the pieces of my life

On Saturday, Adam and I took the Doodlebug to the Head of the Charles, that oh-so-genteel competition in which men and women sit in skinny little boats and race down the Charles River. Much to my disappointment, they don’t race head-to-head–those are sprints. I know, silly me, thinking a race called “Head” would involve people competing head-to-head, but no, it’s all time trials, so you just watch boats shooting by. The Doodlebug was so fascinated, he fell asleep within seconds of leaving the warmth of the car, and stayed happily asleep until we returned to the car. One interesting thing to note is that Adam does not restrict his sports rage to baseball. One of the coxswain steered his boat into the oncoming lane, and the rowers were banging oars with those headed up the river. Adam unleashed a vile string of insults on the coxswain that was worthy of Roger Clemens. Who knew that he had such strong feelings? Actually, Adam’s deep dark secret is that he was a coxswain in college. Although, if you think about it, it’s quite fitting. What else is a skinny kid with a loud mouth going to do? Let’s hope that the Doodlebug doesn’t inherit his fathers sporting skills.

Adam is still reeling from the Red Sox’s loss. A friend sent me an amusing forward about Red Sox fans and the Yankees, and I asked Adam if he wanted to see it. “No,” he said, “it still hurts.” It wouldn’t have been so bad, he insists, had they been down in the second inning, 10 to 2 or something. But they had it, he says. They had it. So now I know three things about baseball. In addition to Pedro Martinez is the greatest pitcher who has ever lived and Roger Clemens is a big fat hick, I now know that Grady Little has to go.

On a related note, I asked Adam what he would do if the Doodlebug grew up to become a Major League Baseball player and ended up on the Yankees. To his credit, Adam didn’t hesitate when he said he would root for the Doodlebug no matter what, even if he played for the Yankees. And who knows, he could become a ball player. He already has one skill down pat–he can spit with the best of them.

He’s still the cutest baby ever. But besides that he’s changing by leaps and bounds. We got our first social smile at the end of last week, and it made all the sleeplessness worthwhile. He still loves to sleep in our arms during the day, however, he’s sleeping the whole night in his cosleeper (although truth be told I have to wonder if he was sleeping with us part of the night because he needed to or because I needed him to). He’s looking us directly in the face for long periods and he’s spending quiet time in his Pack N’ Play looking at the black-and-white cloth book we put in there for him. For the first time, he’s been fussy in our arms and calmed down once we set him down. He’s definitely taking more in, studying things. He’s just as fussy as ever, but he’s crying much, much less. Of course, some things haven’t changed. He’s still feeding every two to three hours, round the clock. He’s still contorting his body into the most uncomfortable looking positions and then falling happily asleep. He still snorts. And he still can’t find my breast even when it’s right in front of him. There are few things funnier than having him first try to latch onto mine or Adam’s shoulder, and then when we bring him to my breast, to have him turn his head in the opposite direction. There’s also his puppy dog move where he pants, moves in, moves out, frantically shakes his head a few times, and then comes back in to eat with passion. When he’s done, he’s downright drunk, smacking his lips, leaning back, and often taking a little snooze. What worries me, though, is his constant spitting up. During the day, he overeats and then loses much of it within minutes (at night he eats a small amount rather quickly and efficiently and falls back asleep, with nary a drop of drool). I’m afraid we have a budding bulemic on our hands.

Despite my anti-Greek tendencies, I ended up married to a diehard fraternity boy. And, it seems, my son is preparing to pledge. At least, I hope that’s what it is. Because if those room-clearing farts and the sound-barrier-breaking burps are involuntary and a sign of what’s to come, then he’s going to have a very lonely life.

I’m afraid I can no longer speak to my father. At least, that’s what this Web site tells me: “If you find an Atheist in your neighborhood,TELL A PARENT OR PASTOR RIGHT AWAY! You may be moved to try and witness to these poor lost souls yourself, however AVOID TALKING TO THEM! Atheists are often very grumpy and bitter and will lash out at children or they may even try to trick you into neglecting God’s Word. Very advanced witnessing techniques are needed for these grouches. Let the adults handle them.” Well, at least he’s not like poor Habu. (Ohmygod, they said asswaged! Hee hee.) Bet you can learn all new things from the Creation Scientist! (Where do fossils come from? “Fossils are the remains of the wicked men and animals that perished 4,000 years ago in the Flood!”)

Note, I do respect all religions and would never mock anyone’s beliefs. But this site… well, come on! Could you resist?

I was in the middle of an Ofoto order (lots of pictures of the Doodlebug!), when its site went down. Up popped a screen that read, “We are currently experiencing a high volume of Ofoto members uploading and sharing their photos.” That’s right up there with “currently conducting standard site maintenance” or “updating our server,” which is on par with “I’ll call.” Sure, no company wants to admit its site went down, but really, how dumb do they think we are? Does anyone believe them? Baby Center gets high marks for having the most creative site-down page: it’s a picture of a bare-butted baby and it reads, “You caught us with our pants down.”

Adam and I attended a wedding last Sunday in Springfield, which is just over an hour and a half away. A friend of mine from the kibbutz got married. It was such a surprising coincidence that my Israeli friend got married so close to me that I wanted to make every effort to go the wedding. On the kibbutz, he was a good friend, teaching me how to drive a tractor, taking me to festivals in Akko, and lending me his apartment when I needed a quiet place to call my boyfriend back home to break up with him (okay, not very nice, but there’s a whole story there that I’m not going to get into). Besides, I couldn’t imagine this sandal-wearing kibbutznik having a formal American wedding. I felt badly for his parents, who don’t really speak English–they’re survivors and kibbutz founders–in the middle of all the pomp. Kibbutz weddings (one of which I attended) are decidedly more low-key and casual. Anyway, the wedding necessitated leaving the Doodlebug for about eight hours. The Tweedle Twirp came to the rescue and came back to Boston to spend the day with him. Now, I had every faith in TT and I knew she’d do a terrific job taking care of DB. And she did. He was fussy, she calmed him. He was hungry, she fed him. He spit up on two outfits, she changed him and did his laundry. I couldn’t ask for a better babysitter. That said, I am never, ever, ever again leaving the DB again. I missed him like I’ve never missed anyone before. All night I kept thinking about him, wishing I were with him. I’m going to stick by him the rest of my life. He’ll go to college in Boston (plenty of good schools to choose from). If he pledges a fraternity in college, I’ll become the house mother. When he gets his own place, it’ll have to have an in-law apartment for me.

I will say, though, that the wedding was lovely. The reception was at this place in Holyoke that was a regular revolving wedding reception hall with at least three wedding parties going on (note to the gorgeous bride in the beautiful strapless dress taking videos outside: there’s nothing trashier looking than a bride who smokes). I promised TT that we’d leave the reception early, right at nine, figuring that would give us a good amount of time there (it started at 6) and we wouldn’t be home too late. Of course, this was a largish wedding in a packed room, and by 8:55, the main course had yet to be served. I had only had a bowl of cereal in the morning and was famished, so we got a fifteen-minute extension from the TT so we could eat. We missed out, though, on the Oreo-cookie-ice-cream balls, which sounded delightfully intriguing to me, and the cake, which I didn’t mind missing out on. I have yet to eat a really good wedding cake. The worst part of the evening was having to awkwardly ask a sixteen-year-old employee if there was a private place I could go to, uh, you know, pump. Happily they were quite accommodating and opened an office for me to use.

Eugene writes in his blog, “Christina and Eric took me to the Seahawks-49ers game today. It reminded me of how obnoxious football fans can be.” Eugene, it needs to be noted, is a die-hard Cubs fan. I can’t be sure if his fanaticism is up there with Adam’s, but considering that he, at the last minute, bought a ticket from Seattle to Chicago to attend a playoff game, I’d say it’s close (Adam would do things like that too if he didn’t have a female life partner who managed the house finances [how in the heck do you avoid the word “wife” gracefully?]). Now I know that generally this can be counted on to be a baseball-free blog, but given that Adam has abandoned his blog and Eugene made this barb, I can’t help but point out, yes, football fans are obnoxious. But they have nothing on–forget baseball fans–the baseball players. After watching Saturday night’s Yankee-Red Sox showdown at Fenway, I’ve decided baseball is too violent a sport for the Doodlebug to watch. Between the fight between Pedro and Don Zimmer (and here Adam and I disagree–Adam thinks Zimmer deserved it; I say no matter how much he deserves it, you don’t throw down an 72-year-old man) and the Fenway groundskeeper getting mauled by two Yankees, baseball is not a family sport. And let’s face it, the fans aren’t any better. I’ve heard Red Sox/Yankee fans going at each other. It’s not suitable for prime time. And if the Cubs lose tonight, that ball-snatching fan’s life is in danger.

David Brooks wrote a wonderful Op-Ed piece entitled “Our Way: Root and Hoot” (which I won’t link directly to because it disappears from the site in a short time) for the New York Times in which he writes:

It’s interesting, for example, to turn and watch Yankee and Red Sox fans as they watch a game. As the game goes on, they almost never display pleasure, contentment or joy. Instead, during the game they experience long periods of contempt interrupted by short bursts of vindication.

If one of their players has just grounded out, they regard him with a gaze that suggests he has just betrayed his country. If he has hit a home run, they treat it as evidence that the pathetic bum on the field has finally lived up to the standard set by their superlative fandom. Then comes the taunting.

Some people claim that American men have trouble expressing their emotions. Not at Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park. Toward the end of the game I attended in the Bronx, when it was clear the Yankees were going to win, the Yankee partisans turned to their brethren from the Bay State to let them know which part of the anatomy they resemble.

They started chanting a two-syllable word to summarize this conclusion. First they chanted it in reference to the Red Sox fans. Then they chanted it in reference to the Red Sox players. Then they chanted it in reference to nothing, just for the aesthetic satisfaction of it. Art for art’s sake.

Side note: I frighten even myself. Speaking with a girlfriend, another new mom in Boston (her son is eleven days older than the Doodlebug), we actually spent a good five minutes discussing the Saturday game. Hey, did you see that? Out your window? I think that pig was actually flying!

Some commercials are so absolutely annoying that you can’t help but remember them. This pisses me off, because it means that the crappy ads are actually doing their job. The commercials that are really good, I can never remember what they’re for. But the ones that get under my skin, they stick. It’s just not fair. Right now my pet peeve commercial is “Are you gellin’? Like a felon.” I guess people who watch baseball uniformly have bad feet because this ad has been on way too many times. The stupid tag line gets stuck in my head. I need better things to think about (and reading the news doesn’t help–somehow Governor Schwartzenegger is even less comforting than “Are you gellin’?” ). At least I finally got the cow song out of my head

And when did the Cure sell out? Their music is now shilling for HP? Is nothing sacred?

The Dialing Impaired: An alarming number of people out there don’t seem to realize that when someone has a baby, you can no longer call them late at night. Hey, people: Duh!

The E-mailing Impaired: The September 29 issue of the New Yorker had a Talk of the Town piece about an e-mail exchange between an HBS student and Jim Rogers, a supposed financial big wig who gave a talk on campus. You can read the details of what happened in the article, but what I’m amazed at is the proof that e-mail travels farther and faster than the Doodlebug’s projectile vomit (I know, not the best analogy, but I’ve got spit-up on the brain. And let me tell you, that vomit travels fast, furious, and far!). Adam forwarded me the e-mail a little while ago because he thought it would be good fodder for my HBS-disparaging ways. I read it but discounted it because it actually made me feel bad for the HBS guy. While he is clearly way too big for his britches, Rogers reply was so repugnant that the HBS guy comes off as the wronged party. But how bizarre that this e-mail ended up all over Wall Street, on the other side of the globe, and in the New Yorker in a matter of what seems to be days. What really amazes me is that supposedly intelligent people would write such ridiculousness to each other in an e-mail. Do these people not understand how the medium works? Why prove to the world your stupidity?

The Gift-Giving Impaired: We received a baby gift that wasn’t particularly our style. It was given with good intentions, but it was given by someone we think should have known better. I asked Adam, “What are we going to do with this?” Adam said, “Sell it on eBay.” I asked, “And what if the person asks where it is?” Adam replied, “We’ll just say, we didn’t like your gift, so we sold it on eBay.” Needless to say, we still have the gift. And I still haven’t figured out what to do with it.