Laid-Off Dad

I, Mommy

Yesterday was a good day. My subway car was empty on my morning commute, so I reclined regally on the bench as David Rakoff curled his lip at the world. Work was light, and we got a new coffee maker whose product doesn't taste like the business end of an Irish setter. (Which could be either end, now that I think of it.) The weather was fair and breezy for our afternoon baseball-apalooza; Robert snared two line drives, and TwoBert got his first real hit on a ball that was pitched to him. Gleeful yelping ensued.

Then the four of us went to our friend's soft opening of her new Thai restaurant. The boys spent a good hour entertaining passersby and handing out menus--literally singing for their supper--and the poor saps who were just trying to get home for the night never had a chance. The menus were gone in no time, and everyone left smiling.

Note to guerrilla marketers: To get your message out there, hire darling three-year-olds with cheeks streaked with barbecue sauce. My boys are available, but they do not work cheap.

Anyway, life was so good and savorable yesterday that I neglected to write about another soft opening--the announced pre-order of Sleep is for the Weak. It's a compendium of a lot of great writing from a lot of great bloggers, among whom I completely do not belong. They are all mommies, who have gestated and expelled a baby through their specific apertures. (I sprained my ankle once, and I'm told it's not the same.) I'm very glad to be a part of the book, but my inclusion is mere formality, the result of some arcane Title IX clause involving "token testicles."

The hero of this endeavor is the indomitable Rita, who hemmed and hawed and scratched and clawed and shocked and awed this book into existence. It will be published in the fall, and will be featured at BlogHer, and several of us will be appearing at signings and so forth at a superhip someplace near you.

I don't know what a "mommyblogger" is, but apparently I am one. Do you suppose that would be an asset on an online dating profile?

Prices these days

I am a fan of the Boston Red Sox, partly because I come from a long line of frugal, impassive New Englanders, and partly because I grew up with a deep, abiding hatred for the Evil Empire. My painful memories range from Bucky Effing Dent to Aaron Effing Boone, though coming back from down 3-0 in the 2004 ALCS did a lot to purge the demons. As I age mature, I've tried to make my sports loyalties about the love, rather than the raging, volcanic antipathy. It's easier now that my boy is such a huge Yankee fan. (Although the rings help.) And I'm especially happy that when the Sox and Yankees play each other, Robert feels no hesitation when it comes to trash-talking his old man. ("Hey, Daddy! Giambi just hit a three-run ding-dong! How 'bout them apples?")

In the city, the relationship between Sox and Yankee fans has mellowed. Gone are the days when I would attend Yankee games with my Sox hat on and be told by pinstriped yobs to go attempt something incestual or biologically impossible. The bar scenes can still be a little sketchy, however, so many of us Sox fans feel most comfortable in the handful of Soxeasies that dot the five boroughs. These are places were a fella can bust out the red and blue and scream lustily for Papi and Yook to knock one off the Mawnstah.

One such Soxeasy is a few blocks from the apartment, and after I walked in the door the other night the ID checker tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a $10 bill. "This dropped out of your wallet," he said. I thanked him, and he said, "It's no bother. Hardly enough to buy a gallon of milk and a gallon of gas."

So I went and bought a gallon of beer.

Five things

Another Saturday, another 10 hours of running from and after and around my children. And by the end I was eight kinds of bushed. Robert began the day as he usually does by reporting for duty, in full dress uniform, at 7am. The rain had stopped, so as far as he was concerned we were burnin' daylight, people! There are grounders to gather! Fences to scale! Bases to round! Mud to inhale!

We got to the field--a pastoral patch wedged between the FDR and a power plant thought up by Brazil's production designer--well before we needed to, but Robert had to check the field for wet spots and supervise the laying down of chalk lines. He played his three innings, then he played another inning with a shorthanded team, then he found his buddies and played tag, and pepper, and something to do with lasers on the handball court.

At 3 I had to drag him away from all this in order to get lunch and help set up TwoBert's third birthday party. Cupcakes and cavorting in the playground. No fuss, minimal muss. At his request, the birthday boy was appointed lead photographer, and now my Elph is coated with a fine patina of strawberry icing. (Another choice by the honoree; the kid just can't get enough Red 40.)

As we were walking home, Robert and I got to talking about school. His first year is winding down, and I was curious what his impressions were. Then I asked him: "If you could choose five things to study in school, what would they be?" The answers were:

1. Nature.
2. How to build a car engine.
3. Hunting animals. ("Wait, you mean like, 'hunting'? With a gun?" "No, Dad, animals that hunt. With their fangs.")
4. Why water is wet.
5. The planets, especially Earth and Jupiter.

I'm especially eager to see how #4 breaks out.