Some of you fine folks might assume that editors of DadWagon, because we share this blog together, are actually friends. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me disabuse of that notion, by sharing the following email string between Nathan, Matt, and me. Let me point out first, however, that my co-respondents are in Los Angeles and Key West as they respond, and that New York City is presently choking beneath a foot of snow:
Nathan, to
Matt and Me, 9:51am: It came a little late, but it’s there. Anything from you today, Ted?
Matt (10:23): might get something in, depending on naptimes.
Me (10:37): I’ll get something together in a bit. i just finished shoveling.
Nathan (10:40): I’m having crepes outdoors.
Matt (10:43): And I’ll be sitting by the pool in the desert, surrounded by nubile rock chicks with asymmetrical haircuts.
Matt's poolside hangout.
And I will be heading out into the snow to buy diapers. Fuck the world.
I hope you all had a good Christmas weekend. The holiday was very kind to us and very rough on pigs: we spent the weekend eating bacon for breakfast, roast pork for lunch, lechón asado (yes, grilled suckling pig) for dinner. It was less like Christmas and more like a pagan slaughter-festival.
Through all of this, my two-year-old boy was the leader. He was the first to announce or at least admit to hunger. He’s shaking off the last remnants of pneumonia, and even through his sickness, his appetite barely wavered. He sits in his booster seat, eyeing his food, asking “what’s dat?” and without waiting for a response, shovels great spoonfuls (or handfuls) of it into his mouth. Eating is the one thing he does with concentration and passion, every time.
Before I had kids, I would have maybe been concerned about all this gluttony. I would have wondered if Nico would end up like that poor superobese three-year-old I remember seeing someone cart around the Puyallup Fair back when we lived in Seattle. But I’m not worried. He likes veggies, and we limit his Fanta consumption to one two-liter bottle a day (kidding!).
But seriously, I am, in that visceral way that parents of young children are, delighted to watch the kid eat heartily. Especially since our daughter’s appetite is a wounded, fragile creature.
I’m even learning that my boy might be inclined to understand the world through his stomach. Case in point: botany. Not a subject he’s thought a lot about growing up in New York City, where all the trees are watered with urine.
But we’re vacationing in the town I grew up in, Key West, where the plants tend to demand your attention and respect. The bird of paradise flower looks like it’s about to attack you; heavy mahogany seedpods actually do. Banyans are just humbling to be around, and poincianas rain red leaflings constantly over the whole island.
Yesterday, though, my boy figured out the real genius of the Keys’ flora. In my mom’s yard, he looked up, cocked his head, and said, “what’s dat food in dat tree?” We couldn’t quite figure out what he was talking about: had someone thrown a chicken leg in the ficus? He pointed, though, and it became clear: he was looking at the coconuts on the palm tree, about twenty feet of the ground.
Son, you’re gonna like this place if you like food in trees. My mother lives in one of the older neighborhoods on the island: it’s where all the workers from Gato’s cigar factory were housed over a hundred years ago. The trees are old and abundant. I lived a few years in this part of town as a child, and in the yard of even that modest conch house there were avocado and papaya and mango trees. The banana grew like a weed and had to be cut back constantly. Across the street, a huge tamarind tree flowered in Bayview Park. About the only plant you couldn’t eat in Key West is the corn plant, which must have gotten its name because it grows straight and ugly.
We had our own heavy winds here yesterday (not quite a blizzard, though–apologies to the wife, who is headed back to work up north once the New York airports open this afternoon). It knocked a huge frond off a neighbor’s palm and, with it, a half-dozen coconuts. They look a little old, but I got a couple for the kids and we’re going to open them today to see if there’s good meat inside still. And I’ll be making a point, from now on, of finding all the fruiting trees and plants I can here. I want my son to learn to love this place and the tropics in general the way I do. Besides, the boy is hungry.
The wife flew in last night. After four days solo with the kids–including playing nursemaid for my son, who, in a bit of Christmas magic, has pneumonia–I am now relegated to my usual position: second-stringer.
Am I upset about being back on the bench, while the mom gets all the perks of being a starter? No, I’m not. I mean, it can be a bit jarring being tossed aside. They were starving for a bit of my attention twelve hours ago. Now, if I stand in between them and their new (old) favorite, I might just get a knife in the back.
Such is the life of the bench player. It’s hard to be a consistent performer without all the playing time. But that’s what you’re here for—to wait, watch, and try to stay mentally in the game. And for those few brief moments when the starter is away, or sick, or maybe even just in the shower, then it’s your turn to show what you’ve got. Just remember, when you’re in the lights and the pressure’s on and you start thinking, boy, it’d be nice to be sitting quietly with a beer: you’ll get your chance soon enough, when the real star comes back to the lineup.
Some of you fine folks might assume that editors of DadWagon, because we share this blog together, are actually friends. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me disabuse of that notion, by sharing the following email string between Nathan, Matt, and me. Let me point out first, however, that my co-respondents are in Los Angeles and Key West as they respond, and that New York City is presently choking beneath a foot of snow:
