Break dance

This may come as a surprise to you: children, believe it or not, tend to break things. I thought, perhaps, our child would be different. I thought that maybe, just maybe, Kyle would be able to look at a fine piece of china, admire its beauty and delicate design, and not be tempted to use it as a Frisbee. That, of course, was a few months ago, when Kyle was about as mobile as a pineapple. Now that he's realized that his arms and legs are more than just things to suck on, Kyle has become a greater threat to some of our prized possessions.

We already have begun the process of moving things higher, as Kyle pushes the limits on how far he can reach. Eventually I will need a ladder to grab any of our glassware. But we haven't been moving everything, since we had thought certain things were safe. For example, we had a couple of tin mugs and plastic margarita glasses placed as decorations on a couple of low shelves near our refrigerator. They didn't seem breakable at all. Sure enough, not long after Kyle first crawled into the kitchen, he found them:



Those were happier times. Kyle would roll the margarita glasses on the floor, testing the laws of physics: an object in motion will stay in motion, especially on a warped kitchen floor such as ours. We were fine with him having fun with the plastic margarita glasses, even though they were family heirlooms dating back to the revolutionary war, when my great-great-great-uncle Gaspard Adams used their glowing green cacti to impale the British soldiers. So you can imagine my sadness when this is how those margarita glasses looked several days later:



It was an abrupt end to Kyle's fun, and to our glasses. The first one seemed to come apart on its own, and I thought that maybe Kyle had nothing to do with it; maybe they were made with some faulty glue from China that simply came undone. I learned soon enough that wasn't the case. As I sat on the floor next to Kyle, I watched him play with the remaining margarita glass. Then, out of nowhere, as if a wrecking ball possessed him, Kyle took the glass and slammed it into the refrigerator, smashing it in two. He then went to play with something else, oblivious to what had just happened. I was left to pick up the pieces. Jennifer and I did not have margaritas that evening.

So now we're living in a constant state of fear for what's next. We had heard rumors that children had the ability to make everything breakable, but I guess you don't realize just how true that is until you experience it first-hand. Kyle has been moving faster lately, and he's been pounding his hands against most things he comes across. I spend a lot of my days following him around, running a checklist through my head as to what's okay for him to break and what's not. I know that the more Kyle explores, the more we'll pick our battles and give up on things ("Well, I guess that 18th-century vase wasn't from a relative we liked very much"). I just hope we have something remaining in one piece by the time he goes to college.

Enemy of the (Empire) State

Sunday was a sunny day in New York, and it was hard for anyone to stay indoors. All of New York's estimated eight million and three people took to the streets, which meant a person had to wait in line just to go for a walk. For our little family, it was worth it. We had brunch at our favorite local restaurant, and Kyle watched the passersby as he enjoyed a price fixe meal of yogurt and Gerber peaches (with matching formula for each entree). We then strolled through our neighborhood before stopping at a nearby playground, where we practiced pushing our kid around:



This was Kyle's third time on a swing; his first time was just a week earlier. I can't exactly say for sure, but I think he enjoys it. Either that, or he has some sort of allergic reaction to the swing that causes his face to freeze with his cheeks spread apart and his mouth open wide.

The swing wasn't the only thing he enjoyed at the playground. He also enjoyed the slide... and the ladies. Kyle worked his charm on the young girls around him, often reaching out his hand to grab theirs, and they returned the favor. He worked some of his best pick-up lines and probably would have scored some numbers had any of these girls known how to write. Everyone seemed to love our little guy. Sadly, though, that will all change soon.

The next time Kyle enters a playground, he probably will be shunned by the other kids. Nobody, not even the young ladies, will want to be associated with him. Many will "boo," spit and scowl at him. Some may call him names, like "bawb bawb bawb," "doy doy doy" or any other vulgarity in baby speak. How do I know this? Well, baseball season began this week, and, chances are, when Kyle returns to the playground, he'll be sporting clothing supporting his favorite team... a team that's not exactly loved in New York. You know the one. That team. It's Kyle's team and will always be Kyle's team, because Kyle is such a huge fan. The fact that his dad grew up in the Boston area has nothing to do with it. Just look how much our little guy loves his baseball team:



Now, some people may say that I'm being cruel to my child by raising him as a Red Sox fan in New York. Some may think that I'm just doing this to toughen my kid up, and to teach him at an early stage how to deal with obnoxious jerks, whiners and losers (also known as Yankees fans). There is some truth to that, but, to be honest, I have lived in this city for more than five years now and I've come to realize that Yankee fans can be tolerated. Heck, I've even become close friends with some of them. The truth is, many Yankee fans are just good people who suffer from a poor upbringing or a genetic disorder, especially those born in New York. The New York natives grew up rooting for that team, and they simply didn't know any better.

And that's where Kyle comes in. He can be the healer. Kyle has the ability to look a Yankee fan in the eye and make them see their misguided ways. By working his charm on the kids who jeer him in the playground, Kyle may be able to convert them into Sox fans... or at least Mets fans. It may be too late to convert the parents, though he will try. If anything, maybe, just maybe, Kyle will get them to stop jeering me.

Sure, being a Red Sox fan in New York will be tough for Kyle, but I'm sure he'll find that all the harassment is worth it, especially if he gets to see the Sox win a championship. And if he converts at least one child on the playground, he'll definitely feel he accomplished some good for society. I'm sure all of us will sleep a little better at night knowing there's one less Yankee fan in the world.

Foolin' around

It's that time of year again. The sun is shining, the days are becoming warmer, and the smells of spring are dancing through the air and up my nose, beginning a non-stop sneeze-a-thon. With the deep freeze over, Kyle and I are no longer trapped inside our apartment, forced to entertain ourselves by crawling around, taking off our socks, and throwing toys onto the floor (Kyle normally just watches me). Now we can go outside and do those things! With the dawn of spring also comes the celebration of perhaps one of the most cherished holidays of the year: April Fool's Day.

I try not to let an April Fool's Day go by without honoring its traditions. Last year I actually tricked a few people into thinking that we were going to name our son after one of my former bosses. That was a lot of fun, as some people thought we were serious and bought Kyle all kinds of monogrammed stuff with the other guy's name on it. It cost them lots of money, but we all had a good laugh. This year, though, I'm not sure what to do. Tomorrow I'm going to be spending nearly all of my time with the little guy, and he probably won't understand the joke. I could try mixing his baby food, sneaking in some peas or Tabasco sauce with his bananas, but instead of laughing and saying the baby equivalent of "Ha! You got me!" I think he just won't eat it. Maybe I could trick him by hiding all his toys and saying they were eaten by a monster, who would be coming for him next. No... I still think he probably wouldn't get it and likely would start crying. Babies are just not that much fun when it comes to practical jokes. I guess I'll have to wait a few years until Kyle is ready.

(Above: Kyle learns that a puppy did not come in the mail, despite what his dad had told him)

I do hope Kyle enjoys April Fool's Day when he gets older. I remember being a big fan of it when I was a kid. Back then I would use construction paper to cut out a big letter "B" and I'd stick it inside the closet. Then I'd tell my mom "There's a bee in the closet! There's a bee in the closet!" She'd then pull out a can of Raid, crack the door and spray the closet before completely opening the door to reveal my joke, among our now-ruined jackets and suits. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I tried it again in the following years to get the same reaction, but after a while the joke became old, and I decided to stop doing it once I turned twenty-five. I hope Kyle finds the same joy in playing a simple trick on us, though he'll have to be a little more clever to get me.

So I'm thinking tomorrow won't be much of an April Fool's Day for us. I suppose I could call Jennifer at work and tell her the apartment burned down, but considering she proof-reads my blog, she might realize that I'm only kidding. I don't think I can pull off anything with Kyle just yet, and most of my friends know better than to be tricked by me. That leaves my parents. Now I wish I had the foresight to get some construction paper and cut up a letter. I could have called them up tomorrow and said that there was a bee in the mailbox. Now THAT would have been funny!

The Baskin-Robbins Age

Ten years ago today I wasn't feeling well. I was incredibly tired, bothered by bright lights, and in constant need of a bathroom. I don't feel the same way today, except maybe for the "incredibly tired" part. I suppose that's the difference between recovering from your 21st birthday and recovering from your 31st.

I don't want to spend this post complaining about my age, because I know in reality I'm not that old, even if I'm 217 in dog years. Yet I'm amazed that a decade has already passed since my 21st birthday. Granted, a number of things have changed. For example, back when I turned 21, my roommate and I had a beer display in our apartment:

That wouldn't work today, mostly because Jennifer won't approve of me adding a beer display to our current apartment, though I still believe it would look nice inside the china cabinet. No, instead our apartment today has a bear display:

And that, I suppose, is where the big difference lies: that whole "having a kid" thing. Otherwise I'd be able to say 31 is the new 21 and go back to sleeping until 4 pm. For Kyle, sleeping late means sleeping until the sun starts to rise. And that's on a good day. The night before my birthday he woke up at 3 am and cried for about 45 minutes. That was his birthday gift for me, and he wanted to make sure I appreciated it. Jennifer appreciated it, too.

That, of course, leads to another big difference between 21 and 31. Since I'm up so early, I'm having trouble staying up so late. When I turned 21, we stayed at our local pub until it closed, then went back to my apartment and partied there until I couldn't remember my name anymore. When I turned 31, I ordered take-out from the local pub, watched re-runs of "The Office," and was in bed by 11 pm.

Hmmmm... okay... so maybe I really am that old. I'm just glad I'm not a dog.

Luck of the 6.3% Irish

As many of you know (and some suffering from hangovers are trying to forget), yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. It's a golden opportunity for New York City's arsonists and robbers, as most members of the city's police and fire departments march in the annual parade and then head to their local pubs for the day. Those of us who are not into setting fires or robbing stores just mark the day by wearing something green.

St. Patrick's Day did not go unnoticed in our home. There is some Irish blood in my side of our family, as my grandfather was half Irish, and my mother has naturally red hair. Kyle is a sixteenth Irish, but it's a strong sixteenth. After all, his name is Irish, meaning "narrow piece of land" (we thought it fit him well). That's gotta count for something. Kyle celebrated the day by dancing a few Irish jigs in his playpen as his dad played his collection of family-friendly Irish folk songs, which are mostly about drinking, war, and more drinking. The little guy also watched the parade on TV. We didn't want to go see it in person, since Kyle's not yet tall enough to look over the crowds, and we were afraid that some of the over-spirited spectators would have confused him for a leprechaun.

A few days earlier, we took Kyle on a time-honored St. Patrick's Day tradition known as the "Pub Crawl." Our friends had organized the event and we wanted to support them by sacrificing our afternoon to visit several drinking establishments and guzzle down a few Guinnesses. There's no actual crawling involved, especially in the earlier hours, much to Kyle's disappointment.

Some people may think that going on a pub crawl with a nine-month-old is irresponsible. Not so. It would have been irresponsible if we all went on the crawl and then let him drive home afterwards. Though, to be honest, it was more like a gathering of friends, and there were other families there. Having a kid did make the event different than it was last year: I had to get used to asking the bartenders if they had any formula on tap.

Kyle enjoyed the event for nearly two hours, but it all went south when we all broke into a chorus of "Happy Birthday" for our friend Matt, whose birthday happens to be on St. Patrick's Day. Kyle started wailing at that point, apparently because he doesn't like birthday parties. I took note of that (it will save us some money in a few months), and we quickly got our things together. We wished everyone a happy St. Patrick's Day and left.

Overall, Kyle seemed to enjoy his first St. Patrick's Day, though I think he liked the music and parade more than the pub crawl. The only thing missing was the corned beef and cabbage. Too bad Gerber's baby food doesn't come in that flavor.