They met in Kansas City

He boarded the plane in Newark after a two hour drive up the Turnpike. He was flying to Denver via Kansas City. It was a work trip. He was headed west to meet with a group of distributors about new printing software. His work did not strike him as empty, just deeply inconsequential, like a summer weather report in Arizona.

He was in a daze, worn out from waking up at 4 A.M. Four A.M. was an ungodly hour, an hour that shouldn’t exist. The sun was an unhatched egg, all the trees were dark shapes, signs and symbols amidst some larger darkness. Everything about traveling is a pain the ass, remembering small plastic baggies in which to put the proper amount of toothpaste, lens solution, and toothbrushes, all in the right proportions, the right size, as if the size had some meaning, one six ounce bag, which he suspected it did not, but like many things in life, was arbitrary. He had spent the night before wondering whether to bring two pairs of shoes or one, wondering whether the  weather report could be trusted days out and whether it mattered.

On the way up the Turnpike he drove through portals of light, beckoning him towards Jersey like a series of light houses. The first skeins of light stretched above the horizon as he drove up the Turnpike. He watched the industrial mess of it unfold, machines sitting idle, gleaming and rusting in the half light of the sun, monoliths of a distant era. They looked like nothing so much as dinosaurs.

He sat at the table and stared out the window at the planes on the tarmac. Airplanes are dehumanizing, a reminder that his body is mere luggage, a collection of blood and bone to be transported.. He found it unnerving rather than invigorating to be above the clouds. In flight, he vacillated between a dazed sleep and fear of his imminent death. He did not know what he feared about death exactly, perhaps its finality. It was not as though is life had taken a course, if he was being honest with himself, that would knock the world off its axis if he no longer existed. Perhaps he just feared not knowing. The stewardesses boarding the plane were in their mid-forties. They looked tired and worn, travelers who have been too many places and seen too many things.

The sky is a wheel of purple, the clouds look like the purple hued finger prints of children. The woman next to him is snoring very lightly. As the plane slows he can see the imprint of a city on the ground below, reservoirs and golf courses appearing first. He pressed his face against the cool glass and thought of how strange it was that flying in planes existed at all.

From up above, canals, bits of tall buildings begin to come into view. From a plane, Kansas City is less a city than an idea of a place, a poetic rendering. From above, the cars started to come into view, streaming down freeways, managing to look both busy and unimportant at once. There was something perhaps rooted deep in the human psyche, traceable back to the Great Rift Valley, that made the feeling of being above others so God-like. From just beneath the clouds he could watch the cars gleaming metal slipping across the highways, the canals and roads snaking through the landscape aimlessly and somehow forget that he was a part of that same simple race. Perhaps that was how air travel had fundamentally changed man’s relationship to one another, allowed him to be turned into an abstraction. It was possible to drop a bomb that would kill thousands on an abstraction.

The woman next to him had woken up and was attempting to look out his window, bending down to peer over while clutching her purse as if he was a thief or it was her teddy bear. He had an exceedingly strong urge to not talk about the weather. He hoped they could land in a modicum of silence. Perhaps he could feign sleep.

After a moment, she will comment on the clouds, and soon they’ll be talking about reasons for being in the air, she’ll be describing how hard it was to leave just now, how her cat had just died, and the funeral that they’d had for him. He’ll be listening to this woman, watching the little pools of water forming at the corner of her eyes as she talks about the difficulty of losing her cat. And he’ll have to ask himself if he’s a bad person for not caring about the cat, or for not caring about the woman who cares for the cat. 

Tantrums with my two year old

Upstairs, the child is screaming and pulling on her door. Down here, I am listening, screaming too, on the inside.

The house is perpetually messy. Picking up after children is a never ending task. I believe it has something to do with entropy or laziness or the lack of a good Germanic upbringing. At what age do they start asking you to put your shoes away?

I’m looking at a purple dinosaur who can recite his ABC’s, and, who is also capable of making a noise to accompany each letter of the alphabet. The toy dinosaur looks smug. One day, I’m sure my children will surpass him, not today though.

She says, “Read me these books.”

I say, “I’ll read you two books.”

She counts out the books, “One, two, three, five.”

I say, “I’ll read you two books.” She does not have object permanence yet. Thus, though she can count to ten she doesn’t actually understand that the numbers can be connected to objects.

After I read her two books she is certain that I should have read more. I try to reason with her, but it doesn’t work. And that is how she wound up upstairs, crying at the door. “Read me more books,” she screams. A cry that’s somewhat hard to ignore.

For a moment after I’ve put the baby down in his crib, and the little girl is looking at books downstairs, I lie on the bed and look at the ceiling fan and the light curling in through the window. It is a nice moment. Soon thereafter, I hear a thunk, and the baby crying. I spring from the bed, Perhaps, later today, I’ll find another moment of quiet.

When I’m reading the story of Elmer the patchwork elephant I omit the word “stupid.” In Arthur, I change the word hate to don’t like. In Little Red Riding Hood, the hunter gets rid of the wolf instead of kills him. I think, we don’t allow those words in our house, though sometimes I’ve been guilty of using much worse. We don’t read them aloud, would be a more accurate rule.

After Elmer has not been called stupid, I understand that I am already rewriting narratives. She says, “I want to watch the creepy one with the princess,” and I say, “Don’t you want to watch the one with the astronaut?” But no, she’d rather watch the creepy 1930s one about the street girl who gets turned into a princess. It’s an old story, she seems to say, but a good one.

Sometimes, when they’re both down for naps, I’ll hear the baby cry, and I’ll pretend as though I can’t hear him. He’s so good natured he might lie up there for an hour, looking at the light on the wall—a man after my own heart.

A couple of weeks ago, when Stephanie was out of town, an older gentleman I was speaking with said that I was being Mr. Mom. “Yes,” I answered, smiling back, but not really minding the conversation too attentively because I was watching Sadie sprinting through the room. “I’m sorry,” I said, “Can you hold my purse? I really need to get her.” I did not say that. But imagine a world in which I did. 

Saturday with Sadie

7:30-9:00 P.M. August 8. For some crazy reason, perhaps being tired, I decided that it would be fine if s fell asleep next to me in the big bed. On the bright side, I slept for at least forty five non-consecutive minutes. On the down side, I spent the majority of the time being pelted with pillows, asked to change sides of the bed and other general abuses.

9-9:30 P.M.-I finally move s into her room for sleep. Whereby, she asks for: a book to be read, a ladybug light to be given to her, a drink of water, to be tucked in, to sleep in the drawer, to have her door left open, before finally giving up the ghost.

My brief nap screwed up my sleep cycle, so I went to bed at 1.

6:25 A.M. I woke up daddy! I cannot communicate to you how ugly these words are after 5.5 hours of sleep. Like any good parent, I whipped out the iPad, put on a Winnie the Pooh cartoon and tried to go back to sleep. Failure.

Of course, it was fine that we were up early because we were meeting a couple of friends at the zoo at nine sharp. And, after factoring time in for breakfast, preparing snacks, changes of clothes, bartering over which shoes to wear, (she won), I figured it would take roughly 2 hours for both of us to get ready. She picked out a panda shirt and we were off.

Zoo time.

I've often said that we always do the zoo wrong. We park at the top and walk down, when we're full of energy and excited to see animals. By the time we've reached the bottom we're exhausted, mostly tired of animals, a lion, oh, I think we have one of those at our house, and the slog back up is more a test of will than an enjoying walk.

Of course, s spent the first part of the day sprinting downhill, pushing the stroller with aplomb. She, like everyone else in the world, spends the most time admiring the river otters. Though, to be honest, she's mostly just concerned with pushing the stroller and running. We finally get to the big moment when she'll get a chance to see giant pandas. She's wearing the panda shirt. It's like she's going to a big concert. Of course, the giant panda is sitting at the back of the enclosure, pretty much half a mile away. However, I lift her up, triumphantly on my shoulder and point off into the distance.

M: Can you see the panda honey?
S: Is that the panda? (Points to a tree).
M: No, look there.
S: Is that the panda? (Points to the same tree).
M: No, look way in the back.
S: I see him. (looks at tree).

By the time we all reach the petting zoo she's laughing to herself manically, and you can just tell that the next transition is going to be a melt down, which I mention to one of my friends, so she won't be surprised when I swoop s up and carry her like a sack of potatoes from whatever ill is about to befall us. I coax her into the stroller and we stop to get a soda. She sees the candy machine, and honestly, it could have been anything, but that's what sets her off. She loves candy. Who doesn't? But candy is made by the devil, so we don't eat it. She spends the next few moments screaming.

We can just keep walking, but we're so close to the big cats. You can't pass up lions and tigers when you get the chance. On the way we pass a carousel. Carousels are probably the greatest thing in the world for a child, but I'm hungry, and it's time to move. She screams for a while and eventually talks me into letting her out of the stroller. She looks around for a moment, like a deer preparing to cross a road and then sprints away saying, "I'm going to ride the carousel!" I grab her like a sack of potatoes and carry her away from the big cats on a path that leads us right by the carousel. She tries to make a break for it again, does the limp child thing, before I pick her up like a sack of potatoes and carry her away.

After a few more minutes of crying and cajoling she asks to be carried to brunch. Brunch is roughly 1.5 miles away, all uphill, so I consent. On the way she says things like, "Daddy, I love you with all my heart." And I'm reminded again how caring for a tired toddler is like shepherding a very drunk friend out of the bar. You're thinking, thanks for telling me buddy, but let's just get you home.

At brunch, things even out. Sure she takes off her shoes and demands that all the napkins be folded into flowers, but I'm okay with that. She tells the waiter that she wants pancakes and bacon. A woman after my own heart. (I forgot to mention earlier, but my two friends do a wonderful job of ignoring the whole meltdown scenario, pretending as though I am not scooping up a shrieking little girl multiple times, which was nice. It's the equivalent of being in a thunder storm and saying, "Oh, it's raining. I hadn't noticed).

After a while the novelty of the food wears off, and she starts to get crazy eyes. When she has crazy eyes, you don't know what's going to happen, but you know it won't be good. She spends the latter portion of brunch trying to run away, briefly succeeding, while blocking the waiter's access to the cash register. Success. We all walk back to the car, and I offer them a ride home. They respond with a no, which is nice, because I can tell that they're just trying to get away from the ticking time bomb that has hopped out of her car seat and is sitting in the driver's seat, testing the pedals.

We got home without incident. And, we jointly went upstairs to use the bathroom. In the next room, I heard the toilet flush, and I went to tell her how proud I was.
S;  "I pooped," she said.
M: "In the toilet?" I asked, innocently, hopefully, sweetly.
S: In my pants.

There is nothing quite so sobering as being elbow deep in someone else's feces. It makes you start to question all of your life choices, and I was somewhere between crying and retching. Luckily, I finished cleaning them without vomiting and put her in the bath. And, then I went to take a break on the computer. Moments later I discovered that she'd emptied a brand new bottle of shampoo into her bath, because, why not. I'm not mad, though I do point out that better uses of shampoo exist.
S: I made bubbles.
M: I can see that.

Finally, she goes down for a nap, and I watch the first episode of Breaking Bad.

In the evening, I pull her around on a blanket, which she asks for by saying,
S: Slay me.
M: Okay, but I want to use the blanket to avoid making a mess.
S: Sleigh me.
M: Okay. (Humor is wasted on the young)

We go outside to pick some weeds for roughly six minutes and are bitten by mosquitoes about ten times each. We retreat.

Inside, we have a little bit of time to kill, so we make some dance videos. Because, if you had time to kill with a two and half year old little girl, you'd make dance videos too.







After they're over it's time for bed. She keeps saying she wants chocolate but refuses to eat her dinner. I am the world's greatest parent, so I send her to bed hungry. But not before we watch this video, which she calls the funny video.



Then we head upstairs. Only, she doesn't want to go upstairs and is picked up like a sack of potatoes and taken upstairs screaming, kicking. She says she wants to wear only one type of pants and tries to kick over the lamp. As she screams, I sing "Get Lucky" and do some head bobbing to avoid going insane. I'm not sure she felt valued and listened too, but I'm also sure that it was the only way to stay sane. And, after being told to go downstairs to get a particular book and read it to her, she's off to bed. Easy as 1, 2, 3. Okay, she isn't sleeping yet, but I know it's coming soon.

Passing rather than wasting time

I parted my hair differently today, in order to affect some change. I did it away from any reflective services, so I could approach a mirror later and the day and be greeted by a stranger. Who is that in the mirror? He's going to change things. To tell you the truth, it looked like me, but with my hair parted in a slightly different way.

Outside, the sky is shades of blue and grey behind puffs of smoky clouds. I am sitting on a bench, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, looking calm, a book open in my lap. Inside, I assure you, is where the real story is being told.

Sometimes I don't sweep the floor for weeks, because it seems to get dirty again so quickly. Perhaps that is the native state of the floor. Who am I to change its customs?

Like a flower, perhaps one day I too will bloom. Though, if one starts to think in such terms you can't help but remember the wilting. That will happen too, one day, I suppose.

It would be nice to know the hour of my death. I think, with that small piece of knowledge, I could finally get on with the business of living.

We should be in love, you and I. Not for any good reason. But, as you know, reason has little to do with love.

Short Stories Written on the bus ride home

The maple on the corner that is dying has turned red, reminding us all of fall. The days are still long and hot, and we complain of them to our neighbors. We talk of little else. But when we pass the tree we can almost feel the moisture emptying itself from the air. The air begins to smell of something pumpkin baking in the kitchen. Perhaps this is what is meant by a noble death.

I am jealous of the neighbor's lawn, thick, short, and uniform. His wife, bears the same qualities, and I am not so jealous of her.

She and I argued last night again, after supper. In the next room, the baby was playing with a blue spiky ball. And now I am up before everyone, sipping coffee and looking out the window at a fly who has gotten himself caught in the corner and is banging himself senseless against the glass. He, so desperate to get in, and me, desperate to get out.

Sometimes the things I desire are so small. It seems a shame not to have them. I want you to look up at me, looking at you, and smile.

--the crape myrtle in bloom and a host of small brown nameless birds, startling as I hurry to catch the bus. Watching them, I see that their whole day is made up of a series of startlings.

I feel peaceful, I say, crossing the street on a day filled with warm and generous sun, as if I have accomplished something for once by not turning something beautiful into ruins.

You have a gift, someone told me. Do not waste it. I have spent my life wasting gifts, money, youth, happiness. Why should I not waste this one as well?

Sometimes, I take dynamite into the living room. I place it on the floor and light the fuse. Then I step away and wonder if I have made a mistake. I think what I meant to say is that I sometimes want to be elsewhere, and the fact that I am here, with that thought, distresses me. I did not mean to light the dynamite. I only wanted to cause movement.

The houses that line the street are ornate. They have gables and eaves and wide, ornately designed windows. They are so nice that it is tempting to start wondering who might live in such fine houses, what they might do on a particular evening, how they go about playing a game of Monopoly, whether they allow people to trade properties or put the fine money in the middle of the game board. But I am too tired right now to imagine things. Instead, I convince myself that the houses are all empty, row upon row of houses, tended in the morning by gardeners and visited by birds, so that we might have a pleasant view from our seats on the bus.

--thick green leaves, then wires, strips of cirrus, then pure sky, above that, a row of angels playing a card game, bored stiff, but still not willing to show their hand.

Hunger

There comes a time, nearly every evening, when I find myself eating a piece of chocolate, or cookie dough, or some other dessert, and, often as much, I will say to myself, "I don't particularly care for this fruity chocolate or strange cookie dough, or bag of cheap chocolate chips." And then, minutes will pass, sometimes and hour, I'll watch a television show, or read articles on the computer about the top ten cute pets, or lovely cities, and then I will walk to the kitchen and take another piece of chocolate, or bit of dough, and I will eat it. Then, usually without even going back to sitting down, I will have another piece, and perhaps another, sometimes saying to myself that by finishing the item I will have removed the temptation and will no longer be bothered by it. I suppose Adam and Eve shared a similar fate, sure child birth was horrible and the land brought thistles up, but at least they didn't have that apple gnawing at the back of their mind's anymore.

I write this because I have just been to the kitchen to have another small scoop of cookie dough that isn't particularly good. So, why? Is it enough to blame biology? My body is constantly telling me to eat fats and delicious foods on the off chance that a global apocalypse happens tomorrow and food becomes scarce. In this line of thinking, my body is so much more pessimistic than I am, a sack of stupid meat, while, in my mind, my beautiful mind, I know that the global apocalypse is probably not happening. Although, I'm pretty sure that it is my brain, my stupid energy loving brain that is telling my body to get more cookie dough, so that it can feed itself more. My brain wants to make sure that it has enough energy to develop and accurate critique of this season of the Bachelorette, or Before Midnight, or it wants to weary itself by rewinding the events of the day, replaying mistakes, missed chances, as if it could change things.

I suffer from a lack of self-control. Marcus Aurelius would be disappointed. If you don't know who he is, he was a Roman general who wrote a book about not being moved by anything, though, to be sure, he obviously cared a bit too much about writing and his legacy if he devoted a portion of his life to writing a book. If my attempts at writing are any indication, it would take someone fifteen to twenty lifetimes to construct one very poor book.

Sometimes, I will avoid eating the extra piece of chocolate, or shoving down a half bag of crappy chocolate chips. I will sit downstairs, watching a television show, congratulating myself on being so good. And, as I watch the show, it will become gradually very clear that I am starving, that my stomach is shrinking, and I'll attempt to avoid the feeling, reminding my stomach and mind how good it feels to restrain, how we're bettering ourselves. They never listen. By show's end I'm back upstairs, opening cabinets, dumping bits of cinnamon sugar on the tip of my tongue in an attempt to have something, anything, sweet. Tomorrow, tomorrow I remind myself will be the day that I begin to work on billboard abs. Tonight, and for the foreseeable future, I'll be pawing my way through cookie dough, vaguely dissatisfied at the taste, but no longer hungry, at least for a moment, though moments pass so quickly.