All posts tagged: finding moments


When Big E was seven weeks old, a friend invited my partner and me to an antique auction in Nowheresville, Connecticut. My first auction. I’m always game for “firsts”. There were hilarious (shocking) items for sale. Of note was a box of lawn boy/mammy figurines, including a 7-inch Aunt Jemima iron doorstop. Not all of Connecticut is Martha Stewartville. We ended up buying a 5-foot tall gramophone. It collected dust for two years, then we donated it to a flea market. But I digress. Big E got fussy, predictably, when serious bidding began. So I took him into an adjacent room where a woman sold hot dogs, coffee and cookies. She had a mullet half way down her back. On her sweatshirt was an airbrushed wolf howling at the moon. It was awesome. Not that I’m furthering rural stereotypes, but across the street was a drag racing track. Anyway. She ooh’d and ahh’d over Big E and marveled at me keeping him quiet. We made small talk about regular baby things: birth weight, sleeping, etc. …


I just spent a weekend on Nantucket crashing on a friend’s couch. He’s the artistic director of the Theatre Workshop of Nantucket. Hey, it’s who you know. We passed the island elementary school several times. Seeing it took me back to the summer I lived on Nantucket during college. It was my “black-and-white-Abercrombie-and-Fitch-catalog-summer-on-the-beach;” debaucherous and delectable. I worked as a camp counselor for Strong Wings. Every morning kids congregated at Nantucket Elementary at 7:45. We counselors would ride bikes with ten eight-year-olds trailing like ducklings. We’d go to various points of the island to kayak, hike or build “extreme” (really big) sand castles. My most indelible camp memory was of a kid named Clay. It’s illustrative, if boorish, to call him a “weenie”: chubby, whiny, always holding up the group, and most likely to lose the key to his bike lock on the beach. I hasten to say he was very sweet. Forgive my use of “weenie”, but I bet you’ve got a vivid picture. Clay drew the most mockery from fellow campers with his …

I Don’t Love You, Daddy

So Big E wakes from his afternoon nap (after his first day of preschool) and proclaims dispassionately, “I don’t love you, Daddy”. I knew this would come, but before he’s even potty-trained? I looked at him bemusedly (perhaps condescendingly) and responded, “Well, I love you, buddy. And I always will.” “I want some water. Not in a big-boy cup. In a sippy cup.” So I guess we’re back to normal.  

Poopy wedding

Ambitiously, I took 18-month-old Big E, to a friend’s wedding reception. It took place on one afternoon in NYC. I traveled with only my (unstylish) diaper bag and him in an ergo carrier. There was a beautiful and (mercifully quick) ceremony in Fort Tryon Park, followed by a reception at the nearby New Leaf. Everything was gorgeous. But about me. Everybody coo’d over Big E. I was a star daddy for having ventured, on my own, to the wedding with a baby. Then I smelled poop. This was a doozy. I mean, pungent shit that other guests “admired”. Before heading to the buffet line, I ducked into the bathroom. There was no changing table in the microscopic men’s room. I asked a waiter if there was a changing table anywhere. “Ummm…not that I know of,” he said, blankly. “Nowhere?” I asked, snidely. “Ummm…not that I know of.” I got huffy. “So is there a place to change an extremely smelly diaper besides on the restaurant floor?” “Ummm…outside?” he offered. I wanted to kick him in …

Finding the Moment

So I’m new to the blogging. Clearly, I’m also still insecure about it and need to make disclaimers. I’ll try to shut up about that. One of the reasons I’ve been reticent about diving into social networking (besides worrying I have nothing to say) is: I don’t want to walk through life in a double-tasked, obsessive fog constantly crafting the wittiest facebook posting, the dreamiest Instagram picture, or