wonder of childbirth in a secure, comfortable setting of our choosing. An experience we expected would reveal itself organically, and while not planned down to the minute, would offer the opportunity for us to creatively engage the challenges that would arise with the confidence, knowledge, and tools we had spent the extra time, effort, and money to arm ourselves with. That’s definitely how it would happen, without a doubt.

Upon meeting our induction nurse and settling in — with our luggage remaining for the time being in the car — we learned all about what was finally happening next. Amanda would be taking a medication that would do its very darnedest to ripen her cervix. Yes, you read that correctly. A cervix can be ripened, like a fruit, softened enough to allow for dilation to occur, finally making way for the baby to swim head first toward his or her final right of passage out into the great big world.

We also learned that cervix ripening was mainly a spectator sport. And so, while induction day had finally begun, our only real job was to sit and wait. Approximately every three hours and on the dot, the nurse would knock, enter, and after explaining that our baby was, of course, going to be a little baby boy, would proceed with a systematic inspection of the hopefully ripening cervix.

Turns out, the cervix was just about as stubborn as the baby. And so we spent the day popping medication, reading books, having cervixes inspected, and taking one-hour walkabouts around and through the hospital to ‘shake it off’ and ‘loosen things up’ before getting back in there for another dose. I should note, that this marked the beginning of what would become a long list of friendly nurse faces and personalities ready and willing to barge right into Amanda’s private places and ‘have a look.’ It was quite a learning experience, to say the least. One day your vagina is all your own and the next, it’s part of a group discussion, on display, and up for grabs — the very center of the team huddle. No big deal!

After a solid 12-hour day of cervix ripening and inspections, the nurses sent us packing with an invitation to return the next day and start all over again. We could even use the same room, as the broom closet was apparently filled with brooms, and not adequately prepped for medical procedures. Ever confident, cheerful, and good-natured, Amanda was, as always, rising to the occasion and taking the instructions and news as they were delivered in a no biggie, we’ll deal with whatever we have to whenever it happens kind of attitude.

Her head has always been screwed on the right way, while mine, well I’m just happy to have a head no matter how screwed up it can be at times like this. And so we left … tired and tuckered out, ready for a good sleep and another attempt early the next morning.

Or so we thought.  

The Panicking

We did make it home. All thirty minutes of the trip, with no traffic, back to our apartment in the city. As I recall, right around the time we pulled off the highway, Amanda was pretty sure, that indeed, something that possibly resembled what could be a contraction, was definitely maybe happening. Ha. Wouldn’t it be crazy if we had to turn right back around, right now? But how could that happen? We were tired. Ready for bed. Weren’t there rule about these things? Like no going into labor when you’re already absolutely exhausted.

What is it?
I don’t know.
Hmm. Well, this is interesting.
I’ve never had a contraction before.

Much to our chagrin, all qualified cervix ripening inspectors were now thirty minutes away, and every piece of advice concerning contractions on the internet machine said things like ‘the experience is different for everyone’ or ‘trust me, you’ll know.’ Still perplexed by just about everything since the baby book ended, the app failed us, and our midwife set sail for the shores of Ohio, we sat, and we waited. Fortunately, we did not have to wait long. And unfortunately, holy bejeezus, we certainly did know when the contractions hit.

One moment, we sat in discussion, doing our best to tease out a strategy for what maybe was happening. Do we call the on-staff midwife for instructions? Should we have bought a birthing ball for pre-labor stretching? Do we have any cookies?

And then, as if an invisible bolt of lightning came down and struck poor Amanda somewhere right in the belly, she was writhing in pain on the bed, shouting and squirming for relief from whatever the heck it was that had just possessed her body. As contractions do, it came to a stop. And then, as contractions do, it began again, and not with much of a break in between.

Now approaching 10:30 at night, it was approximately one and a half hours past Amanda’s standard bedtime. To say that it was not exactly an ideal time to begin the labor process was an understatement. We were looking forward to a solid ten of slumber and shuteye before getting down to business once again.

But, as we quickly learned, babies don’t work that way: there is no schedule or manual or pamphlet once things really get going. Once the button is pushed, the thrusters engaged, and the course set, the whole event becomes a practice in letting go of all expectations. Of taking things one step at a time, and doing your best to remember even a shred of anything you were taught, read, or wanted to have at the ready to help you survive the whole thing.

And Amanda, whose cervix must have entered some sort of supersonic speed ripening phase (although I’m still a little fuzzy on the details), was in the process of skipping right over the beginning stages of labor. Not to mention all those hours we imagined spending in the comfort of our home, doing breathing exercises and yoga stretches, counting down the contractions until the appropriate time to make our way back to the hospital.

Instead, the bolts of lightning kept up a steady pace of arriving sooner rather than later, with not a lot of time for lighthearted chats in between strikes. Within fifteen minutes, Amanda transitioned from wow, that was something to holy mustard, that shit is real to catatonic and entirely unable to utter even a single word because the pain had become so great. Now a one-man decision-making team, I quickly realized that all the brain power we had between the two of us, of which, I’ll admit, was typically distributed unevenly in her favor, was running solo on the fumes of whatever I had operating upstairs after a long day of discussing cervixes and eating gourmet hospital ravioli.  

The first step, I determined, was to call a priest. Because there was no possible way that what was now occurring in our bedroom was anything other than the complete possession of Amanda’s body by a real nasty asshole of a demon. That sucker would have to go pronto, and for that, we needed a few barrels of holy water and a guy dressed in black robes with a white collar, preferably trained in combat and possibly able to also deliver a baby just in case that happened too.

As I didn’t know any priests, I instead called the midwife currently doing rounds at the hospital. I tried my best to explain to her what was happening and eventually settled for putting the phone on speaker so she could hear it for herself. She said things using words and language, and I may have understood, although probably not, it’s difficult to recall. I asked questions and tried to remember what I was supposed to be doing other than being completely terrified and useless.

That’s good. That’s really good.
Are you sure?
Yes. She’s doing great.
She is?
Yes.
So we should come to the hospital now.
No, not yet.
Really?
Just keep counting and call me back.
When?
You’ll know.
I will?

All I could think of was that there was no way we would even make it back to the hospital and that if we tried, we would soon be on the morning news. The latest couple that couldn’t make it to the hospital in time and had to have their baby delivered in the middle of a highway by a team of firefighters on their way back to the station from a false alarm.

I kept counting the contractions, and in between the contractions … the whole time not really knowing if I was doing it right or why I was even doing it in the first place. What I saw and what my brain told me was that my wife had skipped over most of the pre-labor process and was ready for a medical team to slap me on the back and say,’Don’t worry kid, we got it from here.’

And that made sense. My wife is efficient and used to taking care of business on her own terms, a no time for nonsense kinda lady. If anyone would have the audacity to skip right to the end of this insanity and squeeze this baby out without first taking the time to repeat our birthing mantras over and over again, or practice visualizing positive outcomes to the tune of Enya or some other soothing background soundtrack, it was Amanda.  

Already having believed that I had waited too long, I called back one more time before doing my best impersonation of a wheelbarrow and dropping my wordless and writhing wife into the passenger seat of the car. She was a brave woman, tough as nails, and experiencing a level of pain I had never known or seen in another human being. I drove much too fast, putting the pedal to the medal like an unqualified man behind the wheel of a car being chased, giving him permission to bend the rules a bit in an attempt at a lifesaving escape.

Adrenaline was rushing, as it does. Amanda clutched the door handle, her only support during the constant impact of incoming contractions, her body convulsing in anguish and shock. Me, stupefied and unable to assist in any practical way other than delivering her safely to the hospital, which, thankfully, I did. After twenty minutes, the bright red lights of the emergency room lit up the night sky like a beacon of sweet relief — we had made it, safe, sound, a bit worse for wear, but nevertheless ready to queue some jazz flute and get on with the show.

Wheelchair Doug

Assuming that rules no longer applied to us, I hastily parked the car directly in front of the entrance in a position that was not exactly appropriate or one that could not be described as not being in the middle of the road. As I scrambled across to Amanda’s side, a pair of hospital staff, looking a lot like they were leaving for the evening after a long shift, recognized my distressed state and immediately rushed to our rescue with a wheelchair in tow. That was when we met Doug.

I’m Doug.
Where to Doug?
This way.
You’re a real lifesaver.
Actually, I’m an MRI technician.
Oh, cool. Well, thanks.
Sure thing. Know what you’re having?
Not yet.
It’s going to be a boy. I can tell.

As wheelchair Doug pinned the boy tag once again to our unborn child, he heroically weaved a path through the emergency room and down a corridor that looked suspiciously off limits and perhaps under renovation. Tools and ladders were haphazardly laying about. An area roped off with caution tape.

Not quite running, but moving forward with some real vigor and hop-to-it-ness, I couldn’t help but notice that we had taken more than a few turns … some lefts … some rights … some straight-through-the-swinging-doors and around the corner. And that quite soon, if not already, I would be at least one very tricky labyrinth away from ever seeing our car again.

After all, during the tour many weeks ago — the one where we learned about where the snacks were and the importance of ice chips, and that the apple juice and in fact, all juices, were free of charge  — we had parked on the complete opposite side of the hospital in the easily accessible parking garage.

This was new territory for me, and yet, as I analyzed my own neuroticism in real-time, I understood that somehow, wheeling my poor wife into the hands of the professionals waiting in the wings of the maternity ward was much more important than the safety and security of our recently paid-off, used, low-mileage, 2012, black forest pearl Toyota RAV4. And so it was time to let go, get a move on, and focus on the now.

A perfect gentlemen, Doug was like a ballerina with a wheelchair, pirouetting past nurses and important looking doctors, maneuvering in between fancy looking medical equipment, lost children, security guards, and abandoned stretchers — he twirled us through corridors and hallways, up an elevator, across a lobby, and then down another elevator. There was no telling where we were, whether now twelve floors deep underground or towering into the sky at the penthouse level — let alone if we were even in the same building we had entered such a short time ago.

With the front desk abandoned at this late hour, Doug plunged us through the doorway of the top secret, very secure, and always on lockdown for obvious reasons maternity ward using his handy-dandy badge. I imagine we pulled up much like we did at the emergency room, our body language saying it all, help us! We need help. My wife is possessed! And help came. As Amanda was rushed into a room for an immediate assessment and assistance, Doug and I said our goodbyes.  

This is it.
Wow. Thanks, Doug. Seriously.
It was my pleasure.
Do we hug?
We could. But let’s not.
Right. Well, thanks again.

The Pushing

When having a baby, one thing you notice right away is that the nurses and midwives and doctors are all perfectly calm. Your wife may be laying there on the bed, her limbs contorted and moving in odd directions, her groans shattering your heart with every plea for relief. And yet, here these people are, calm and collected, going about their business like a woman in labor was nothing more than a spreadsheet that needed filling out or a line of code that needed to be written. Not to say that they were heartless; certainly these people were among the kindest and most caring I’ve ever met — I doubt there are many who do this work who don’t feel a passion and sense of extreme satisfaction, as their day job is much, much different than most.

As midnight approached, Amanda’s cervix was officially deemed ripened, dilated, and ready for action — well, almost. Whether by protocol or by mercy, the maternity team installed us in the official birthing room for a brief inspection followed by a series of short cat naps as we waited for the next stage. Amanda was given medication and made comfortable, her pain easing a bit until finally, the anesthesiologist arrived with the good stuff. And the good stuff she got.

It’s one thing to start labor with a mild contraction and a good old break before the next one. To have time to gather your wits, remember the next steps, call the hospital, start your counting, and settle in while you gradually get used to your body turning into a giant squeeze bottle. But that didn’t happen. Amanda never even graduated to the actual birth inducing medication, the stuff that comes after the cervix ripening phase. She went from zero to sixty in a matter of minutes, the pain taking her body over as if it had been waiting there the whole time, crouched in the shadows, eagerly waiting for Amanda to drop her defenses to unleash all hell in one single and all-out assault.

As the nice medicine man went about his business, we requested a shredder, a barrel, and some gasoline be brought into the maternity room. It was time to say goodbye to our birth plan in style. We needed first to shred the plan to pieces. Then, to ensure its demise, watch it go up in flames with the help of a good old fashioned barrel fire right there next to the bathtub we would not be relaxing in and the birthing ball we certainly would not be using and the pile of luggage we brought, packed with unread magazines and a very unused essential oil machine. There would be no birthing mantras today.

While shredders were not exactly banned, apparently barrel fires were not only frowned upon but illegal anywhere in or outside the hospital. We would have to settle for folding the birth plan into a paper airplane and launching it out the window. Waving goodbye as it sailed deep into the night, perhaps found eventually by another pregnant couple somewhere, wandering the streets and in need of a one-page list of events they would prefer to occur at the birth of their child but most likely, and in all reality, definitely would not happen.

Drugged up and resembling a woman no longer experiencing the most extreme pain of her entire life, Amanda dusted herself off, smiled to the room, and happily welcomed the newly assembled team of nurses, the midwife, and me — who, if listed in the credits at the end of the movie, would be: Guy Who Held Left Leg and Blew His Nose the Entire Time.

While I was somehow able to navigate my way back through the labyrinth that was what had to be the most confusing hospital layout in the modern world — all without Doug’s assistance — retrieve the car, park it legally in a garage, and find my way back to the maternity ward with our childbirth luggage ... I did forget the box of tissues. Which was, unfortunate. Since approximately two days ago, my nose had begun a steady course of cycling every single ounce of fluid within my body out and through my nose. It was not fun but also not surprising that my body had identified the most inopportune time to initiate such a distracting inconvenience.

As the morning hours approached, and the first sunlight began to crawl over the horizon and into the night, the lead nurse instructed us on the game plan … it was time to push. With maybe a few hours of sleep under our belt, energy levels were minimal, confusion was high, and the realness of it all was increasing by the second. Tired and shellshocked, we were having a baby.

We’re having a baby.
This is so weird.
The weirdest.
You ok?
Yeah.
You.
Definitely.

Nurses shuffled in and out of the room, adjusting the baby monitoring machines and wires, tinkering with medications and IV drips, and watching as I not so subtly blew my nose over and over … and over again. I was certainly on the receiving end of more than a few sideways looks, my nose roughed-up and red, the see-through fluids or mucus or whatever it was at this point exiting my body like an unplugged fire hydrant releasing a singular wave of goo and slime. The tiny trash barrels were piling up with the sandpaper tissues provided by the hospital, which, apparently, were custom-made to shred the inside of any nose to discourage further use or waste.

The midwife, who just a few short hours ago was nodding her head through my smartphone, propped Amanda up into different positions with pillows and leg adjustments, bending limbs and body parts as if preparing her for a very awkward portrait. Like any great painter, she would step back to frame the scene with her hands, taking a moment to assess her work before fiddling with it once again or making a minor improvement.

Amidst the controlled chaos, we watched from the eye of the storm as this whirlwind of activity occurred around us: a million miles away from cervix ripening and casual chit-chat, Amanda was thrust on stage and right to the end of the act without much time to rehearse. With each new nurse or midwife or doctor the same prediction was heard again and again, as if there was some sort of universal agreement between all the people of the world, among family and friends, strangers and hospital employees who had never once met in real life, that of course, this not so little bundle of joy we were attempting to coax through the birth canal could be nothing other than a perfectly happy little baby boy.

And then, once we had gone around the room and made sure that all participating hospital staff were in agreement on the baby’s gender … the pushing began!

The thing about pushing is that it’s not just pushing. What was clearly also absent from the birthing classes and the baby books and packets, was that there is actually a technique to pushing that nobody really tells you about until you’re called upon to do it. The act of pushing, I think, is typically something thought of as easy to understand: you move something forward with your own effort. And yet, this was not that.

For hours (although sometimes it felt like days), Amanda would assemble her body into different postures and positions, following the advice and commands of the team as I transitioned between holding her left leg, blowing my nose, and racing back and forth between the Purell machine, hoping that if I showed vigorous attention to my hygiene at least, that nobody would kick me out before the big moment.

And so the pushing continued, taking its toll on Amanda’s body and mind as she weathered the storm with great courage and physical strength. Her reserves apparently filled with endless amounts of each even as our baby defiantly stayed put — a rebel down to the very last minute, outright refusing to be evicted from what he or she believed to be their forever home.

Amanda charged on, breaking every so often to accommodate a team huddle, discuss a new position, or review once again the vague terms and puzzling instructions on how to ‘properly push.’ Eventually, with the return of Nurse Jane — our ripening nurse from the day before, and a personal favorite of ours — she found a rhythm that took us through the morning.

With her breathing on point and now proportionate in skill to any advanced yogi, Amanda began shifting internal levers and finding new buttons to activate. She transformed from listening to advice to running with confidence the command center of her own body, setting in motion the kind of physical encouragement any baby would be crazy to mistake as anything other than a very polite but forceful request to come this way.

The hours passed by and still, there was no movement. It wasn’t that the baby wasn’t coming out, but that the baby wasn’t budging at all. Nurse Jane, with all her enthusiasm and energy and thoughtfulness was even beginning to suspect that our little baby boy — yes, even she, and probably more so than anyone, was counting on this little baby to have a tiny little wee wee machine — wasn’t coming out this way. She explained that sometimes this happens, that between pelvis shapes and sizes, baby positions and conditions, and who knows what else, that sometimes through no fault or lack of effort that babies just don’t budge.

Amanda was wiped, her body working on no sleep and still in shock from the trauma and sheer physicalness of everything that happened over the past 12 hours — her absolutely heroic effort going down in my own personal history book as the most awe-inspiring, remarkable event I had ever been witness to.

I doubt I could have done what she did at all. Let alone for so long and so close to exhaustion nearly the entire time. She was going to be a great mom, not just because of this, but indeed, this did count for something, an accomplishment that probably very few people talk about or get credit for or can even put into words after the fact. We sat there, still a team but she the captain and I the cheerleader with the runny nose and red face.

The Birthing

To help us finish strong, a newly assembled extraction team convened at the rendezvous point, which, of course, was the agreed upon headquarters of the day’s mission, Amanda’s vagina. I may have made a crack about starting to charge an entry fee that went over well with this new crowd, and was pleased with myself for doing so.

As they poked and prodded, we listened in as they discussed with us our options and best case scenarios. They mentioned tongs and talked about a possible vacuum-assisted delivery, but not enthusiastically or with the sense that it would be an easy no problem kind of procedure. And so, with the support of Nurse Jane, the midwife, and the extraction team, Amanda agreed it was time for a C-Section, time to bring this little boy (or girl, there was still a chance!) into the world and begin our new life as an exhausted, slightly-oiled, parenting machine.

From that moment on everything went by very fast. The team dispersed to prepare the operating room, gather their surgical utensils, and formulate the final game plan. Amanda and I said a brief goodbye as she was whisked away for some preparations of her own. And I, alone with my tiny barrels of trash filled with sandpaper tissues, was left to gather our belongings and trounce along to the next room where my surgical gown awaited my arrival.

And I’m happy to report that the rest of the story is quite boring, uneventful, and brief ... save for the actual appearance of our newest character. I dressed from head to toe in my very own blue surgical suit. Feeling quite important and taking the time to wonder what life would have been like if I were a doctor, I did my best to plug my nose with tissues only to be told that not only was that not permitted, but that upon entering the operating room there would be no blowing of the nose whatsoever, obviously. Ah, yes, obviously.

I joined Amanda behind the curtain, which protected us from seeing the realities of our mortality, with all the gooey insides of our internal mechanisms temporarily set aside for the removal of the baby. Perhaps not surprising, but still fascinating, we sat together and listened as this team of nurses and doctors bantered about normal everyday things, joking and laughing as if Amanda’s open abdomen was the water cooler for their 15-minute break in between shifts. Casual talk would be interrupted from time to time with strict medical instructions, agreements, and confirmations, which assured us that these folks were, in fact, medical professionals and not just a merry band of chums having a friendly get together over a baby and some major surgery.

Amanda, still calm and collected, waited eagerly as I stared back at her knowing that she would be perfectly fine but also praying for the outcome just the same. With my attention on her, I was brought back to the matter at hand with a sudden cry that sounded a lot like a little baby. And indeed it was, it was our little baby.

Take a look, Matt.
What?
At your baby.
You know, to tell your wife the gender.
Ahh!

Always one to be on the ball and quick on the draw, I stood up and was presented with a squirmy little human who looked more blue than rosy, sounded more confused than content, and was, in all its glorious goo, very much perfect in every sense of the word.

It’s a boy!!!

I yelled. Amanda smiled. The extraction team clapped and cheered. So after all that, all the measurements and predictions and foregone conclusions, everyone was right — our tiny little nugget was a little baby boy all along.

As our highly anticipated and long-awaited gender reveal party held right there in the operating room came to a close, part of the extraction team broke off and began an extensive process of cleaning and washing, weighing and measuring, assessing and assuring. They even let me snip off a very tiny portion of the umbilical cord during what felt like a very peculiar ribbon-cutting ceremony.

Finally, our squishy little man was ours, returned to my arms and meeting his mom for the very first time as she was expertly patched up and beginning the process of falling in love with this miniature little creature of cuteness. With our naming list down to just a few, the expression on his face helped us figure out the rest … this was Jack, our little baby boy. And all of a sudden, after forty-two weeks of waiting, our family of two turned into three, and our fearless wife and mama, who had just put everything she had and much, much more into the act of delivery, could finally rest … at least, for a little bit.

Yes, we dreamed of trading day jobs, bills, and a culture dominated by work work work for a more refined lifestyle of siestas and cheese samplings, sizzling pans of paella and rousing futbol matches, and, of course, as much flamenco dance as we could possibly endure. Swapping out our nine to fives for cafes con leche and a daily national nap time seemed like a no-brainer.

But first, we would have to get there. And to get there, we needed to do things that required working and planning and most of all ... effort. Having friends that had done this before, who had thoroughly researched, planned, and enjoyed the perfect honeymoon excursion, we knew the sacrifices it would take to painstakingly devise one ourselves. We needed to book flights, hotels, and rental cars. Read pamphlets and map out destinations, must-see sights, and those sneaky little non-touristy spots that make you feel oh-so-cool. We would have to put in the hours, scouring online forums and travel blogs to find those little hole-in-the-wall restaurants brimming with local flavor and experience. And we had to do it soon.

The weeks and months ticked by and still, we had not planned much, or rather, anything at all. Our dream of Spain was settling into just that—a dream. Life had taken hold once again with its routines and work and chores and all that boring stuff that makes it sometimes hard to plan for or even conceive of something out of the ordinary. For two people who really wanted to spend a few weeks in a foreign country, we certainly didn’t act like it. But then one lazy day in June, with the summer months knocking on our doorstep, Amanda announced that she had a very interesting thought to share—a very interesting thought indeed.

I should begin by saying that she’s never been a stranger to peculiar thoughts and perspectives and life ponderings popping up suddenly in her brain—as if it were no big deal at all to think up something strange and interesting. According to my historical records (which I do keep) here are a few examples of random thoughts that she has shared out of the blue and without any warning whatsoever:

“I love when people from Oregon are in Vermont.”

“Sometimes I feel like I want to get a bulldog.”

“I like to drive once a month, for no more than 20 minutes.”

“I dislike all rules and regulations.”

“I think I’m strong, but sometimes things are still heavy.”

“I’m so torn about waffle makers.”

“I feel like my signature is much better than your signature.”   

“I’m not going to take a shower, I’m just going to wash my feet.”

“I think this is a limited edition mustard.”

These insightful and delicious one-liners cause all sorts of reactions, from laughter to chuckling to moments of silence dedicated solely to much-needed contemplation. However, this new thought was different. It was a concept we had never spoken of, never once pontificated on, never even considered for a single second until that very moment. It wasn’t funny or peculiar or witty—at least not intentionally. But it did stop me in my tracks. It did make me think.

“We should get a travel agent.”

A what? A who? Say that again? Coming from a generation not accustomed to seeking or paying for travel vacation assistance, I had never once thought such a thing might be possible. After all, we have smartphone apps and price comparison websites to scroll through endlessly until our eyeballs fall out. We have social media brands and influencers, travel blogs, and an Internet saturated with reviews and opinions to help guide us to the perfect vacation destination. Surely travel agents were a thing of the past.

But let’s say this profession was not extinct. That one could, hypothetically, hire a human being to assist them with all their travel needs. That you could provide this professional individual with a few pertinent details regarding the location you desire to travel to and the activities that you would like to experience and wallah … instant vacation, minus the fuss. If so, where would we find such a person? The phone book? The World Wide Web? Or would we need to find one the old fashioned way by knocking on doors or asking the passerby if they knew of a good travel agency in the area?

Good afternoon. We’re looking to travel soon. Know anyone that can help us with that?

And people did. We consulted friends, family, and acquaintances who taught us all about the secret world of travel agents, very much alive, well, and available to assist us with our honeymoon aspirations and dreams. They explained how wonderful it is not worrying about booking tickets and hotel stays, of having all the little details ironed out by a professional long before your arrival. No need to fret. Relax! Put your feet up. Know that you are in the best of hands and that everything will be taken care of.

Before we knew it, not only were we convinced that this was the solution we had been looking for, but we were certain that a travel agent was the missing link in our goal to travel without doing much of anything ourselves.

Lazy?
Without a doubt.
Convenient?
Oh, you betcha!

With the goal of finally landing somewhere in Spain by September, we soon found ourselves sitting side-by-side across the table from a dedicated travel agent at our local AAA travel office. And that is how our next great adventure began.

Instructions for Visiting Your Local AAA Travel Office

To begin, a cheerful, good-humored man, most likely retired but who prefers to spend his time making people happy and participating in pleasant conversation, will greet you upon entering. While exchanging pleasantries, you’ll notice there are no less than three mustard stains decorating his stylish early-summer cardigan. No need to point this out. He knows. And it’s fine. Upon completion of the welcoming process (typically anywhere from 11 to 17 minutes), this cheerful, good-humored man will direct you to the sign-in sheet and the waiting area, which includes a total of four chairs located directly across from the help desk.

Please do not be alarmed by the long waiting list or the lack of available seating in the waiting area. This is all typical for a Saturday morning experience at your local AAA travel office. Many people would like to travel and require assistance to do so. You’ll have to be patient, like everyone else. Of course, you will under no circumstances have immediate access to a chair as those have been taken by individuals who arrived at a decent time, with the full understanding that the local AAA travel office closes at a decent hour, that being noontime.

In the interim, please locate a corner of the waiting area where you and your loved one can attempt to stand still and maintain awkward conversation for an undetermined amount of time. Being young and impatient, this might be difficult at first. If you find it so, you should feel free to browse the AAA travel maps, books, and pamphlets, which are readily available at the help desk. While visiting the help desk, you will find another cheerful, good-humored man readily assisting those who do not require a travel agent, but who are in need of services that include but are not limited to currency exchange, local insight and knowledge, RMV assistance, and the acquisition of AAA travel maps, books, and pamphlets.  

As you continue to wait, you’ll notice that the nice couple currently sitting with the travel agent has been there since you arrived and that those individuals occupying the waiting area have taken to checking their watches and smartphones in a display of mild frustration directed by the general fear that noontime is approaching rather quickly. Rest assured, you will certainly and by no means be seeing a travel agent today. We recommend that after waiting anywhere from sixty to ninety minutes, witnessing a minor car crash directly outside the AAA travel office, and developing a ferocious and insatiable appetite for pizza, that you return home determined to wake up a bit earlier next time and plan accordingly.

Upon your second attempt, rest assured you will experience this process exactly as it occurred during your first visit. However, since you arrived at a decent hour, you will have plenty of time to meet with a qualified AAA travel agent ready to assist you and your loved one with the creation of your dream vacation. Your qualified AAA travel agent will initiate the conversation by asking you several questions, helping us tailor the experience to your specifications as best as possible.

Please note that a qualified AAA car insurance representative, located two desks over, will be engaging in what can only be described as a very uncomfortable, heated face-to-face conversation with one of our loyal AAA car insurance customers. As you select and confirm the details of your dream vacation, including dates, destinations, and pricing options, this loyal AAA customer will shout loudly many, many times. They will raise their voice to an inappropriate level, threaten the AAA insurance agent using vulgar language, and refuse to leave the office a minimum of four times before storming out to chain smoke three cigarettes directly outside the window where you and your loved one are seated. Please do not be alarmed.

Congratulations! The planning phase for your visit to the country of Spain is near completion, and your dedicated AAA travel agent has all the details necessary to guarantee the trip of a lifetime. Your vacation package includes two days in the lovely city of Madrid, followed by a ten-day bus tour extravaganza across several major cities, during which your suitcases, meals, worries, and concerns will all be taken care of for you. That’s the AAA promise. For the end of your journey, we have booked another two full days in the coastal resort town of San Sebastian where you’ll have time to decompress on sandy beaches while contemplating whether or not you can afford to quit your jobs and remain in the country of your dreams for an indefinite period of time. Thank you for visiting your local AAA travel office. Please come again soon.

The Beginning of a Very Curious Adventure

Finally. We did it! Or rather, someone else did it for us, and that was A-OK in our book. We were going to Spain. It was happening. The dream was becoming a reality. And all joking aside, the experience with AAA was quite painless. Our travel agent was incredibly kind, efficient, and helpful. She took care of everything without breaking a sweat, all while smiling and making us feel comfortable even as that customer nearby experienced a full and thorough insurance-related meltdown. We were officially honeymooners.

In our culture, when people broach the subject of a honeymoon, it’s only natural that we conjure up that blissful post-wedding marital state of being, full of romance and adventure—two lovebirds taking time away from the world to begin creating or fine-tuning their own. It doesn’t require an expensive vacation or oodles of wedding cash, just a little bit of good-old-fashioned time alone. Maybe a leisurely stroll or two, hands clasped together, the promise of an intimate candlelit dinner, and those yearning expressions of affection bouncing from soul to soul and back again.

But we went all out. We exchanged a small down payment on a house for a two-week adventure in a country we would seriously consider never leaving. It was critical, I thought at the time, that we experience the maximum amount of romance, adventure, and international culture; this was the full immersion package of fun that would determine how jealous those who followed our Instagram accounts would be!

I quickly realized that this raised the stakes, that I expected perfection and nothing less, as if we had something more to lose even though all our money was already gone.

And so, in September 2016, Amanda and I stuffed our brand new shiny suitcases with the bare necessities, threw on our nifty AAA travel badges, and flew far away and across the Atlantic to the magical city of Madrid. We spent those first two days alone wandering the streets, hand-in-hand, exploring the nooks and crannies of the magnificent parks, contemplating timeless masterpieces at the local museums, and, of course, eating and drinking our way across the city and back again, as honeymooners tend to do. Our tummies were properly stuffed with tapas, our lips stained red with too much Rioja and Tempranillo, and our hearts made happy and full with the feeling that just about anything at all was now possible.  

Those two days passed by in the blink of an eye. Amanda was happy. I was happy. It was the perfect honeymoon. We stayed out until all hours of the night, soaking in the people and the culture—intoxicated by international travel and that feeling of your once dormant spark of life returning at the promise of adventure. We had barely even begun honeymooning, and already we had done and seen so much. Thank you, AAA. Thank you.

After properly introducing ourselves to the capital city, we were soon ready to attend the official bus tour orientation and commence with the next leg of our trip. There we would meet our seasoned tour guide and fellow travelers who, for the next ten days, would be our very best friends as we traveled across the country making memories and long-lasting friendships all along the way.

Orientation was hosted in a conference room located on the first floor of our boutique hotel, and we were not late, but rather, precisely on time. As we walked through those doors, I remember experiencing a shocking sensation, a feeling that shook loose the marrow in my bones.

An error had occurred.
Something wasn’t quite right.
This could not possibly be our conference room, not our bus tour.

But it was. An enormous, unmistakable welcome sign provided all kinds of information that indicated we were not in fact in the wrong room. My neurons sent out instructions to begin flooding my system with perilous quantities of fear and confusion. And yet, Amanda seemed unperturbed, unphased. She looked at me and smiled, adaptable as ever.

As I looked out upon the room, I saw a deep sea of grey and silver hair. We were not among our generation. We were among our elders and a whole bunch of them at that. Hell, we were surrounded, with little hope of escape. I desperately searched for signs of youth. Anyone. A couple our own age. Even just one would do. But there were none to be found. We were alone.

I wasn’t just freaking out; I was hard at work constructing the most horrific, world-ending personal catastrophe ever experienced by one-half of a honeymooning duo. How embarrassing. To have spent so much money and not even for a second suspected that you had unwittingly signed-up for some sort of premium bus tour catered to those of a certain age. What would people say? You did what on your honeymoon? With who?

As orientation came and went, I hardly heard a word. Instead, my mind hurriedly took to the important task of devising alternate vacation scenarios that focused solely on the idea of skipping the bus tour entirely.

We could rent a car.
Use the same hotels.
It would just be the two of us!

I told Amanda my plans, assuming she was thinking the very same frantic thoughts and experiencing the very same emotional turmoil that had my insides twisted around and upside down. Of course, I was wrong.

It will be fine.
Let’s give it a shot.
You’ll have fun.
Relax.

Remembering that I was the sole part of our two-person package responsible for freaking out, for catastrophizing worst-case scenarios, for immediately assessing situations incorrectly and assuming the worst, I took a deep breath and for the first time noticed I was holding something. There in my hand was a device. It was purple and had a dial and a set of headphones.

What is this?
That … is your whisper.
Ahh. A whisper.

That night, we boarded our bus for the very first time, joining our new crew for an early dinner of exquisite Italian cuisine in the wonderful, magical city of Madrid. As for the whisper, well that device would become my lifeline, the most vital link in the one-way communication allowing me to hear all the important, educational whisperings our tour guide had to offer as I followed along to the sites and scenes of our ten-day, bus tour extravaganza.

This is NOT a Vacation … This is a Tour

Dinner was fine. Yes, we received plenty expressions of astonishment, of confusion, we passed many furrowed brows and curious looks as we walked the aisle of that bus for the first time. But then we sat down to eat, and to my own astonishment, everyone was perfectly kind and wanted to learn all about how two kids from Boston ended up on a tour like this with people like them.

And before you knew it, some of the pressure was off. No, I was not entirely on board with what was happening, and perhaps that makes me a terrible person, but at least I was being nudged in the right direction by good conversation and the slow and steady process of getting to know good people.

I should state, in my defense, that I was just as worried about the opinions of our vacation crew as I was of the imaginary and non-existent people I had made up in my mind. Both concocted and real personalities who would undoubtedly take pleasure in judging us, thinking us total dimwits for choosing to spend our honeymoon in such an un-honeymoon like fashion. Not once, during that first day or two, did I think of the other possibilities. That it would be, could be, a wonderful experience. That we would meet people we would never have otherwise had the pleasure of meeting. And that this would end up being one hell of a story.

As the days passed and we settled into what we and I’m sure many other more experienced vacationers refer to as “tour life,” we learned all about the rigorous demands of the road. Our new friends, many of whom took immediately to Amanda’s charms and smiley nature, while clearly remaining a bit skeptical in regards to her fussy husband, explained to us the sacrifices necessary to maximize the vacation experience.

You see, a tour is not a vacation. A vacation is for the lazy. For the weak of mind and body. It is for those who wish to sleep when there are sites that need to be seen. A vacation is not a tour. A tour requires dedication and waking in the darkness long before the sun has risen. It requires each and every participant to be on time and on the bus and ready to roll. The itinerary is strict but fair. Do not be unpunctual; that would be bad. Don’t be the last to breakfast; that would be unseemly. Be prepared for your day. Bring snacks to carry you through to the next destination. Be ready for foul weather. Most importantly, never ever forget, this is not a vacation, this is a tour. And one more thing: be ready to urinate or do whatever you need to do whenever there is an available bathroom. The bus will leave you behind if necessary, so make it quick.

This bus tour crew was seasoned and efficient; they were veterans of the international bus tour circuit. The Australians and Canadians and the British outnumbered the Americans by far. Many of these folks knew each other before the tour or had met on previous tours and had become tour friends—joining forces once or twice or thrice a year to knock another country off their to-do list. We followed along and learned as best we could. From Seville to Córdoba to Grenada we went. Down cobblestone streets and through sword shops, cafes and restaurants and of course, the churches.

Church.
After church.
After church.

It was a honeymooners dream. One after another, each blurring into the next as if at some point we had entered some sort of alternate vacation dimension where only churches existed and nothing else. It was ... exhausting and fun and also I don’t think we ever need to see another church for the rest of our long lives—thank God for that.

But in between quality time with our bus crew, eating at highway gas stations for lunch, and learning about the various types of wood ancient church choir chairs are constructed of, we also had a bit of time to ourselves.

Amanda and I escaped here and there for our own little excursions; continuing our mission to hunt down each and every tapa available in the country, we ate and ate and ate. Abundant quantities of bread and wine were involved at all times and dreamy strolls with clasped hands were plentiful. In Valencia, we skipped out on a day trip with the group to a doll factory (yes, a doll factory) located a full hour outside of the city and did what we do best. Walk.

We walked all day and into the night; exploring the city, ambling down streets to see where they might lead, peering down alleys, poking into shops, and eventually making our way from one end to the other. We even found a beach! It wasn’t too difficult, Valencia being on the ocean and all. And soon we found ourselves dangerously close to partaking in an actual honeymoonesque activity when we threw on our swimming trunks, rented some chairs, and commenced with a healthy amount of non-activity, rest, and relaxation.

The next day, missing our friends and newfound bus companions, we happily reunited with the crew, who at this point had taken us on as the official kiddy mascots of this great Spanish tour. While exchanging tales of our adventures, it was agreed upon, by all parties, young and old, that future tours would do well to remove all doll factory related excursions from the official itinerary, as they are a complete waste of time and as one person put it, a total snoozefest. 

It was then that we learned of the post-tour review; a time-honored tradition, when individuals have the unique opportunity to share with the tour company their innermost thoughts and critiques. Upon returning home, with detailed notes and fresh memories, this competent cast of professional travelers would make it rain with friendly suggestions or seething remarks regarding their concerns and misgivings at every twist and turn along the road. It would be a time to proclaim high praise for the tour guides, but also for brutal honesty regarding the quality of the excursions and the services provided. It would be just the place to encourage the immediate removal, for the sake of future tour travelers, of any and all activities that proved to be dull or substandard. 

And so the trip continued. The more we traveled, the more these people turned into real actual people. They had stories to tell, rich family lives to discuss, and of course, questions to ask of us. We shared not only excursions across the country, but conversations over dinner and wine and laughter—soon we were no longer two young kids hanging out with the adults, we were simply friends, sharing an experience of a lifetime and making connections along the way with people we came to care about.  

Long gone were my thoughts of disappointment, of stupidity, and my fear of being teased by imaginary people for a honeymoon that turned out to be well worth a smallish down payment on a house. The bus and the itinerary and the waking up way too early every single day had all become a normal part of life. Gas station lunches weren’t so bad, at least not in Spain. And, as tends to be the case more often than not, Amanda led by example, showing me how to embrace and enjoy the moment, the trip, and the people—no matter how different the reality of things turned out to be in the end.

The days and cities and tiny little villages flew by and before we knew it we were spending our final hours with the bus tour crew exploring the streets of Barcelona, sauntering through Park Guell, and the church that Gaudi built, or started at least—la famosa Sagrada Familia. We stopped by the seafood stands and butcheries of the Mercat de la Boqueria, walked up an down the Las Ramblas strip, and listened carefully as our whispers guided us through the Gothic Quarter and down to the waterfront where sailboats and beachgoers painted a picture perfect scene of the renowned city landscape. We were one big happy family.

That night we had our very last group dinner. As it came to a close, one of the Australians gave a very heartfelt speech, not about the sites that we saw or the impossible amount of church pews we sat in, but instead he raised his glass and toasted all the new friends he had made and all the old ones that had joined his side once again for a bit of adventuring, if only for a short time. There were some promises of future visits and group email correspondence spurred on by the wine. There were hugs and cheers and plenty of last moments spent acknowledging what a fun time it had been and how fast it had whizzed by ... too fast, too soon. It was sad to say goodbye, but it truly was by far the best and most fascinating 10-day bus tour extravaganza we had ever taken.

The End is the Beginning

When you spend such a long time traveling with such a large group of people, it’s actually quite shocking when it ends. No longer are you a small part of a large traveling circus, but it also feels like someone broke up the gang. That just as you were getting the hang of tour life ... it was over. However, not being on a bus was its own treasure. As was not waking up at the crack of dawn or wondering if you would have the opportunity to relieve yourself within the next three hours or having more options to choose from than yet another pre-scheduled Italian dinner. We were free again to rule over our own lives.

Transportation was up to us now, and we had booked a flight on a teeny-weeny airplane to the sunny seaside town of San Sebastian, cradled comfortably in the corner of the Bay of Biscay, just a hop, skip, and jump away from France and the Pyrenees. We had entered Basque country, a place that referred to tapas as pinchos and had a long history of being their own kind of place that just happened to be in Spain for the time being.

With its white sandy beaches, crystal blue water, and cozy cobblestoned streets lined with cafes and surfside eateries, we knew instantly that it was a place we could live forever. We would learn to surf, of course. Pick up the language, eventually. And, dedicate our lives to a slower, more thoughtful pace of life, filled with lazy strolls along the river, afternoon siestas, and enormous helpings of the most delicious aceitunas and croquettes in the whole wide world. It was a good dream to have.

If only it were possible. Alas, we would not be staying indefinitely. Our honeymoon dream had come true, but we would eventually return home to our cubicles and everyday household activities, where we would be re-programmed to accept reality as it currently exists. We would go back to Boston, full of new stories and a refreshed perspective, back to our families, friends, and loved ones that make home the place to be.

We spent those final two days in Spain at the spa, the beach, and eating all the pinchos and drinking all the wine, as had become the main staples of our personal itinerary. Just two young honeymooners, enjoying each other's company on the tail end of a very successful trip. The tour had come to an end, as had the honeymoon. But our life together, well that was just getting started.

Aside from the occasional (sometimes frequent) murderous rant regarding the infinitely noisy upstairs neighbors, the recurring hordes of apartment dwelling insects, and the not so infrequent traditional flooding of the bathroom toilet, I have no complaints. It will be missed.

It is, after all, the first place Amanda (my wife) and I made into a home, together. It was bare bones and a little sad when we first moved in. The old, raggedy blue carpet stood out like a sore thumb. The drop ceilings were decorated with water-stains and the odd dent or two. The windows came armed with cages to repel would be apartment intruders. And I had never lived somewhere that was so … small. Or I suppose I had, in college. But this was adult life, and I didn’t know that it was just fine to live somewhere that was not so big. That in fact, I would eventually learn to enjoy the smallness so much so that the game of owning fewer things and learning how to place and set those things in the perfect spot was indeed a very fun game to play.   

Over the years we’ve made a million or so trips to all the usual department stores, filling our new home with all the usual grown-up accoutrements, adding furniture and kitchen wares and coat hooks and spice racks, magnetic knife holders, storage baskets, and what seems like several dozen potted plants that make our place a little bit more alive. We’ve gone through dirt cheap and barely functioning bed frames to middle grade this should last a few years bed frames to holy crap did we just spend that much money on a bed frame, bed frames. We’ve been through at least three vacuums.

And after all that time we still don’t have matching towels. But maybe soon.

We could live here forever, amidst the burgeoning utopia of freshly sprung luxury apartments and the ever-growing mobs of college students. Target is approximately two-hundred steps away. We have three coffee shops, several pizza joints, and a yoga studio. We are surrounded by convenience. If I can’t walk over to the grocery store to buy pretzel sticks at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, I’m not so sure I’ll know how to survive a situation like that. But we both decided it was time. The appeal of a little more space, maybe an extra bedroom, and the chance to wash and dry clothing inside our apartment had finally gotten the best of us. It was time.

Upon announcing the news of our imminent departure to the corporate apartment management company, they kindly and with the utmost consideration released what appeared to be a cage filled with starving, commission-hungry real estate agents, foaming at the mouth, ready to pounce and rent our home several months before the lease was even up. There was no thank you. No aww, shucks, we really liked you guys. It was all business.

And so the agents began to call and text and leave voicemails. Day. Night. Weekends. Kathryn. Joe. Gabby. Roger. Marissa. Cal. Juan. George. Laura. Luke. Insert generic name here. They came from all over and from everywhere. Over the next few months, the apartment transformed into a revolving door of people just like us, hoping to enter, turn the corner, to peak through and around and see the possibility of the next stage of their life.

To my surprise, after a few days spent cursing loudly at the barrage of new text messages, I found that I didn’t mind it so much. The realtors were all very nice and since I work from home, I had the pleasure of meeting each and everyone one of them—morning, noon, and night.  

Following the morning and daytime shifts of realtors and apartment hunters, I would often find a group of them huddling together in the hall upon my return home from an evening run. The realtor would always be fumbling with the keys, attempting desperately to get in. It turns out, that with all the efficiency and speed that that management company transitioned the apartment into ready-to-be-rented status, they failed to give each and every single one of the realtors a working, functioning key capable of opening the door. Luckily I was there to let them in.

One realtor, a very nice guy named Arthur Huxbury, showed the apartment so frequently that he explicitly told me how comfortable he felt working with me directly, as if I had some skin in this game, and that he felt no need whatsoever to obtain a new set of keys. He went into further detail, proclaiming that I was a very good sport indeed to be so amiable, to be so good natured about it all.

It was just after the third or maybe the fourth showing of the apartment that I began to suspect that good old Arthur Huxbury may have just been looking for a new buddy. By then, our friendship had evolved to the stage where we began to share stories and chit chatted on topics that far surpassed the subject of weather. We conversed about our lives, significant others, baseball teams and sports scores, even venturing into personal hobbies and our thoughts on the current political climate.

On his last visit, he asked me to send him a text message whenever I had the chance to ask my wife where it was exactly we had bought that hand-dandy red cart for out kitchen seven long years ago. Turns out it was J.C. Penny.  

Another time—again after an evening run—I welcomed a realtor and a very nice couple into our apartment, only to learn that not only was Amanda home but that she was also in the shower, and not only was she home and in the shower, but that she had just finished her showering and was all ready to come out and begin her traditional post-showering dressing ritual.

Not knowing exactly what to do or what the normal protocol for a situation like this would be, I initiated a brief conversation with her through the bathroom door to explain what was happening. Through that door, I heard a few mumbles and my ears perked at what I suspected to be some sort of disapproving tone. Unfortunately, the front door was already open, and this inquiring threesome were all standing right behind me listening in on the exchange. The awkwardness was real, and instead of taking charge and booting them out I turned around and invited them in.

I can definitively say this was the first time I’ve ever approved an apartment viewing while my wife was locked away in the bathroom—hopefully, it will be the last. The showing went quickly enough, but the longer they stayed, the more time I had to second guess my decision. The couple, who I assume had somehow instantaneously forgotten that my wife was not only in the bathroom but also completely finished with all bathroom related activities, began asking me a series of questions regarding their air conditioning options for the apartment. Flabbergasted and beginning to worry that my wife was thinking about punching me in the face, I somehow composed myself and ran the nice couple through their options. It was, after all, a very important question.

The Air Conditioning Apartment Cooling Funnel System
To begin, there is only one window in the entire apartment in which an air conditioning unit can be placed. The back window in the bedroom has a specially designed cage that not only keeps out burglars and other people of the night but also allows for the placement of an air conditioner. I have in fact met many burglars through these window cages, engaged them in conversations about their lives and personal goals, always wishing them well after pointing to the window cages and shrugging my shoulders. Very nice people, burglars.

But make no mistake, the air conditioning unit will be one-hundred percent necessary to ensure your survival during those oppressive, sweaty nights spent trying to avoid the astronomically torturous temperatures of the summer months.

Now, despite the apartment totaling a mere 550 square feet, there are indeed several rooms, including a bathroom, kitchen, living area, and dining cove. For reasons unbeknownst to us—the current tenants—the original architect of this garden level apartment did not believe that its future occupants would require cool air in any area other than the bedroom. Yes, the windows protect us from burglars, but they also prevent us from installing temporary cooling machines. It’s very European. Being that you are not European and that air conditioning is a very real and normal part of our culture, here is what you must to do.

We call it … the Air Conditioning Apartment Cooling Funnel System. Since its inception six years ago, we have applied for, registered, and received an official patent for the design. To build your own Apartment Cooling Funnel System, you’ll first need to purchase several fans from your local department store, making sure to buy both standing and floor fan models. While it’s best not to be cheap, there’s also no need to break the bank. I highly recommend you use several Bed Bath & Beyond coupons to purchase your fans at the standard discount rate of 20 percent. As fans, both standing and floor models, do not fall under the bed or bath categories, please direct yourself to the beyond section of the store.

Once purchased, please begin the official construction of the funnel system by placing the fans in targeted areas throughout the apartment. Starting in the bedroom, then the hallway, kitchen, and finally the living room. The goal is to push or “funnel” the cool air from the air conditioning unit into other areas of the home. While this does sometimes appear to work, I cannot guarantee a one-hundred percent success rate. And although the patent is backed by several mathematical algorithms and I am known by those who know me best as something of an engineering savant, the system does have its flaws.

Luckily, if you do find that your recently constructed Air Conditioning Apartment Cooling Funnel System is not doing anything whatsoever to keep you cool you can use your recently purchased fans for other activities. For instance, you can use your fans for blowing smoke out of the apartment when you burn something on the stove or to help speed the drying of your laundry. In extreme situations when you simply cannot take it any longer, and you find the heat has caused that thing to happen where your body sticks to the couch, feel free to stand in front of your fan for maximum relief.

It took longer to explain than I had hoped, but luckily, and to my surprise, that was really the only serious question the nice couple asked me to tackle. Nodding to each other, they appeared satisfied with my response and commenced with a bit of moderate dilly-dallying, opening closets and inspecting kitchen cabinets, gauging the lighting features and commenting on the granite countertops, as all people do. But sooner rather than later I found the realtor whisking them out the door and on to their next stop.

After saying our goodbyes, I returned to the bathroom to see if I had indeed made the wrong decision. But when I opened the door, there was Amanda, all smiles, ready for her post-showering dressing ritual—un-flummoxed and unperturbed as she tends to be.

As the weeks passed and turned into months, there clearly had not been a winner yet. Did nobody love our apartment as much as we did? It was hard to understand why. Many of the would-be renters had very nice things to say about it, showering me with many flattering compliments, often saying things like “I really like what you’ve done with this space” and “wow, that red kitchen cart is perfect right there” and “it’s just so inviting, cozy, I love it.”

And those compliments made me happy because I just so happen to think they are true. We created this cozy environment, Amanda and I, through blankets and decorative pillows, salt rock lamps and bookshelves, through warm lighting and Ikea furniture. And in between all the emergencies, all the uninvited insects, and regularly scheduled bathroom floods, this home has been very good to us.

Visually, our place is a mishmash of furniture, pieced together through the lens of tiny apartment practicality and a need to feng shui every nook and cranny. It is a pristine example of maximized space combined with the warm, homey feeling of livability. We have perfected it. It is exactly as we like it and exactly as it should be. Christmas lights adorn the dining cove, which faces the outside parking lot, setting the nightly ambiance with a warm yellow glow that makes it sometimes feel like we’re just two adults hanging out in our fort.  

My dresser sits in the living room. As does my office desk, which is really a buffet table. As do our bookshelves and athletic supplies and the television stand. The arts and crafts storage thing and our old side table that has an accompanying lamp that doesn’t work anymore. The blanket basket and the box with important top-secret documents, and, of course, our decorative buoys. They are vintage and once used as actual buoys in the actual ocean; these were veteran buoys, or so we were told. We even have a couch.

We have two closets. One is for Amanda’s clothes. The other is a Tetris game of interchangeable items and moving parts, it is fluid and constantly shifting, it changes, evolves—sometimes daily. Open the door and your mind will tell you that it’s a coat closet.

Look closer and you’ll find an air conditioner. You’ll find a crate of paper bags used for recycling. Coolers. A box filled with four glass jugs we once bought to fill-up with natural spring water then posted on Instagram and never used again.

Look closer still. A basketball pump. Vacuum add-ons. Plastic bags with furniture parts and pieces that we will never use. A giant outdoor wooden planter that belonged to Amanda’s Nonna and has since been upgraded to family heirloom status and cannot nor ever will be disposed of or left behind.

A vacuum.
A Swiffer.
A broom.

An Aerobed. A tool bag full of tools in case anyone who knows how to use tools comes over to visit and the occasion calls for tool use. Beach bags. Garden bags. A camping chair. A bin full of Christmas decorations. A four-piece electric wine corkscrew set that we’re saving one day for when we have a house. An old coffee pot.

And the rest is pretty standard. A kitchen. A bathroom. A bedroom. There’s never been much room for activities, but we’ve made due. And so as we searched for our new apartment, we hoped to find a place that we too could see ourselves being happy in, again, but also remembering that we built that feeling ourselves, over time … it didn’t come with the apartment.

Today, our neighborhood in the Fenway is home to a whole new breed of uber-luxury buildings. Buildings that require $2800 for a studio space, buildings that have receptionists and umbrellas at the door for rainy days, buildings that advertise with large shiny signs that display healthy, good-looking young people working out in their yoga spaces and fancy gyms, or lounging out by the rooftop pools and sipping tropical drinks under the cabanas that us regular folks can see from the ground but will never set foot beneath. It might just be jealousy or envy or whatever, but these places seem false. They seem wrong and unusual. And unnecessary. You don’t see many fairly priced apartment buildings rise from the ground these days; they don’t exist.

We searched and searched and searched. As more and more people came to see our apartment, we wondered if we would ever find our next one. It was either that or move back to the burbs where Amanda’s commute would once again be two to three hours a day. Not exactly an ideal scenario.

The apartments we visited were sad, and a bit crumbly, as in falling apart. Realtors would say things like “for your price range this is about what you get in this neighborhood.” What a sad thing to say. What a sad thing to hear and have said to you. We weren’t exactly looking for a top of the line penthouse, far from it actually.

But we carried on. We preserved and doubled down our efforts. We sent emails and set up viewings. We scoured the city for affordable neighborhoods and walked the beaten path to see what these places were like. We journeyed over to Savin Hill and took the tour. We took the subway to East Boston and did a few laps. We drove around and around, to Roslindale and Forest Hills, through the Lower Mills and Adams Village. We identified all the possibilities and carried on with good spirits.

And eventually … we found it. Right there in East Boston near the airport and across the water from all the skyscrapers and all the action of this city we call home. Tucked away, just as we like it.

When the realtor walked us in I felt it. This is it. This is the next place we would call home. The kitchen is pristine with more cabinets and counter space than a man has a right to ask for. We can chop anywhere and simultaneously if necessary. The refrigerator has an ice-maker, and the dishwasher is a Samsung, which means it can probably do all sorts of weird robot things a refrigerator probably doesn’t need to do.

What’s more … there is a pantry. And that pantry has a door. And behind that door are several shelves. And on those shelves, we can put things like cans and bags of chips, cereal and coconut water, boxes of macaroni and cheese and pasta and crackers and probably even many many cans of seltzer even though neither of us like seltzer all that much. The days where our bar and wine rack is covered in Saltines and canned tomatoes are over. We now have pantry shelving representative of the next level of adulthood.

The apartment has tall ceilings to fend off noisy upstairs neighbors. Not one but two whole bedrooms. Two large closets. A foyer. I don’t even know what that is! We have recessed lighting and large windows with sills to put our family of houseplants. There is a bathroom with a regular rust-free bathtub. Sure, the floors go up and down a bit, making the whole place feel a bit hilly, but I don’t care. It has recently installed carpets. Plenty of good light. A chandelier that hangs politely over the dining area. We have a bar countertop where we guests can sit in high chairs while we casually banter and serve wine and cheese snacks. There’s a garbage disposal or as Amanda has always called it, a garbage disposer—it makes sense.

But most importantly, more significant than pantry shelving and a rust-free bathing experience is the washer and dryer … located inside the apartment. No more lugging clothes to the laundry room and waiting for random people to come down and remove their items from the dryer that buzzed itself to completion an exhausting 45 minutes before. Did you know that Amanda does not like sharing things like washers and dryers with an entire building of people? Did you know that? Because I do. Amanda requires order, efficiency. You better be there to remove your clothes from the dryer on time or else. In fact, best not to use the laundry machines at all in case you mess it up. And before you ask, yes, I do the laundry, too, sometimes.

Fueled by the excitement of finding a new apartment, we’ve already found the time to purchase several choice pieces of brand new Ikea furniture that may or may not fit in the living room. We’ll see. We also took a vote by committee and Amanda is now the Chief Person in Charge of all matters related to moving. And before you ask, no, she would not have it any other way. She is great at all things organizing and planning and figuring out. She takes care of business. So soon … we move.

I still haven’t heard from Arthur Huxbury in quite some time; I’m starting to worry that maybe we’re not best friends after all. I’d like to think that although our daily chats have ceased that he thinks of me while chopping up veggies and preparing his dinners on his brand new kitchen cart. And I don’t know if our old apartment has been rented, but the showings have stopped, and the text messages have ceased. My days of casual banter with strangers inside our home appears to have come to a halt for now.

And so … we begin to pack away all the bits and pieces of our life and prepare for the next stage. Amanda has always said that Fenway would be the perfect neighborhood if it weren’t for the college kids, the baseball team, and the green line. And gosh darn it, she just may be right.

It is a bittersweet feeling to leave our old apartment, our old place. The fear of not living within walking distance to a Target department store is very real and hitting us hard. We will miss our walks around the parks. Our favorite places to grab a bite. The neighborhood characters, the familiarity. The memories of a place that soon may only feel like a dream that has passed and no longer seems quite so real. As we say goodbye to this apartment, we get ready to build a new home and again we’ll do it together. After all, home is where the heart is. Goodbye apartment. Goodbye.  

The worst incident to date occurred not too long ago during a very serious snowstorm. The “drain man” (as we call them in the biz) who came to the rescue explained that the flooding was caused by a gaggle of pesky tree roots that somehow burrowed their way into the pipes, creating a  blockage so great that our bathroom and hallway became flooded with what we came to describe as a substance called “poo sewage.”

So why would I wish this?
Am I insane?
Sadistic?
Maybe.

More likely though, it’s because every once and awhile, when the apartment, with its crumbling infrastructure, old creaky pipes, and insatiable ability to attract insects, appears to be running a little too smoothly—to the point of extreme suspicion—it’s good to have something go horribly wrong. It builds character. It builds resilience. It reminds me that what I have planned for the day is not necessarily what the universe has planned for me.

And, when all is said and done, and the apartment smells once again, as it does now, of poo and sewage (poo-sewage n.), I know this is simply another obstacle for me to reframe as a challenge. It’s an opportunity for personal growth. Sound about right?

Wrong.

Obviously, I would never wish for the return of the poo sewage. I have not yet processed the mental trauma from the first six go-arounds; I’m by no means prepared for the seventh. And yet, here we are. Here I am. Typing in my office chair in the living room (my office) as the drain man sets up shop in our bathroom to battle back the flooding waters, and whatever vicious beast is causing this unbearable, disastrous scent to permeate our home.

If I could capture it in a bottle, perhaps add a little essence of lavender, a dribble of blue chamomile, just a smidgen of eucalyptus, I would call it, Poo Sewage. A new, bold scent featuring recycled human excreta that blends complex elements to deliver an avalanche of fragrance, producing an aroma so thick with confusion you’re not sure whether you’re supposed to like it, but you do. One whiff and you’re hooked … or throwing up. Either one.

As you may have deduced from my ramblings, the aroma of poo sewage is not a delight. And worse, it’s quick to spread; it hovers within the apartment like a stagnant, putrid cloud of stinkiness. I have not one but two essential oil machines pumping on high, packed to the gills with generous drops of peppermint and lemongrass. I open the windows. I run around in circles. I pinch my nose with some chip clips. And I pray.

It all started upon my return from a morning run around the neighborhood. Typically, my favorite post-run activity, before I start work, is to take a shower. It makes sense, right? Stinky, smelly, sweaty Matt requires water and soap before he can really do anything else. Maybe even a shave and a fruit smoothie. But it wasn’t meant to be. Not this day.

Today, Amanda greeted me at the door, as if she had been eagerly awaiting my return. She had that look on her face that made me immediately understand that something not so great was happening and that most likely this something would require my mental and physical energy to correct. It is a very specific look that occurs whenever a large apartment bug requires squashing, or when the sink backs up, and whenever I have forgotten to do something I was not supposed to forget to do.  

It happened again.
The toilet is flooding.
Dirty water is coming up through the bathtub.
The smell. It’s back.

Like a montage showing the detective putting together the pieces at the end of the mystery, I began to replay the clues. The day before I had trouble flushing the toilet in the morning. It flushed, but it didn’t seem happy about it. It gurgled. Gargled. Made a fuss. It was … concerning. But it went away eventually. Later that day I saw the second clue: a large puddle had formed in the middle of the laundry room located next door. Not good.

Understanding the importance of addressing all water-related issues immediately, I had promptly filed an official request with the maintenance department to bring it to their attention:

11/30/17. The laundry room in the basement has some flooding with some strange black residue, not sure what it is. The automatic lights didn't seem to work when I walked in. Might want to send someone over ASAP to contain it.

While on the maintenance website I also noticed there was a historical log of all the maintenance requests that we’ve ever made, dating all the way back to 2013. That’s five solid years of archived complaints (insert whistling noise)! Intrigued and feeling a little nostalgic, I scrolled through the long list of apartment traumas, reliving each individual incident as if for the very first time. Years of frustration and anger all filed in one convenient location.

For example.

5/9/14
Cockroaches, ants, giant spiders - please spray/gel or whatever is necessary!

Another.

10/10/12
We have some sort of animal living above our ceiling. We can hear it in the same spot every time near our living room windows on top of one of the higher panels on the right side of the room. Please send someone to do something about this.

And this.

5/23/17.
There are hundreds of ants that keep coming up from the bathtub. Every few hours we turn the shower on a flush them down the drain, but it doesn't appear to be slowing down. We also see a few in the kitchen, but it's not nearly as bad as the tub. Can someone help us, please?

Apartment life. Magical. Wondrous. A more or less permanently blissful experience. However, one major benefit of foregoing home ownership, at least for the time being, is that every time something goes wrong all I have to do is call a number, and someone will come and, at the very least, place a very temporary band-aid on whatever the issue is. No charge. Which is also good, considering that I’ve managed to evade attaining and mastering almost every single handyman, maintenance, and construction type skill throughout my thirty-five years of life. And so, to date, we have made 53 maintenance requests and counting. I wonder if we make it to a 100 if we win some sort of prize. I sure hope so.

As for the 53rd maintenance request, I unfortunately never once thought that all those clues I saw the day before were actually clues; I didn’t know they were symptoms of another much larger plumbing issue. I should have known better. So, as the toilet continued to flood and the dirty water in the tub continued to rise, Amanda slapped a kiss on my cheeks, said her goodbyes, and promptly left to catch the bus for work.

Good luck!

As it was still early in the morning, I called the emergency maintenance line. There was no time to waste. The nice lady who answered my call asked me a series of serious questions. Following my response to each one, she got off the line as if there was an expert person sitting next to her or a checklist she had to refer to in order to confirm that my experience could be considered a true and earnest emergency. My responses would determine if I would be granted an additional question. Luckily, I somehow made it through an entire round, enough, apparently, to grant me a call transfer to the actual emergency maintenance man on staff.

Matt.
Yep.
The toilet’s flooding?
Yep.

He knew me by name. As most of the maintenance staff now do. He also remembered the snowstorm flooding incident the year before and with a sympathetic tone said that he would certainly mention our past flooding history to the drain fixer uppers, who would appear, like magic, within the hour. As we briefly discussed the past floodings, major and minor, I began to recall the last drain man telling us, with a smirkish expression, that this, this whole flooding situation, would happen again, most definitely and without any doubt. He seemed sure of it.

He was right.

As promised, a drain man came to the rescue within the hour. Still in my sweaty and now very uncomfortable workout gear, I welcomed him into our home and showed him the source of the problem. Then, using arm movements, general gestures of exasperation, and a very concerned vocal tone, I thoroughly explained the situation and our rich history of bathroom flooding.

He nodded in understanding. I pointed to the toilet that wouldn’t flush properly. He grunted. Then to the bathtub filled with dirty water. He nodded again. He understood. We parted ways. Me to my chair in the living room with a cup of tea. Him to bring in his tools and what I imagined to be piles and piles of outside dirt, stuck on his shoes, that would eventually be evenly and fairly dispersed throughout the entire apartment.

From my perch, I could hear the drain man fill the bathroom with drain man tools and the ginormous drain unclogging device that would hopefully fish out whatever was clogging up our pipes. In mere moments the toilet would be completely removed, and water would begin flowing quite freely wherever it darn well pleased. Once again, our bathroom had become the epicenter of another major project, packed with wet-vacs and tarps, old tools and strange smells. I sipped my tea, still sweating, still uncomfortable.

I began to mull over how the whole situation would play out. I knew, that every time a maintenance man or drain specialist enters this home, that while they typically do fix the issue at hand, they also leave me with an almost equally devastating eruption of dirt, grime, and in this case, poo sewage to clean up. My duties were not yet done. I would be the clean-up crew. I would have to prepare myself.

Now, as someone who has journeyed the full spectrum of cleanliness from an outright deviant and disrespecting destroyer of my parent’s basement as a young man to now being an undeniably obsessed neat freak over my own domain, I prepared my tools.

As someone who regularly cleans and washes the recycle bin. As someone who casually worries about what’s behind the fridge and what may be lurking under the stove. As someone who vacuums the shoe tray. As someone who dusts the top of each picture frame and door. As someone who awakens in the middle of the night to carefully deep wash the humidifier. As someone whose brain begins to hurt when unidentified pieces of rubble fall from our upstairs neighbor’s floor onto the tops of our delicate drop ceiling. As someone who truly cares way too much about rogue pieces of lint, pesky spots on the kitchen floor, and who has a genuine certified belt holster for Magic Eraser cleaning sponges ... I prepared my tools.

Wet Swiffer.
Check.
Green, sustainable, organic bathroom spray that may or may not be effective.
Check,
Select-a-size paper towels.
Check.
Scented candle.
Check.
Vacuum with extension wand and crevice tool
Check.

I was ready.

I could hear the drain machine churning down through the pipes; it’s a loud and intrusive noise, and I’d expect nothing less. It was hunting. For what, we knew not. At this point, the laundry room next door was also flooding into the hallway. The poo sewage was releasing itself back out into the world. A monster finally released from its underworld imprisonment with an overdue and gluttonous appetite to destroy all human life with nothing but its foul stench. Death by pungency.

I could hear the drain man talking with the maintenance man over the phone to relay updates and request support. It was worse than we thought.

Shut the water down.

The situation was escalating. The poo sewage was gaining power too quickly, gathering its strength for a final assault. The drain man would use the wet vac to contain the flooding. Then back to the drain machine. Empty the wet vac outside. Contain the flooding. Contain the flooding. Contain the flooding.

It was a carefully orchestrated symphony of emergency flood protocols handled by a one-man team playing defense. He needed help.

By my second cup of tea, I saw it. The email. It was our very own water shutdown emergency email! You see, the water in our building is shutdown often and all the time. We receive these emails on a weekly basis. We always wonder what’s going on. What’s happening? Why so many water disasters? But this one was special. This one was ours.         

Dear Matthew Hobin,

There will be an emergency water shutdown today, December 1st between the hours of 9:30am­-10:30am due to a pipe repair on the property. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, and we will do our best to make sure the work is done as quickly and efficiently as possible. We ask that you please plan accordingly. If you have any questions or concerns please contact us at ResidentServices@theblahblahblah.com.

 Thank you,

Apartment Owner People

Pipe repair. Plan accordingly. Questions or concerns! For a moment, I felt special. I wanted to tell people. This was us. Our toilet caused the water shutdown this time. I was proud. There is a reason for this madness!

Once the water was turned off, it became clear that the drain man was one of the best in the business. Soon the flood was over and he had successfully fished out whatever needed fishing out. The situation went from mission-critical to everybody can go home there’s nothing to see here.

And just like that, I was called into the bathroom for the final talk. The summary of events. The big finale. The drain man pointed at the toilet. I nodded. He pointed at the bathtub. I grunted. He put his arms up in victory, declaring his job here was done. I smiled and went to shake his hand … and then … slowly withdrew as I realized how bad an idea that actually was. He seemed hurt, but understanding.

At the end of his investigation, the drain man never found any “tree roots.” I’m not even sure how tree roots would get into a pipe. He did, however, find the pipe clogged with paper towels and bum wipes. Bum wipes!!! Say it ain’t so. Did you know that we have a bum wipe epidemic in this country? We do. And it’s bad. I know because the drain man told me.

Unfortunately, these so-called flushable wipes aren’t so pipe friendly. In fact, according to several real and very serious news organizations, flushable wipes are causing outright havoc to wastewater systems all across the world. Consumers, duped by false claims of “flushability,” are led to believe that wipes do no harm. False! Meanwhile, villainous corporate board members are stroking their pointy goatees and sitting back while profits continue to soar in this multibillion-dollar industry.

So what’s the problem? Wipes DO NOT BREAK DOWN. Ever. Wipes are indestructible. They never disintegrate. Ever. We’re talking blocked pipes and sewers, ravaged septic tanks, and, of course, the ever-present and always occurring big middle finger to old Mother Nature herself … litter! That’s right folks. These wipes will be here probably forever. Maybe. I think. Google it. Or read this article by The Atlantic. Sewage authorities everywhere are apparently losing their minds.

Look, I’ll be real. I’ve used flushable wipes. In fact, I’ve found them to be pretty handy for certain types of personal hygiene, and I’ll leave it at that. But I told the drain man that I dropped that bad habit a long time ago. We don’t use wipes in this household! Not anymore. No siree. I pointed to the toilet. He grunted. I explained.

Less than one year ago I purchased an ingenious device called the Astor CB-1000. The best, most highly rated, most reasonably priced easy to install bidet on the market. For $24.95 you too can become enlightened, cut down on toilet paper, and feel confident that your bum is squeaky clean.

As I explained the situation, I told him that even someone like me could order this thing and follow the instructions with absolutely no issues. As I heard myself talking, suddenly, I realized, I’m basically an amateur plumber. A regular, hard-working, blue-collar guy that could pull his weight when it came time to install a new bidet. We could install bidets all across America and eliminate this horrific bum wipe epidemic once and for all! Matt Hobin. Plumber. Useful. This could be the beginning of a new career.

As my explanation drew to an end, the drain main kept nodding, staring suspiciously at the bidet as if it were a strange creature he didn’t quite understand. But at least he knew I wasn’t the culprit. He said it could be anyone in the building, and for some reason, that the bulk of the wipes were finding their way down to our part of the system, clogging up the pipes, and bringing the poo sewage to the surface of our bathroom. What luck.

With so many units in the building and because multiple buildings share the same plumbing system it would be near impossible to narrow down the list of suspects. It could be anyone. The quiet graduate student next door. That nice couple on the third floor with the tiny little doglike creature that wears a vest when it goes outside. It could be the bro-dudes in apartment D that drink a thousand light beers every weekend. The elderly lady on the first floor who walks around the neighborhood picking up trash. The man who lives next to the main entrance and comes running out shouting at the top of his lungs every time someone slams the door. Everyone was a suspect.  

As I finished up my self-righteous monologue about the bidet, the drain main said a few your welcomes and a couple it was no big deals and slowly backed his way out of the apartment. He grabbed his tools and the drain machine, he pointed to the puddle in the laundry room and the hallway and said the maintenance crew would be by to take care of that. And he left.

And just like that, the world was back to normal. The toilet was fixed. The bathtub drained. And I didn’t have to visit the local Target department store to relieve myself. Everything was as it was before the poo sewage returned. Almost.

At the end of it all, as I predicted, my reward was a thoroughly stinky and disgusting bathroom. Weird spots of poo sewage covered the area. On the wall. The floor. The toilet. And the dirt from the drain man’s shoes was evenly and fairly distributed throughout the apartment. The final fee for a crisis averted. And so I lit the scented candle. Pulled on my rubber gloves. Loaded up the Wet Swiffer. And got down to business.

The poo sewage smell would, of course, remain for a day or so. Once the source of its power is killed off, it can no longer emit pungency at full power and eventually dissipates to the point where you can breathe freely once again and inhale through your nose without crying.

For now, the toilet now flushes properly. The floor and walls are clean and dry. And once again I’m able to take showers at my leisure. But I know, we all know, that a monster lurks down there in the deepest darkest parts of that strange place that none of like to think about. That place that with just a flush takes away the stinkiest parts of us. And so I wait. Standing ready to battle the monster again someday, or rather, ready to call someone else to battle the monster again … someday.

The Hobin Family Maintenance Log Highlight Reel:

10/22/14. Our kitchen sink fixture shot right off, and the water just went straight up causing a mess in the kitchen and spraying everywhere. It went so high that it was hitting the ceiling directly and shot a hole in the drop ceiling spraying fragments of it across the kitchen.

2/29/16. Please send someone over immediately to check the pipes in our bathroom ceiling. We currently have water pouring out (not the first time) from the ceiling onto the floor. The person upstairs said they are filling a bath, but there is NO water spilling over.

3/2/16. Intercom buzzing -- noise that never stops, being generated by the door and buzzer panel in our apartment. It only stops if you press the Door button, as soon as you let go the buzzing starts again.

6/5/17. Twice over the weekend something big, like rubble from the upstairs neighbor’s floor, has fallen and crashed on our living room ceiling tiles. The noises were so loud I thought their floor was falling apart. So, now we have tons of rubble or whatever it is sitting on our ceiling tiles, and we'd like to get it removed and cleaned. We'll definitely need a tarp or something because I imagine it will get incredibly messy. You may also want to check with the upstairs neighbors to make sure their floor is OK because something huge is crumbling and falling from up there. Thanks!!

6/12/17. Hi, the ants are back in larger numbers again. Can someone come to get rid of them and take a look? Right now there is a whole colony of them in the bathroom just strutting around. Pretty gross. Thanks!

6/20/17. The bathtub faucet is still leaking, but now it's leaking really bad. Can someone please come and fix this today? Thanks, Matt

8/13/17. The maintenance guys installed a new refrigerator on Friday and hooked up an ice maker with it. However, I think the tube that brings the water to the ice maker is leaking because the area is flooding with water. I turned it off for now, but there's still water everywhere.

I call it: The Bewhiskering.

Otherwise known as Movember.

Truth be told, I have no idea why I look so damn good sporting a mustache. It just is what it is. I don’t make the rules regarding who gets to look super sexy just by adding a finely-groomed bushel of facial hair over the upper lip. So if you feel a twinge of jealousy toward me and how good I look, simply know that you are not alone.

In fact, there are thousands, perhaps even dozens, of random people who take one good look at me during the Movember growing season and wonder why their genetic ancestry was unable to provide them with such mustachioed bravado. Simply put, I was born to stache.

The truth about my mustache

All joking aside, mainly my mustache tends to confuse everyone, including passerby, family members, and even close friends. My wife Amanda often turns her neck to the side in such a way that one can only assume she is closely studying this stachetastic phenomenon in an effort to determine its purpose and origin.

In the early stages of development, my mustache is more akin to velcro than facial hair. Whenever I blow my nose, which is often, tiny bits of tissue stick to me, and I continue my day, completely oblivious to this embarrassing predicament. “You have tissue on your face,” is something I hear often.

I catch strangers in the act of staring at me as if I just beamed down from the nearest spaceship, children running frightened into the arms of a parent, and, oddly enough, even squirrels and small hairless dogs seem to be a bit perturbed by the sight of me. But oh well, life goes on, and I can’t let a few insecurities get in the way of raising money for a good cause.  

The importance of taking millions of selfies

Last year, as you may well know from my excellent blog coverage, was my first Movember, and I’m happy to report that thanks to my philanthropic circle of friends and family, I was able to raise over five-hundred dollars in cold-hard, digital currency.

But I think something even more important than raising money and awareness for men’s health occurred during this process—something truly special. I didn't just grow a mustache; I grew as a person. It was a privilege to witness firsthand the miracle of my mustache erupting into life like a hairy little baby on my face. And perhaps the most important lesson I learned, was that I really, really love taking selfies.

And so I did.

For thirty glorious days and nights, my stache became my new best friend. We went everywhere together: to work, the post office, grocery shopping, running in the woods. We grabbed sushi and sang in the rain at the park. We cooked gourmet meals and learned to speak Mandarin.

To my surprise, it turned out to be a very special relationship, and so we documented every phase, every memory with a plethora of Instagrammable selfies. Any why not? How often does one get to grow a mustache and tell people that it’s for charity?

So this Movember I have 30-days to grow, or rather, to bewhisker into life, a well-dressed, genteel mustachio. And to accomplish this task, I’ve integrated a much more physically demanding training routine into my daily life.

The new regimen includes the following activities:

1. Running backward
2. Knuckle push-ups
3. Meditating in damp caves
4. Vision boards filled with favorite celebrity mustaches
5. Competitive Zumba
6. Hot yoga
7. Pescatarian smoothies
8. Waterslides
9. Learning to make Jello

Pretty hardcore, right?

I’ve stocked up on wax and a new combing kit. And I even started cupping per the fashion of Michael Phelps and the rest of the Olympic swimming team to ensure maximum performance and muscle recovery. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and I’m ready for a long growing season.

Seriously, though, take care of yourself fool

But in all seriousness, as I grow older and perhaps dumber, I’ve come to realize the importance of staying healthy; the importance of taking care of yourself both mentally and physically.

You see, a long time ago, there was a young man who lived on his parent’s basement couch. He ate chocolate-frosted donuts and bags of Smarties faster than his tummy could recover from a stomachache. He drank vast legions of Mountain Dew soda pop and anything laced with caffeine or sugar. This young man would drive at odd hours of the night to Dairy Queen and Wendy’s and fill his body from head to toe with spicy chicken fingers and delicious bacon cheeseburgers. And he did this pretty much all the time. No one could stop him. But here comes the twist folks. That young man, that misguided soul, was me.

I know it’s hard to believe since I am now such a pillar of health and wisdom. But it’s true.

Years later this young man not only got off that couch but also fell in love with a wonderful woman who showed him another way. Amanda introduced me to this thing called a salad, which was weird (and still sometimes is). And from there she taught me all about vegetables and fruits and other things that I can eat that aren’t candy OR fast food.

So basically, I got lucky.

It’s hard to take care of yourself, especially if you’ve never tried to before. I was probably the best at being bad at it. Even now I’m nowhere, absolutely nowhere near perfect. My inner demon still desires daily tributes of sweets and hearty meals to fill its belly. So I do, just not all the time. And I run, a little bit. And I walk, a lot.

It's really OK to be just average

I’m never going to be a champion marathon runner or a yogi who meditates 10 hours a day. I’m never going to become a vegan or stop eating many of the things considered to be super incredibly bad for you. The truth is, I’m an average kind-of-guy, and I like that. I just want to feel good, be healthy, and not have to worry so much about stuff.

And for all the green smoothie and salad Instagrams I post, I promise you there was still a bag of cookies and a box of pizza that never made its way onto social media. But these days I feel a whole lot better than I did back when donuts could be considered dinner, more balanced, and much, much less bloated. And that is a big reason why I’m growing a big, beautiful mustache to support men’s health. 

And there are others good reasons to support the cause, many of which I think are worthy of talking about. But I think I’ve made you read more than enough today, and so without further babbling or gobbledygook, I present to you my donation page:

https://us.movember.com/mospace/#

No pressure ... my love for you remains just as strong, and my admiration just as high whether you donate or not. Good day to you, thanks for reading, and let the Bewhiskering begin.

Let me ask you something. How many workplace office carpets did you completely destroy today?

At 7:15 a.m. I was at my desk, in my chair, ready for action. I began rifling through messages after warming up my dual computer monitors; ready to peruse my workload, man the phones, and batten down the Google Docs.

My delicious black coffee—imported from Vermont—floated patiently in my old lucky travel mug, at the ready, waiting its turn as I finished slurping down my delicious breakfast smoothie.

And then … before I even had the chance to slurp it down … the smoothie uncontained itself.

My Large Purple Smoothie: A beautiful compilation of red chard, organic banana (the non-douchey kind), frozen berries and mango, and maybe just a tiny-weeny too much flax seed, all mixed together; a cohesive textbook medley of antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals—a perfect magical pooping potion.

Gone. Tragically wasted.

You see, there is no 5-second rule when it comes to uncontained smoothies sprawled across an 80’s inspired office carpet. At that point, it’s just plain unsanitary.

All it took was the mindless swoop of my clumsy right hand and the mason jar (yes I put smoothies into mason jars, and SOMETIMES also (sound the alarms!) post pictures of those smoothies on Instagram) that housed my nourishing elixir went sailing down … down … down ... onto the fashionable office carpet. SPLASH!

At first look (and in shock), my mind quickly assessed the situation and concluded that with my skills and background, I was severely underqualified to clean up a mess of this substantial enormousness all by myself.

Without too much dilly-dally, something inside my brain told me that my best option was to immediately flee the scene. It certainly felt like the right thing to do. And besides, could I really picture myself cleaning something up right now? At 7:18? In the morning? Before coffee?

But I didn’t. I stayed. I owned the spill. I have to live with myself after all.

There I was. A man alone on the 6th-floor of an empty office. Covered in purple goo. My tan khakis ruined. My favorite light blue summer polo shirt in dire need of immediate rehabilitation.

My once fashionable mason jar sat on its side at my feet—sad, and no longer representative of the hipness it once helped people identify me with.

As for the actual smoothie, it oozed along the carpet like a wandering alien organism seeking out a host body to consume; taking this unique opportunity to spread out and explore this vast new space, this brave new world where smoothies don’t typically get to go.

A sizable portion of the purple drink ran down my right side … gloop gloop gloop (that’s a sound, right?).

It dripped off the edge of the desk, downward, like a glorious, chunky waterfall landing in a large pit of pulverized fruit and vegetables. My trusty office chair (once known for its chic circular motif) now sat blemished with the purplish hue of blackberry and embarrassment.

What to do?
What to do?
Aha!
Eureka!

My brain exploded with good news: I remember that I am (and have been for some time) one of the world’s foremost visionaries in the field of amateur napkin hoarding.

Indeed, the top right drawer of my cubicle is filled to the brim with what can only be described as a surprising, somewhat disturbing number of loose, cloth-like, 1-ply, paper napkins.

I’ve always wondered why I felt so inclined, so obsessed, with collecting them from the workplace cafeteria, or from the 6th-floor kitchen, knowing full well I had plenty to get by—certainly enough to survive a few meals spent in my cubicle.

Over time it became second nature; a ritual that drove my greed for more More MORE MORE napkins! Going for tea? Good, I can get some napkins! Oh, a group trip to fill up the water bottles? It’s good to stay hydrated, might as well grab some napkins! Is it buffalo chicken day already? That dish can get messy in a jiff, best play it safe and grab a thousand napkins!

I could never have enough. Never!

And now it all made perfect sense. This gargantuan smoothie flood was the reason for my insanity all along! I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t an odd duck. I just knew … somehow I knew that I would need all these napkins. Right here, right now.

I reached toward the cubicle drawer and started removing handfuls of gloriously available napkins one after another. First, I cleaned up my clothing and shoes. I knew that once this step was complete, I would be free to move around without making a larger mess.

I then addressed the waterfall still drip drip dripping down the edge of the desk. It took a dozen of the subpar razor thin napkins to complete the job.

Then to the crevices of the chair and the worse of it—the carpet.

As I scooped up the sludge the napkins folded and soaked through in seconds; breaking apart at just the touch of a smoothie clump. But when placed together in larger factions, one bracing its brothers and sisters before it, the napkins transformed into an unstoppable purple smoothie scooping machine.

For what felt like at least seventeen horrendously long minutes in a row I labored tirelessly and with the fervor of a man who knows full well the worth of a hard day's work.

Around and around I cleaned the carpet, clearing away the purple drudge little by little, clump by clump.

After much rigorous scooping, I started to pat down the entire area, making it dry but also possibly permanently stained with the blood of organic and once delicious fruits and vegetables. It looks like actual blood splatter, and I begin nervously to await the impending visit from the local CSI team.

I look over my work like a proud papa and know that I have done all a man of my qualifications can do. It’s time to notify the professionals.

I contact the maintenance department with a formal request:

I accidentally spilled a huge purple smoothie that I was drinking this morning. It's ALL OVER the carpet. We need some sort of stain remover and probably a vacuum (just in case!) to pick this up. I got what I could with some napkins and paper towels. Probably the sooner, the better, so the stain doesn’t set in. I'm wicked sorry!

A few hours later an operations crew arrives on the scene. I meet them at the perimeter of the spill with a firm handshake, and a slew of apologies only a grown-man who uncontained a giant purple smoothie onto an office carpet can come up with.

By now my pants and shirt are dry, and the stains that I thought would mark my outfit for the dumpster have subsided enough that there is still some hope.

Only four short hours later and I’ve told and retold the story to office mates time and time again. The size and ingredients of the smoothie have tripled and grown even more bizarre since the legendary tale was first told.

It turns out, purple is a very serious color and does not like to be wiped away once settling in. The stains still mark the carpet; evidence that a man who lived in a cubicle once tried to drink a smoothie and failed.

The only thing left to do now is to slowly replenish my obsessively curated stash of napkins. There are only a few left in my cubicle drawer. And as I learned all too well, you just never know when you’re going to need a good stash of napkins.

Don’t believe it?

Just turn the dial of your telly over to the local news station and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

Meteorologists are cracking snappy jokes and unpacking those easygoing, carefree kind of smiles that only the sunshine can inspire. This playful banter is a sure sign that we’re ready to loosen up and start having some fun. Am I right?

So break out the tongs and the burger flippers, light up the grill, crack a cold one, and get down to the business of rest and relaxation.

Because now’s the time to say hello to the summer solstice and soak up all the delicious vitamin D you can handle.

Don’t you have some foam rubber flip-flops to dust off? Some Hawaiian shirts to send to the dry cleaners? Some summer dresses to shop for?

Ship those kids to summer camp! Sign up for an outdoor yoga class, like yesterday. And before I have to tell you twice, go ahead and purchase that outdoor gazebo you've been gushing over for what seems like forever!

Maybe this is the year you finally try stand up paddle boarding!

Maybe this is the year that you go camping at the place that doesn’t even have real bathrooms!

Maybe this is the year you finally remember to replace the propane tank before the big barbecue!

Wash out the coolers!
Man the hammocks!
Release the foldable camping chairs!
Roll the windows down!
Wax the pool!
Blast the AC!
Blow up the beach balls!
Hang the flower pots!
Gather the snorkels!
Shuck the corn!
Plant the tomatoes!
Clean the fire pits!
Wax the boogie board!
Vanquish the ice cream!
Consume the freezer pops!
Throw me the bug spray!     

To many, summer is known as the season of supreme happiness, during which, our meteorologically inclined besties at the local news stations, singlehandedly serve up beach days and good vibes on their finely-polished, silver-plattered green screens. Amen.    

Which means ... it’s time for us to celebrate and reflect on how nice it is to be warm (at all times)—regardless of how close your body is to an artificial heating source.

Because (for three short months at least) we have sun dammit, and now we can sweat like we deserve to sweat. Or stick to things, like couches and seats.

So let’s review some of the wonderful summertime experiences we have to look forward to:

1. We can burn (or tan) or choose to smell like sunscreen—or do both.  
    
2. We can start a new hobby, like flying kites, or yelling at people who don’t clean up their dog’s poop on the sidewalk.
    
3. We can play lawn games while we drink brewskis and sip on freshly chilled wine coolers.
    
4. We can throw Frisbees at dogs.
    
5. We can go to the beach and take home fine grains of sand stuck in the cracks and crevices of places we’d rather not talk about.
    
6. We can seriously consider taking our shoes off outdoors, maybe.
    
7. We can go on long weekend vacations and sit in miles and miles of traffic.   
    
8. We can eat seafood and popsicles in any order we choose.
    
9. We can buy lawn furniture and tiki torches from department stores.
    
10. We can wear bathing suits at all times; just in case.

So get out there. Throw those shorts on. Squeeze into your bathing suits. Groom your body hair! Eat more hot dogs and pasta salad than you thought possible.

And let me tell you this … there is no way to prevent sand from getting stuck in your butt and other weird places. I’m sorry I led you on, but I really wanted your attention.  

How about, instead of worrying where all that sand is going to go you just focus on hitting the beach in style ...

Hit it with everything you got. Hit it with fully-stocked coolers filled to the brim with bologna sandwiches, juice boxes, and casual beers.

Hit it with ginormous half-functioning umbrellas that will most certainly fly away at the slightest breeze and wipe out the family next to you and every single one of their numerous screaming children.

Hit it with wetsuits and skim boards. With long, wistful walks along the sea shore. With bags of Doritos and warm, runny chocolate chip cookies.

Hit it with weird baby napping tents and sea-weathered bathing trunks.

Hit it with sick paddleball dives and cool, trendy shades that say:

“I came here to party and read my book quietly so please don’t approach my beach blanket perimeter and don’t you dare blast that crappy local music station ALL. GOSH. DARN. DAY!”

Hit it with metal detectors and funny, quirky remarks reserved specifically for men who wear short shorts and play too much beach volleyball (if there is such a thing).

Hit it with gusto.

Hit it with pizzazz.

Hit it with everything you got.

And then ... after you’ve had your fill, and you’ve lugged all your beach junk back to the car and you’ve wiped your feet off and put towels on the seats and you get stuck in traffic AGAIN and realize you have a neck burn and it hurts kind of a lot so you stop and get some green gooey aloe and then you get back to your cottage or home or camping tent and unload all the stuff and you’re absolutely starving ... it's time to wash off that sand.

Wash it off like a champ.

Happy summer!

And so, here we have an unfortunate and all too common breach of sidewalk etiquette. Easily classified as a certified act of thoughtlessness. How dare those fools be foolish! How dare they stand in that spot, so discourteous, so impolite. Something must be done.    

What do we do?
How will we get by?
Look!

Luckily, qualified help has arrived. A concerned team of firefighters begins erecting ladders and escorting grateful pedestrians up and over the obstruction in a civilized manner. More adventurous folk choose to bypass the aloof consortium of fools by going underground, tunneling furiously with nothing but headlamps and pick axes. A wiry man wearing a gray trenchcoat and crisp blue pants haphazardly sprouts a nifty set of propeller blades out of his funny-looking hat and flies over the whole mess. Fantastic!

But it’s not enough. People flee to the streets. Traffic grinds to a halt. Chaos ensues. Police officers shrug and stand by, powerless to enforce the decency that this sidewalk deserves. What’s the hold up here? Why are those birdbrained blockheads still standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk?   

Are they watching a funny video involving cats or domesticated marmots playing hopscotch, which obviously requires immediate viewing? Are they searching the Google machine for directions to the nearest vegan cigar bar? Maybe they’re playing a serious game of jacks. Does anyone know how to play jacks?  

The truth is, we don’t know why these absentminded delinquents chose this exact spot to stand around and hold a panel discussion on how to be oblivious to your surroundings. Maybe it’s an art installation. When in doubt, it probably is. But unfortunately, the only thing we know for sure is that the natural flow of pedestrian sidewalk traffic has been obstructed, diverted, and is now under the most serious threat of a full collapse. And that’s not cool.

How Can We Fix This? How Can We Enforce Proper Sidewalk Etiquette?

Can you imagine all the inconsiderate pedestrians, breaching sidewalk etiquette all across the world, in every city and on every sidewalk? People walking on the left side of the sidewalk? Large groups of friends, side-by-side, strutting, strolling, leaving room for no one else? Tiny wandering babies skedaddling and bee-bopping illogically in all directions while the parents play Angry Birds on their smartphones? Young teenage folk, talking to friends about the latest rumors and hearsay, speaking only in oddly high-pitched voices that defy everything we know about how voices should sound like? It’s hell out there.

Amanda and I deliberate; pondering the logistics of what it would take to keep pedestrians moving forward and undeterred by the countless distractions that might cause a group of people to stop sidewalk traffic.  

But how?
Stern looks?
Loud yelling?
Reprimands?
Scolding?
Tickets?
Whistles!

And then it came to us. The solution was clear: pool-noodling. Or rather, the striking of one human by another with a pool noodle. And not by me. By Amanda.

Crazy? Maybe. Illegal? I would say definitely. More importantly, would it be effective? Beyond all doubt.

The theory is simple: If you break the basic rules of the sidewalk, you put yourself at risk for a proper, and thorough walloping with a pool noodle. Stop to check your cellphone in the middle of a crowd? You get pool-noodled. Fancy yourself a whistler? (Nobody likes a whistler, not in public, not anywhere) You, my friend, are getting a serious pool-noodling. Shoelaces undone? Sorry, not sorry. Consider yourself noodled. Next time, find a proper area to tie those laces.

You see, no one is exempt, no one is above the law of pool-noodling. The pool noodle itself does not know age, race, or gender. It knows only justice.  

Pool-Noodling — Noun — Definition: An act of controlled violence typically enacted upon people who are bad at walking on sidewalks, in which they are forcefully struck or “whacked” with a pool noodle as a repercussion for their lack of judgment.

Used in a Sentence: When George stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk to check an urgent text message from his third cousin on his mother’s side, Charlemagne, he was abruptly pool-noodled on his left ear by a short, feisty woman.

Truth be told, Amanda is just the sort of strong-willed, eagle-eyed citizen this world needs to enforce this new form of punishment. She is the Judge Dredd of the sidewalk world; she never stops, she will find you, and she will have her justice. Fact.

Several Good Reasons Why Amanda is the Most Qualified Candidate for the Job

First, let us review Amanda’s incredible sidewalk navigation skills. She, my fiery wife, is what we in the walking business call a scout. What is a scout, you ask?

Scout — Noun — Definition:  A fleet-footed bipedal who whilst walking with friends or large groups of people, or even alone, is only able to move at a brisk pace, and cannot, under any circumstance, slow down to a sauntering speed. Nor is a scout able to reduce their gait velocity so as to walk casually with the intent of relaxation or to perform basic casual conversation with others lacking in briskness. Knowing full-well they are designed for one speed, and one speed only: brisk, a scout instead uses this to the advantage of the pack by walking several yards ahead and “scouting” the way forward for the overall safety and protection of the others.

The skills of a scout come in handy when ferocious wild animals are wandering about (i.e. hippopotami), or other dangerous things such as dastardly villains or pesky seagulls looking for their next french fry. These dangers can then be relayed back to the larger group, and an alternative route chosen. It’s important to note that the main purpose of walking for a scout is not relaxation but to get somewhere, dammit.

Amanda is perhaps the most skilled, most qualified scout I’ve ever seen. Her speed and pace is unrelenting; in another era, she would easily have been a champion power walker. Her elbows are tools, ready to spear and poke when called to battle. Her mind is calm, all while effortlessly ducking and dodging thru the not-so-innocent pedestrians who secretly plot to delay her with vulgar walking gaits and blockades of children.

As a scout, she can quickly and accurately assess the immediate surroundings and people, judge those surroundings and especially the people, and put an efficient, fair plan in place for moving forward. These abilities, bordering on superhuman, make her the best, most qualified candidate to appraise the sidewalk, find any wrongdoing or misbehavior, and begin whacking deserving pedestrians with a pool noodle before they even know what hit them.  

You can’t argue with that. In fact, if you do, she might whack you with a pool noodle.

Besides, her skillset is very specialized, very particular, and very much necessary. With a little more practice, she could become the Jason Bourne of pool noodling. Her ability to ambulate the sidewalk, unseen and in full stealth, allowing her to unsuspectingly sneak up on those she seeks to punish. So if you’re up to shenanigans on the sidewalk, you best rethink your game plan — because she’s going to get you. And you will be pool-noodled.

A Few Hypothetical Scenarios Where Amanda Enforces the Sidewalk Using Pool Noodles

When it comes to pedestrian walking faux pas, there are far too many. In fact, it’s quite easy to make a mess of things on the sidewalk on any given day. And with smartphones dominating our lives more and more it’s a wonder there’s any order left in this world. Most, unfortunately, we must all count ourselves among the guilty. As much as we’d like to think we’re all perfect sidewalk pedestrians, it is simply not true.

Let’s review the circumstances when it would be most appropriate for someone to receive a stern pool-noodling. Shall we?

Sidenote: It should go without saying that when you whack someone with a pool noodle, it doesn’t even hurt that much. Right? So no tattletales, please. No need to call the fuzz if you see someone getting pool-noodled. Amanda would never, ever, even under severe distress, bonk a random peep on the top of the head for no good reason. And she would never, ever wallop somebody who didn’t deserve it. Besides, it’s only polyethylene foam for crying out loud!

Scenario 1

Four best bros (college-age) are strutting down the sidewalk. These unenlightened bros are walking side-by-side, elbow-to-elbow, laughing and chortling like they own place. Oh dear. Side-by-side? Really? That’s the whole sidewalk bestie-brosephians. What were you thinking?

Required Action: The bestie-bros must be pool-noodled. Simple as that. This poor display of judgment made these ignorant bro-buddies prime candidates for a generous walloping. In response, Amanda comes out of nowhere, like a sneaky wallaby, fast as lightning, armed to the teeth in pool noodles. Whack, whack, whack. Arms are flailing, profanities are applied, and in the end, valuable sidewalk space is recovered. You just got pool noodled, bros! Pretty cool, right? Do you want another one? Keep walking, single file this time. We’ll be watching. Better, Better. I said single file, brosephs!

Scenario 2

An innocent-looking mother of two performs a full-stop on the sidewalk after receiving a critical Facebook alert regarding a picture she posted earlier of an adorable litter of goslings spotted at the park that morning. The alert called out to her from her purse like a siren seducing its next victim to the shores of Facebook’s notification system.

Of course, it’s no easy task digging a smartphone out from a bottomless purse. And the children begin to wander in an unsanctioned crisscrossing pattern like little drunken sailors. Five minutes later the woman has found the phone, lost the kids, held up countless pedestrians, and learned that so far three people she knew briefly in middle school are just tickled to pieces by the tiny adorable baby geese. Oh boy.

Required Action: While it’s never an easy decision to apply a swift pool-noodling in front of a mother’s children, it must be done. The hard part actually, is hitting the children with a pool-noodle. Obviously, much less force is applied, and they don’t really understand what they’ve done wrong, but rules are rules. Amanda pool noodles the whole gang (using a special pirate sword noodle) until the mother willingly returns her distraction device back to the bottomless purse, wrangles those little hooligans she calls her children and returns safely to the regular flow of sidewalk traffic. Well done everyone, well done.

Scenario 3

A man is walking ahead of you on the sidewalk, but you’re gaining on him. His pace is a smidgen slower than yours, and it’s clear you’re meant to pass. However, to do so, you must also increase gait velocity just enough to overtake him in a legal left side maneuver. Now here comes the tricky part. As you speed up to elapse the man, he, in what must be a very clear act of defiance, increases his speed, putting you in the awkward spot of running into oncoming foot traffic. This is a bullshit move. You know it. He knows it.

Required Action: Unfortunately for this man, he doesn’t yet know of the new street justice we call pool-noodling. Amanda, who has been training night and day in an abandoned warehouse where she has set-up a Ninja Warrior-like obstacle course, is an experienced and elite pool-noodler. In this scenario, she sits perched on a delicate limb of an old pin oak, watching over her city like a true protector of civil obedience.

Amanda leaps from several feet in the air and lands in front of the man in what can only be described as a perfect somersault. Springing to her feet like an uncaged wombat ready for action, she spins right while simultaneously unsheathing her pool noodle, striking down the man in a single blow with the fury of a truly impassioned warrior. She then repels back to her perch in the tree using her trusty grappling hook. And so the world returns to the very normal, very safe place we all want it to be, if only for a few moments.

Scenario 4

A youngish couple rolls up to the crosswalk on a busy street. The waiting area is already packed with several pedestrians waiting politely and patiently for the walk sign to display. Somewhere, in the managerial sections of their central nervous systems, certain neurons are firing off some very dumb ideas.

The youngish couple begins to question what all these people are waiting around for. Why not just cross now? So what if there’s traffic. We’re much smarter and more capable of crossing roads while cars are driving in both directions than any of these nitwits.

Besides, our time is precious, and we have very important things to do. So you see, we just can’t wait for the walk sign. We’re not like all of you. We are special. We will cross the road right now!

Required Action: Amanda can barely believe her own eyes. Holy baloney! Wait for the walk sign; it’s not that hard. Don’t you see the cars coming? The couple backs up a bit toward the sidewalk as if they’re just realizing they can’t cross the road yet. But they’re not done, not by a longshot. They try again! Can you even believe it? And again!

Amanda strikes with a double pool noodle to both faces. If the pedestrians could cross, they would be crossing. Do you think you have special street crossing powers? That the rules don’t apply to you? That you’re being inconvenienced by all these automobiles that are driving on the road properly and according to the law? On second thought, triple noodle whacks for both of you. Have a nice day.

Whatever Happened to the Aloof Pedestrians Who Started All This?

I think you probably get the idea by now. And yes, there is a long list of scenarios we did not cover above. But for now, let’s get this show on the road and return to the group of silly muddle-headed nincompoops who inspired this conversation — the aloof pedestrians.

Amanda spots them from no less than thirty yards out, huddled in the middle of the sidewalk around a smartphone looking at God knows what. There are no firefighters, no tunnelers with pick ax and headlamps, no help. That in fact, never actually happened, I made it up. There is only Amanda.

And like the cunning fox she is, her strong arm moves to the holstered pool noodles (yes she is carrying two), ready to strike. In a flash, she unsheathes both and swings for the back of the knees of the first two pedestrians. Spinning to her left, she finishes them off with a double-tap to the back of their heads. The last remaining pedestrian has no time to react. She sneers at him; he will remember that look forever. The two pool noodles collide simultaneously on both sides of his face, and he goes down hard.

And that’s that. The aloof pedestrians have been dealt with. Amanda sheathes her pool noodles and continues along the sidewalk conversing about what we’re going to have for dinner that night as if it’s no big deal. Well played, sweetheart, well played indeed.

As we finish our walk I make an effort to keep up with her, although it’s hard, she is so fleet-footed, so swift. And then, the world stops. A slow motion scene begins with all the regular accoutrements, and I switch roles from husband to foe in what can only be described as a mere second in time.

You see, earlier that day I posted a video to Instagram of a squirrel eating a chicken wing on top of our parking lot dumpster. It was hilarious. And now, a pesky fleet of neurons, firing up somewhere in my brain, really, really wants to me to see how many views it received.

Before I know what’s happening, my feet stop moving. I’m still. My hand reaches toward my pocket, and I’m opening up my Instagram. Dopamine rushes toward every available area of my body. My toes tingle a bit. My hip bones remain connected to my thigh bones.

Look!
Several views!
Very well-received!
I’m so proud of myself!

And then ...

Sorry honey! Says the look in Amanda’s eyes. I love you a ton, but it’s time to brace for impact because you’re getting a pool noodle to the face. Keep walking and next time just wait for a proper area to check out your Instagram video. Sincerely, your loving wife.

I see only a bright blue pool noodle right before the moment of impact. It connects perfectly, and my body crumbles to the ground. I have been pool-noodled. No one, not even husbands are exempt when justice is sought for the betterment of the species as a whole, for the enforcement of proper sidewalk etiquette. I get up, put my phone back in my pocket where it belongs, and take Amanda’s hand. And on we go.

Here are our instructions. Go forth. Question nought. The world is almost yours.

First, you must only use the ultramodern human tanning bed that we sent you. The bed will not only allow for the ongoing maintenance of your delightful orange hue but will also provide simple two-way communication with the penguin waddle for our covert strategic planning sessions.

This baby is packed with over a dozen rejuvenation lamps, the latest in Swedish facial bronzers, and a state of the art cooling system. It also comes fully equipped with an adjustable aroma feature that will dispense pleasing aromas (such as the fear of all those weaker than you) at your behest.

Second, do not shy away from being politically incorrect. In fact, embrace it. The more inappropriate you are, the more the mob will love you. Say the word “winning” feverishly, over, and over, and over again.

Tell people that you are an athlete and that you love winning, that you were a born winner. Tell them that America doesn’t win anymore. And when you’re elected, America will win everything, even curling and soccer. It will win ninja fights, miniature horse shows, and hard-fought matches of charades. Tell them America will win Angry Birds all the time. That America shall triumph in pole-vaulting and online checkers. Do so and your victory will be total and undisputed.

In regards to your hair, don’t change a damn thing you beautiful bastard.

Fourthly, the duckface is yours to command. So pout and pucker those lips at all times on the campaign trail. This facial expression will determine your dominance during the lengthy debate process, which will be long and very, very silly. The populace is bound by natural law to respect the alpha male with the largest cheekbones and lips. As such, you can never, ever, duckface too much. Remember this.

Fifthly, in three weeks time, we require you to send a freezer shipment that will include 800 pounds of hooked squid and 4000 pounds of lanternfish. Frankly, we’re sick of krill. It also wouldn’t be the worst thing if you threw in several hundred Black Cherry Vanilla Cokes. Those are the bomb.

Next, please carefully study the picture of the privileged white male we have sent you. His name is Jeb, and he will run against you for the GOP nomination. It is our desire that you proliferate as much frustration and trauma toward this man as you are capable of mustering.

Remember that time, when you were in high school, at that military academy, and that one guy tried to make fun of you for getting a weird haircut? And then, you did that thing, where you tore him a new butt hole, in front of everybody, and made him cry, a lot? Just do that, like, several times, in front of a national audience. Jeb has become an enemy of the waddle, and we wish his suffering to be great.

Once this man is gone, you will be charged with vanquishing two men of Cuban descent. One will be from Canada and the other from Miami. The Canadian will have Mr. Potato Head eyebrows capable of going toe-to-toe with your extraordinary hand and facial expressions. Do not take him lightly. Also, the Canadian has one hell of a cleft chin. Do not stare directly at it, this is where his power is stored.

The one from Miami will have a name similar to that of your favorite movie character, Rufio, from the movie Hook. You love Rufio. But remember, this man is not Rufio. His name just sounds similar to his. He is not the leader of the Lost Boys, and he does not have an awesome hairdo. He is just a junior senator from the state of Florida. Remember that. And destroy him without mercy.

Lastly, it is imperative that you use the social media platform Twitter pretty much all the time. We know that spelling things right is sort of your kryptonite. But luckily, most people don’t really care. Everyone know’s that spelling isn’t a big deal anymore. In fact, it might even be funny if you spell lots of words wrong, even easy ones. So yeah, all those ridiculous things you like to say, say them on Twitter, too.

Those are the instructions of the penguin waddle. For now, we must rejoin the breeding colony. Go forth and win the GOP nomination. After that, you’ll have a clear path to the Presidency. And Donald, rest assured, we will be watching. It’s up to you to make America great again. Subsequent communications will occur via the tanning bed. Good luck. All hail our wobbling gait and death to all leopard seals.

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And, there is a very real chance that you will lose everything you’ve ever worked to achieve; a 500 square foot apartment with a drop-down ceiling, a collection of pretty cool headbands, and of course, the Pyrex collection you’ve built over several years of serious investment.

People may mock you. They may throw vegetables at you. They may even assume that you perform in adult films as a profession.

But you persevere. You stick to your guns and your mustache wax, put your head down, and buck up. THAT’S what Movember is really about.

Unless, of course, you are one of the following: professional bowler; airline pilot; artisanal deli OR butcher shop employee; saxophone player; billiards equipment sales manager; mattress sales manager; Starbucks barista; professional fisherman (has to be on the circuit); corn or edamame farmer; laundromat owner; limo driver; craft beer maker; or odontologist.

In those cases, I believe mustaches are very much still considered normal.

Suffice it to say, the man who takes that kind of risk and chooses to do it anyway, to go forth, reputation and respect at stake, cards on the table, soul naked and stripped down to the bare bones and mustache, is a pretty special person indeed.

And I am a special person. People tell me that all the time.

Actually, none of that is true. To be honest, it took very little effort — physically or mentally, to grow a mustache for the Movember month-long fundraiser.

I found that as long as you own it, you take care of it, and don’t mind a weird look or two every hour of each day, you almost forget it’s even there.

I truly enjoyed my experience, and I’m glad I did it. I’m a little older. A little wiser. And a little bit more awesomer than I was before.

I even made some big bucks to support men’s health and hopefully I motivated a few people (wink wink) in my life to get off their butts and move their bodies around — even if just for a minute or two every day. Probably not, though.

So here is a brief summary of all the important lessons I learned about the growing, maintaining, and wearing of superior and magnificent mustache:

Having A Mustache Forces You to Take Thousands of Selfies

Every man has his limit when it comes to the number of selfies he can take of himself over the course of a month, Turns out, mine is quite high. The thicker the mustache grew, the bigger my infatuation with myself became.

I selfied all the time; morning, day, and night. In the shower. On the couch. Driving the car at fast speeds with minimal attention to the road. While enjoying the company of friends and family. One time while hang gliding. At dinner. Over drinks. And of course, automated time released selfies during nap time.

A few turned into a few dozen. Hundreds into thousands. Now, there’s no telling how many pictures I took of myself.

In correlation to the increase in selfies, I also learned that it’s much more fun to stare at myself in mirrors and large office windows. It’s like I’m meeting another me, who is not quite me, but rather, a slight variation of the self I know.

The mustache is cool. And that beautiful man in the mirror can take as much time as he needs to look at himself, for as long as he pleases, and without having to explain a gosh darn thing.

Mustache Grooming is NOT as Dangerous as You Might Think

Grooming is dangerous, has been for thousands of years. Any time a mammalian species becomes conscious and decides that it wants to shape or rid itself completely of certain particular body hairs there will be risk involved. Period.

We’re talking cuts, nicks, burns — all the bad stuff.

Luckily, mustache grooming isn’t considered one of the more dangerous genres of the grooming family.

For instance, it is well known that the grooming techniques for the human nether regions are responsible for the majority of grooming-related injuries.

Following that, in order of most dangerous, are the kneecaps, ears, and the nose.

Never underestimate the nose, whether you be male or female. Take your time. Really make sure you’re not just swinging the tiny scissors around in there. Stay focused, don’t drink alcoholic beverages before or during the process. And when it’s time to strike — strike true.

The biggest concern with the mustache is the lip area. Once overgrown, it’s quite common to neglect this section of the mustache. But, per our cultural instinct, it’s considered proper form to trim the mustache above the lip line. Otherwise, you risk looking like a fool.

When You Have a Mustache, You Always Have Something to Talk About

It’s true. Most people are more than happy to point out that you’re growing a mustache. They like to smile a little while they point it out.

Some will even try to win you over with flattery by telling you how handsome you look. I'll tell you right now, flattery just plain works. 

I once met a bro in a bar who also had a mustache and was so excited about mine that he flat out demanded that we take a selfie together. You see, mustaches bring people together. It’s an organic part of our human nature, instinct, a bonding device written in code deep within our genetic composition.

It’s also a bit like having a baby. People ask for updates as the process moves along and the mustache grows.

How long has it been?
It’s three weeks, now
It looks good
Thanks.

One issue I should have known about is the effect a mustache has on women. Now, I’m happily taken, my fiance and I are preparing for that final step into wedded bliss in only a few short weeks.

So clearly I’m off the market. But ladies don’t care about that. They only care about the mustache. And once that puppy started growing in I had to avoid them at all costs, mostly by physically running away from.

It’s not their fault, I know. But it gets annoying when you spend all day literally running away from women. It’s tiring.

When You Have A Mustache, You Feel Emotions Deeper Than Regular People

When you have a mustache you become one with the universe almost immediately. It’s natural, organic, and faster than taking drugs or practicing meditation for years to attain this state.

For centuries, men and women have lost themselves in the woods, purposefully, in the quest to find the answers to life’s most difficult questions.

But you don’t need to do that. You just need to grow a mustache and most, if not all, of the complicated stuff, is revealed. I promise.

You also have a wider and more mature range of facial expressions. That’s why many successful actors and television personalities choose to grow awesome mustaches; Burt Reynolds, Tom Selleck, Geraldo Rivera; Hulk Hogan; Charlie Chaplin; Eddie Murphy; Dr. Phil; Herman Beeftink; and of course, Wilford Brimley.

Speaking of my own range, I can quickly go from happy to mildly annoyed, all the way to “darn it I forgot my salad dressing today”, in less than forty-seven seconds. And that’s just truth.

Life Gets A Little Bit Sadder, A Little Bit Less Thrilling When Your Mustache Is Gone

There are many unintended consequences of shaving a mustache that I was not aware of until it was too late. You see, I couldn’t keep my mustache. Although, I grew to love it, and nurture it, as if it were a part of me forever, I had to say goodbye.  

But once I did, the number of selfies I took scaled down tremendously.

It’s not the same anymore. I went from having thousands of available facial expressions to basically just one awkward one where I look like my traumatic thirteen-year-old self who didn’t even know how to smile or express emotion.

Now I’m just a normal human; there’s nothing special or particularly interesting about me. My confidence is gone. Shot.

I fall down a lot because my muscles actually shrunk and I can’t support my frail, weak body like I used to. Nightmares of people pointing and making fun of me are basically played on repeat at night, and that’s IF I actually fall asleep.

I also picked up the bad habit of shrieking whenever I come across myself in a mirror. At first my brain doesn’t know who it is, it’s like a stranger invaded my body. And then before I can stop it, a high-pitched shriek is emitted for a period of 6-13 seconds. It’s embarrassing, especially at work.

I know this won’t last forever, this cloud of sadness, of loss. I’m suffering from what they call post-mustache stupidity.

There are support groups I can attend, meditations I can listen to, and therapists willing to lend an ear for an exorbitant fee. And I’ll get there, I know I will. But it can be tough.

This Isn’t Goodbye to the Mustache, It’s See You Soon

It was Wyclef Jean, the philosopher hip-hop artist, who wrote the song, “I’ll be Gone ‘Til Movember.”

It’s about a man’s mustache, and it’s hit home pretty hard. To quote some of the lyrics:

Yo, tell my girl, yo, I'll be gone 'til Movember
January, February, March, April, May
I see you cryin', but girl, I can't stay
I'll be gone 'til Movember, I'll be gone 'til Movember

So let’s not say goodbye to my mustache. Rather, I’ll see you soon. Until next time. Until the next stache. Until the stache — awakens.

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I can assure you that was not the case.

The Cold Hard Truth About Being a Bubble Boy

This has happened to me before — getting sick. I’m prone to these bouts, I’m a bonafide bubble boy with all the trimmings; allergies to dust mites, trees, nuts, cats; brittle and easily conquered by bacteria and viral attacks — such has been my life.

Woe is me.

I try and act tough, but I am not a strong man. Once infiltrated by some prying infection, the invaders turn my entire body against me in a laughably simple act of mutiny, and I am left zombified to a crisp.

My energies trickle out one by one until I’m rendered immobile on the couch or the living room floor, begging my fiance for tea and sips of purple Gatorade.

I dress in sweaters and heavy socks. I instruct all residents of the building to bring me anything made out of wool. Fires are erected, and all spare materials are sent to feed the flames intended to stop me from being cold.

And then I fall asleep. Only to wake up in a drippy mess of sweat and confusion. Out with the fires. Off with the wool. How many pairs of sweatpants am I wearing? Three! That is impossible. The cardigans come off, and the winter hat goes back to whence it came.

Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

I am a poor sight indeed. Complaining. Whining. Pondering my eventual doom brought on by the latest of whatever ails me. I am one big baby.

Then I get better, life goes on, and I go on my way as if nothing ever happened.

But one thing I’ve always wanted for these difficult times is a good thermometer. I feel cold. And then hot. But what am I really? I have all the other tools; a medicine cabinet full of remedies and placebos; tissue boxes ordered in bulk; eye masks and heating pads; a good humidifier; juices and elixirs.

Why no thermometer?

Brief Notes and Information About An Exceptional American Retailer

So I decided to take action. And that meant a trip to an exceptional local retailer. That meant a trip — to Target.

If you didn’t know before, Target is an exceptional American retailer who, according to Wikipedia, “offers a multitude of goods.”

Here’s another neat fact, did you know that there is something called a SuperTarget? And that they are numerous and plentiful, particularly in larger states like Florida and Texas?

Also according to Wikipedia, “97% of American consumers recognize the Target Bullseye logo.”

Again, no surprise there.
Question is ...
Who’s that other three-percent?

And so, I headed to Target on a mission to obtain a thermometer. I knew this would not make me better, but I had to do something. I had to act. I had to know whether or not I was cold or hot!

A Brilliant Target Pharmacist Helps Me Find the One True Thermometer

When you’re sick, it’s hard to do anything, especially when it comes to shopping because you have to make decisions. And when there are several thermometers to choose from it can be very troubling, even traumatic to be shopping alone.

There is not enough energy or life force to scroll through Amazon reviews on my phone. I am in need of assistance.

I choose to speak to a real-live human being person. He will help me. He is a pharmacist. Or at least, he is a younger man with a shiny head standing behind the area that says “Pharmacy.”

Excuse me, sir. Are any of these thermometers better than the others?

He does not speak. His head shakes back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, a near perfect rhythm.

These are all the same? These thermometers?

He makes a subtle change; what was once back and forth is now up and down. I understand this motion, too. It means “yes.”

So I don’t need to buy the $20 one?

The head goes back and forth or even side-to-side, I suppose. This man speaks no words when it comes to the careful deconstruction of competing thermometer products.

I wonder if he trains other employees in his methods. He could be selling out customer service seminars all over the world — charging small fortunes to pass on his superior and ancient methods of communication.

Lesson One: Never use words when simple head movements are enough to provide a response. Keep it simple. Up. Down. Left. Right. Now practice. Up. Down. Left. Right.

So this one is OK? This thermometer right here? The $10 one?

I raise $10 thermometer up in the air to show him. Up and down. Up and down.

Good enough for me.

I skip the self-checkout lines because they suck and I have no patience for how bad I am at using them. I prefer a human to help me with my purchases. Before I know it, my achy body is back on the streets of the Fenway neighborhood, desperate for blankets and Netflix.

A Stranger Speaks At A Familiar Crosswalk, Lives Change Forever

I stand there, at the crosswalk. It is deep into Fall, and although the hour is still early, the sky is already falling and has almost disappeared completely.

I push the crosswalk button. This is a very familiar crosswalk for me.

I’ve been crossing it for years. I know that it will be a long wait because I see the light change to green on my way out of the Target.

I wait.
A man approaches.
He wears an orange winter hat and a curious grin.

The man appears antsy. He is shuffling his feet. I ignore him. I think about my new $10 thermometer. And then, the stranger does the unthinkable. He speaks.

Do I look ready?
Yes. I think so.

I’m not sure what he looks ready for. Murdering? Serial killing? He is much taller than me. He is the kind of tall that knows they are a little too tall and so they slouch a tiny bit.

I have no problem responding to crazy people. So yes, I told the man that he “looked ready.” For what, I do not know?

If it was for climbing a mountain, obtaining a gun license, or winning a spelling bee, I’m sure my response would not have been correct. But I doubt he was wondering about any of those things.

And the man is still here. He speaks again.

Good.
I have my winter hat. (He points)
I have my new shoes. (He points)
And I have my cool phone. (He points)

BINGO. This guy is batshit crazy. He’s bobbing and smiling and going through his outfit, excited to check-off each item out loud and for an audience of one stranger — me. I wanted to start listing off my own inventory; jacket; boat shoes; cool phone; thermometer, betcha don’t have that; wool socks; and boom, gloves.

But I do not.

I see my escape route laid out ahead of me. Any second now and this interaction will be over. But then, for some reason, I am speaking.

That settles it.
You are ready.
Do you have a date?

He seems so excited about the things he chose to bring with him tonight. Why not a date? He could be on his way to a date. Who that woman might be I’m unable to picture in my mind, but there must be one.

No, not tonight.
Then what are you ready for?
My lady.
But not tonight? When.

He responds with this:

“Who knows. She’s a 40-year-old Asian woman. Look at me I’m a 57-year-old man. We’ve been on six dates.”

This was getting interesting. Seconds after meeting for the first time, as strangers, at a crosswalk, this man, who is bobbing up-and-down, ansty, and potentially lopsided, wearing an orange hat, wants to talk relationships.

So when’s the seventh date?
I don’t know.

“She’s stalling because sex is in the picture now. And she’s scared because she has an eight-year-old daughter. She has a husband back in China, but they don’t like each other which is why she is seeing me. But she doesn’t want the kid to know. So no sex, yet.”

Well, that’s a shame.
I know.
Keep trying, friend.

The man doesn’t seem disheartened by his attempts to court this woman he speaks of, just a little frustrated by the lack of physical intimacy.

To the surprise of us both, the walk sign lights up, safe passage is granted. He’s still bobbing, bouncing up-and-down like he just wasn’t meant to ever be still.

I really am too sick to be murdered right now. Please orange hat man, turn in a different direction.

And then he speaks, again.

It’ll be OK.
You know why?
Because I’m the Terminator.
And I just keep on coming back.

The man in the orange hat laughs, maniacally, and with a thunderous depth that makes me believe beyond any doubt that I may very well have to start running, and fast.

But I am mistaken. He politely says goodnight and takes a right turn, allowing me to go about my night and subsequently — the rest of my life.

And then it dawns on me. I just met the Terminator. And lived.

I see it so clearly now — the Terminator and his new found love in a heated and forbidden romance. She, a beautiful younger woman from the East, whose evil tyrant of a husband remains overseas, is torn between her duties as a wife and the passion she feels in her heart for an older American man with an orange hat and a mischievous slouch.

Goodbye, Terminator. And good luck in your romantic endeavours. I have no doubt that your strategy of persistence through returning over and over again into this woman's life will pay off in due time.

Back to the Apartment to Try My New Thermometer

Upon settling back into the warmth of my apartment, stocked with blankets, pillows, and slippers to comfort me in my sickly state, I rip open the thermometer and immediately bypass the folded instruction booklet.

Finally, the truth awaits.

97.9

I am no scientist, but over the years, of which I have thirty-three under my belt now, it has been thoroughly drilled into my brain that anything around 98.5 means neither warm or cold. Let’s check again.

98.2

Well, at least I know that I can be cold, and hot, and sick, and have absolutely no internal temperature issues whatsoever.

I would go on to be sick for several days. In fact, I am still sick now. Some things have gotten better and others worse.

I am blanketing myself this very moment. I've consumed tea with honey and lemon. I've watched every episode of the new Aziz Ansar Netflix show. I've abandoned all hope only to be brought back to the brink of life by a delicious lime-flavored popsicle.

But if I hadn’t got sick then I would have never convinced myself I needed a thermometer. And if had never convinced myself that I needed a thermometer then I would have never met the Terminator.

And my life would be poorer for it. Remember, sometimes a stranger is just a stranger — and not a serial killer.

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