In retrospect, it was obviously all my fault. As I sat on the bench in the East Broadway station, with Sasha at my side munching on her Chinese bakery sweet bun, I thought I might be able to quickly check my e-mail on my iPhone. I was wrong. As soon as Sasha saw the phone, …
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Subway Follies: Dads vs. Pregnant Women
A couple of weeks ago, Jean, Sasha, and I were riding the F train. We do this a lot. It goes where we want to go, generally, and takes us back to where we live. I don’t know where we were going at the time, but what I do remember is that the train was …
Just Poop Already, Dammit!
Not a fun morning. Fifteen minutes after Jean left to take Sasha to school, she returned. Sasha, it appears, had been grabbing her butt and complaining it hurt too much to walk. Again. FUCKING AGAIN. This is becoming an all-too-regular occurrence in our lives: Sasha’s butt hurts, which means she needs to poop, but the …
I Scream (and Scream and Scream) About Ice Cream
The weather in New York has been warm and gorgeous of late, and that means the beginning of a particularly NYC-ish phenomenon: screaming about the overreach of entitled parents in Brooklyn! I’m just kidding—that’s a year-round phenomenon. But the latest case hits home with me in a surprising way. Here it is, courtesy of the …
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