My friend Gil could be a character on Seinfeld – or more accurately, that show’s first cousin, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Medium height & build; dark, closely-cropped hair; and definitely Jewish; Gil says things that other parents only think. Even when he’s sober, which he always is (now). Last spring, for example, he called me from his oldest son’s little league baseball game. “Shouldn’t you be watching?” I cautiously asked. “Shit, who cares. My kid sucks. The whole team sucks. I’m not going to sit in the stands with those other Moms & Dads ‘rooting.’ It’s ungodly hot and a complete waste of a time.” Read more
cheap discount viagrath=”300″ height=”200″ />My college roommate, who remains a very close friend, often says things just to be provocative, regardless of whether he actually believes them. For example, he once commented: “I don’t ever use a camera; the pictures that are most important will remain with me.” The year was 1988. Today, when smartphones enable us to chronicle anything at any moment, no matter how mundane – and to be clear, I write with dirty hands in this regard – the current snap-fest does beg the question: “Which life shots will remain with us?” Lately, there’s one I just can’t get out of my head.
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Even though there’s a newly-designed public pool just minutes from our house, Eleanor prefers the one at her grandparents’ apartment. She doesn’t mind that it’s further, doesn’t have a snack bar, and lacks any of the kid-friendly amenities the one near us boasts. She chooses the more distant one because it’s almost always empty. There, there’s much more space to swim and play, unencumbered. Read more
online viagra soft300.png” alt=”" width=”225″ height=”300″ />I suppose I should be proud. And to a large extent, I am. But — and whether or not I should admit this, I’m not sure — it also saddens me. A lot.
Dr. Friedman, who last prompted behavioral changes in my five-year-old daughter by some sort of talk regarding “sugar bugs,” apparently said something new.
One night last week, as we were curled up in bed reading five… no, one… no, four… no, two… okay, three books, Eleanor declared matter-of-factly, “Now that I’m five, Daddy, I am not going to suck my thumb anymore.”
I’m not entirely sure what prompted it. When I mentioned it last night, she reacted pretty strongly. “Why, Daddy? Why do you have to go? How long? One day, one day, go for just one day. Please. . . Pinkie promise?”
I didn’t “shake” because
I didn’t want to lie. I kept trying to change the subject, but to no avail. And when she saw the suitcase, she immediately opened the back door & dragged the bag back into the garage. I had to wait until she was asleep to pack.
I worried about this morning…. I was lying beside her to watch a few minutes of the Nutcracker together – the Barbie version – when the dogs started barking. My ride had arrived. She grabbed me, tight. “No, Daddy, I won’t let you go…. Ok, but one day, right, just one day. You promise?”
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I can’t believe it’s been a month since I last wrote. And I can’t believe the month it’s been. The details of my Dad’s medical odyssey are best summarized by, no surprise, him. He’s dictated a couple of legal-like memos that convey more than bodily specifics; they convey an inspiring attitude. I worry that if I were in my father’s situation (whether now, or in forty years), I would languish in self-pity or depression. Not my Dad. If he’s feeling down, he hasn’t shown it — at least not very often & at least not in front of his sons.
To be sure, one morning towards the beginning of the ordeal, when it was just the two of us in his hospital room, he looked at me with sad eyes & a slight grimace and allowed: “Can you believe it? Last week, I was playing tennis, and now this. Suddenly, I’m an old man.”