The clock read a very bleary 4:56 AM. Bleary since my eyes can barely focus on anything when I wake up, never mind at 4:56 AM in the morning.
Sienna had been crying for a good half an hour.*
Somewhere along the line Sienna started refusing to drink from the bottle. Refusing may be too strong a word - after all she only cries, refuses to hold the bottle, and general creates what day care refers to as "drama." Actually refusing is exactly the right word. She isn't drinking as milk as before. Day care is worried a tiny bit and so are we.
Danielle and I are trying to do our part by giving me the 5:30 AM feeding via the bottle. Sienna can't tell time though and believes that 4:56 AM is an appropriate time.
Two minutes of warming up the water. Putting her bottle in it. Then getting Sienna from her crib.
She is in crawl position and heads right toward the sound of the door opening when I enter the room. She lifts her head up and lets out a wail. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the reflection off her tear soaked face.
I pick her up and after a few steps she stops crying - though she looks dazed. Crying off and on forty five minutes will do that to you. I am doing my best not to trip as I walk down the hallway. Every imperfection of the wood suddenly seems like a tripping hazard as I make my way to the kitchen.
Sienna does NOT like being loaded and seatbelted into her boppy this morning and starts crying again. She is used to Mommy's breast when we are in the house and she knows Mommy is SOMEWHERE around here. She can sense her.
Baby Spider-sense.
I get the bottle, kneel down next to her, and the two tiny hands immediate the progress to her mouth. She adds to her Baby Drama by attempting to do a neck bridge while screaming. I am positive that someday this will flip the boppy - instead the seatbelt does its job.
I try to reason with her.
Hah.
Right.
She stops long enough to take the bottle in her mouth, gives the nipple a chew, and then spits it out. Never mind me having no time to reinforce the concept of holding the bottle.
This dance continues for the next five minutes - only stopping long enough to remove a hanging toy that Sienna has decided it is time to play with - with the bottle in, bottle out, more crying; I intellectualize the entire situation.
I have to. Sienna is hungry and her pattern is being changed. A pattern Daddy and Mommy helped created.
Still though all I want is for her to drink from the bottle.
The Baby Drama has drawn Scudder in from the bedroom. He comes by, sniffs the situation out, then sits down in the kitchen. I snap at Scudder when he lets out a plaintive meow.
I'm not about to snap at my child. She now has the bottle in her mouth. She takes down a full ounce this time. She gets one hand up. She has stopped crying now.
This is usually the part during the breastfeeding where she stops eating for a second, gives a smile and the continues. She stops eating, gives me a frown and lets out a wail.
I THINK for a moment that I hear Danielle yell for me. I hope not as I tell Sienna that Mommy isn't an option and that she has to eat the food. That we will be here all morning if necessary.
It is a blur really. Fatigue. Hope. Everything as disconnected now as it was in the moment. Sienna drinks some more - spits out the bottle and then turns bright red.
Her faces seems to morph slightly into a square that takes on the hue of a fire hydrant and her eyes water up once again. This is her universal sign she is going the bathroom.
I offer her some encouragement while she finishes her baby business. At least I know there will be a present waiting for me in the diaper. She eats some more.
More.
A little more.
She has an ounce left.
One ounce.
She quits on me.
One ounce short.
The undeniable I'm Done! A parent can tell these things. A tired parent may even been convincing himself.
5:18 when I take her back to her crib. She lets out a HUGE wail - the loudest one yet when she knows that pre-breakfast is now done. One dirty diaper change later she is back in bed.
I figure it will take me two weeks of morning baby drama before she is holding her own bottle. She has done it in the past. Today was about breaking the concept that if I refuse Mommy is around to feed me.
I feel strict. That I was forceful with what is going on. I held to me guns.
Yeah, I'm a parent. Nine months and one day into Sienna's life and I am definitely a parent. I look at the baby monitor: she is already asleep, less than a minute after I left her.
Wayne
--
* To any non-parent this mostly likely sounds similar to child abuse. Please. You pick up a crying child quickly and you know what you get? A child who knows she will be picked up if she cried. Kids are smart, Sienna instantly knows what mommy and daddy are really feeling. If I had her people reading skills I'd be in charge of the universe. A child can also cry soothe herself back to sleep after a few minutes.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Random Run ins with People in My New York Apartments
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
It sounds like someone was trying to break into our apartment by knocking on our door approximately 3,000 times in a ten second span. I was in our living room on our couch doing my impression of a fat, tired man laying on a couch - performing the part well actually - having just gotten a very cranky Sienna off to sleep. Danielle looked up our kitchen table where she was enjoying her Sunday ritual of "squeezing in the reading of the New York Times when I get a chance."
"Stop that!" I yelled it as I moved from the couch toward the living room door. It wasn't a particularly deranged knocking of the door - if you have ever seen Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory knock on his neighbors door you'll get the idea - and I was mostly concerned that the fool pounded would wake up my child.
However I'm not an idiot either. I looked through the peep hole.
There was a young 20-something in a tuxedo standing at my doorway. In the grand scheme of life looked like someone had tied four twigs together, glued four cotton balls to his head and called it a human being. I shall call him Stick Boy at this point.
I whipped open the door and he was rather surprised to see, well, ME. "What the hell are you doing?"
Stick Boy took a step backward and immediately raised his hands into a mea-culpa. "I'msosorry. I thoughtthiswasmyfriendsapartment.YoumustthinkI'manidiot. I'msorry."
I looked down onto the street and I was a few of Stick Boy's friends by an SUV. One guy, two women, and all of them dressed for some sort of social event.
"What are you doing?" Stick Boy's male friend yelled up. Concerned over what his buddy had seemingly gotten himself into.
"I thought this was your apartment!" Stick Boy yelled back. "I'manidiot," Stick Boy repeated. Backing further away.
"Yes, you are," I said.
Stick Boy stepped through our open outside door - we have two sets of doors, I still have no idea how he got through the first set.
"My daughter is asleep, if you woke her up..." I left it trail off as Stick Boy made his way through the door. I shut it behind him, locked it, and listened as his friend dressed him down for being a moron.
Once inside Danielle and I got to talking about random New York run ins with apartments. Stick Boy isn't even the top five. Living in New York you just run into weird stuff living in apartments, or involved with apartments.
Here are the rest.
The Avatar People
Danielle and I agreed on the price for our Butler Street apartment as had one last meeting left: meet the landlords. Really, a perfunctory moment designed to make sure everyone isn't crazy. As we sat in the real estate office on Smith Street across from our landlords and the real estate agent (who was licking his lips at the check HE was about to receive) about to put pen onto paper...two people on stilts dressed as the blue creatures from avatar appeared.
They pressed their hands and faces to the window of the real estate office and bellowed, "Don't sign the lease! Don't sign."
We still signed. No alien creatures were keeping us from a good piece of real estate.
The Kiddie Pool
I lived in on the sixth floor of a six floor in the East Village during the late 90s. It was a two bedroom apartment and legendary among my friends for its lack of cleanliness.
One fine miserably hot summer evening I was awoken at 2 AM by some loud crashed above my living room. As plaster fell around me I was concerned that there was (a) a possible murder taking place and (b) I was going to get no sleep.
I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, grabbed my cellphone, headed to the roof, whipped open the metal doorway going to the roof. I would like to pause the story here to point out that this is the type of behavior you do in your 20s - walking to a roof where a crime might be taking place - yeah, I would rethink that (literally) when I reached my 30s.
Story onward.
I whipped open the metal doorway and saw two young men in their early 20s dressed only in tightie whitey underwear jumping up-and-down in a kiddie pool.
"Hey!" I have no idea why I yelled. Probably the lesser known of the fight-flight-scream in shock reaction.
"Hey man!" one of them yelled.
"You guys are caving in my living room!" Like alcohol being consumed, pure shock leads to the truth.
"Sorry about that," the second guy said, "it's hot and we needed to unwind." He took a cigarette out of -- I don't even know where that cigarette came from -- and lit it.
"It's all good. Just stop jumping."
"Thanks. Hey, you want to join us?" The question came from guy number one.
There are many things I will attest to having tried in my life. Frollicking around on an East Village roof in a kiddie pool with two men in their tightie whities is not one of them.
The Dog
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Once again I was concerned about my East Village roof caving in as something was taking place. Once again I went to investigate.
As I opened the metal door I was nearly run over by a dog. Forty pounds of muscle, sinew, and hanging tongue coming straight for me. The dog got to within inches from me and with the grace of gazelle performed a hairpin turn while scooping up a tennis ball - that I certainly had not seen - with its sharp-I-can-eat-you teeth.
Across the roof was my neighbor Jason.
"Sorry about that," Jason said as the dog sprinted back to him, dropped the ball, and headed back out for another pass. "He is a stray and we took him home. We don't have a leash though and he needed some exercise. Did his running disturb you?"
Just a bit Jason. Just a bit.
(Quick add on. Scudder had a habit of walking out of the apartment when I would get home. Jason and his wife's apartment were adjacent to mine. One day as Scudder stepped out Jason's door open, Scudder stepped toward Jason's apartment and found himself nose-to-nose with the dog. Scudder never tried to sneak out again).
Say Nothing
When I lived in Cheever Placer in Brooklyn, once again a legendary apartment due to its tilt. Not a slight tilt either, I could sit in a corner of my living room, roll a ball at an angle and it would come back to me in seconds.
A married couple lived in a building - he an ex-con and she a rather violent probably heading for jail at some point in her life. They were very nice people though, except for when they fought. Terrible. Loud. Violent fights. The police were called several times by the ex-con's mother (who also lived in the building.)
One night I was coming home and heard them screaming at the top of their lungs. They were on the 2nd floor and I was on the 4th floor of the walkup and as I headed up the stairs I came to the unfortunate conclusion that their door was open.
The two of them were in the doorway, in plain sight, slapping away at each and that is when they saw me. Everyone stopped and stared at each other. The fight-flight-scream in shock instinct gained another new level of "say nothing."
The ex-con turned to his girlfriend and said, "Well now EVERYONE in the apartment knows how stupid you are!" He then slammed the door.
I continued on to my apartment. Really, what would you have done?
Yeah, living in New York - and anywhere really, I once opened the front door to the house in Framingham naked because religious people were bothering me - always has an adventure or two. Random run ins with apartments.
I am sure Sienna will come up with her own stories and adventures.
Wayne
It sounds like someone was trying to break into our apartment by knocking on our door approximately 3,000 times in a ten second span. I was in our living room on our couch doing my impression of a fat, tired man laying on a couch - performing the part well actually - having just gotten a very cranky Sienna off to sleep. Danielle looked up our kitchen table where she was enjoying her Sunday ritual of "squeezing in the reading of the New York Times when I get a chance."
"Stop that!" I yelled it as I moved from the couch toward the living room door. It wasn't a particularly deranged knocking of the door - if you have ever seen Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory knock on his neighbors door you'll get the idea - and I was mostly concerned that the fool pounded would wake up my child.
However I'm not an idiot either. I looked through the peep hole.
There was a young 20-something in a tuxedo standing at my doorway. In the grand scheme of life looked like someone had tied four twigs together, glued four cotton balls to his head and called it a human being. I shall call him Stick Boy at this point.
I whipped open the door and he was rather surprised to see, well, ME. "What the hell are you doing?"
Stick Boy took a step backward and immediately raised his hands into a mea-culpa. "I'msosorry. I thoughtthiswasmyfriendsapartment.YoumustthinkI'manidiot. I'msorry."
I looked down onto the street and I was a few of Stick Boy's friends by an SUV. One guy, two women, and all of them dressed for some sort of social event.
"What are you doing?" Stick Boy's male friend yelled up. Concerned over what his buddy had seemingly gotten himself into.
"I thought this was your apartment!" Stick Boy yelled back. "I'manidiot," Stick Boy repeated. Backing further away.
"Yes, you are," I said.
Stick Boy stepped through our open outside door - we have two sets of doors, I still have no idea how he got through the first set.
"My daughter is asleep, if you woke her up..." I left it trail off as Stick Boy made his way through the door. I shut it behind him, locked it, and listened as his friend dressed him down for being a moron.
Once inside Danielle and I got to talking about random New York run ins with apartments. Stick Boy isn't even the top five. Living in New York you just run into weird stuff living in apartments, or involved with apartments.
Here are the rest.
The Avatar People
Danielle and I agreed on the price for our Butler Street apartment as had one last meeting left: meet the landlords. Really, a perfunctory moment designed to make sure everyone isn't crazy. As we sat in the real estate office on Smith Street across from our landlords and the real estate agent (who was licking his lips at the check HE was about to receive) about to put pen onto paper...two people on stilts dressed as the blue creatures from avatar appeared.
They pressed their hands and faces to the window of the real estate office and bellowed, "Don't sign the lease! Don't sign."
We still signed. No alien creatures were keeping us from a good piece of real estate.
The Kiddie Pool
I lived in on the sixth floor of a six floor in the East Village during the late 90s. It was a two bedroom apartment and legendary among my friends for its lack of cleanliness.
One fine miserably hot summer evening I was awoken at 2 AM by some loud crashed above my living room. As plaster fell around me I was concerned that there was (a) a possible murder taking place and (b) I was going to get no sleep.
I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, grabbed my cellphone, headed to the roof, whipped open the metal doorway going to the roof. I would like to pause the story here to point out that this is the type of behavior you do in your 20s - walking to a roof where a crime might be taking place - yeah, I would rethink that (literally) when I reached my 30s.
Story onward.
I whipped open the metal doorway and saw two young men in their early 20s dressed only in tightie whitey underwear jumping up-and-down in a kiddie pool.
"Hey!" I have no idea why I yelled. Probably the lesser known of the fight-flight-scream in shock reaction.
"Hey man!" one of them yelled.
"You guys are caving in my living room!" Like alcohol being consumed, pure shock leads to the truth.
"Sorry about that," the second guy said, "it's hot and we needed to unwind." He took a cigarette out of -- I don't even know where that cigarette came from -- and lit it.
"It's all good. Just stop jumping."
"Thanks. Hey, you want to join us?" The question came from guy number one.
There are many things I will attest to having tried in my life. Frollicking around on an East Village roof in a kiddie pool with two men in their tightie whities is not one of them.
The Dog
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Once again I was concerned about my East Village roof caving in as something was taking place. Once again I went to investigate.
As I opened the metal door I was nearly run over by a dog. Forty pounds of muscle, sinew, and hanging tongue coming straight for me. The dog got to within inches from me and with the grace of gazelle performed a hairpin turn while scooping up a tennis ball - that I certainly had not seen - with its sharp-I-can-eat-you teeth.
Across the roof was my neighbor Jason.
"Sorry about that," Jason said as the dog sprinted back to him, dropped the ball, and headed back out for another pass. "He is a stray and we took him home. We don't have a leash though and he needed some exercise. Did his running disturb you?"
Just a bit Jason. Just a bit.
(Quick add on. Scudder had a habit of walking out of the apartment when I would get home. Jason and his wife's apartment were adjacent to mine. One day as Scudder stepped out Jason's door open, Scudder stepped toward Jason's apartment and found himself nose-to-nose with the dog. Scudder never tried to sneak out again).
Say Nothing
When I lived in Cheever Placer in Brooklyn, once again a legendary apartment due to its tilt. Not a slight tilt either, I could sit in a corner of my living room, roll a ball at an angle and it would come back to me in seconds.
A married couple lived in a building - he an ex-con and she a rather violent probably heading for jail at some point in her life. They were very nice people though, except for when they fought. Terrible. Loud. Violent fights. The police were called several times by the ex-con's mother (who also lived in the building.)
One night I was coming home and heard them screaming at the top of their lungs. They were on the 2nd floor and I was on the 4th floor of the walkup and as I headed up the stairs I came to the unfortunate conclusion that their door was open.
The two of them were in the doorway, in plain sight, slapping away at each and that is when they saw me. Everyone stopped and stared at each other. The fight-flight-scream in shock instinct gained another new level of "say nothing."
The ex-con turned to his girlfriend and said, "Well now EVERYONE in the apartment knows how stupid you are!" He then slammed the door.
I continued on to my apartment. Really, what would you have done?
Yeah, living in New York - and anywhere really, I once opened the front door to the house in Framingham naked because religious people were bothering me - always has an adventure or two. Random run ins with apartments.
I am sure Sienna will come up with her own stories and adventures.
Wayne
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
When Sienna is Sick
I was having a not-so-good day at work. I can't even qualify it as a bad day at work as there was a minimal amount of additional stress on my normal workload, though I had just received some work news that put me in a rather foul mood. Bad day is when something bad it happening - like a family member having a problem.
When the phone rang I recognized Danielle's number.
"Cranky husband," I said as I pressed the headset button on my phone and sent the Ma Bell signal through my headphone-esque looking crown.
"Day care called," Danielle said, foregoing greetings and salutations.
My mind immediately jumped into exactly why daycare would call. Either Sienna did or something or something happened to Sienna. Daycare isn't the type of place that will arbitrarily call. Or to put it another way, if someone bit Sienna they would mention it to us when we picked her up, not with a midday phone call. Conversely if someone bit Sienna and it broke skin then we'd get a phone call.
"She is running a fever. I'm going to go pick her up. A lot kids are sick today. There is a bug going around."
That was rather good of Danielle given that I was covering a co-workers project at work and I wasn't in a spot to work from home easily.
After I turned off my headset I thought to what was going on. The day still had its stresses at work though nothing compared to the sudden shift in priorities. How sick was Sienna? Was it a cold again? A cough? A something else?
That is part of parenting. Wondering exactly what is wrong with your child without letting your mind get away from you. Or at least too far away from you. It sucks really. The this is only the beginning and in the grand scheme of things - I can't quality it as a bad day since Danielle will take care of Sienna and we'll all be well in the end.
Wayne
When the phone rang I recognized Danielle's number.
"Cranky husband," I said as I pressed the headset button on my phone and sent the Ma Bell signal through my headphone-esque looking crown.
"Day care called," Danielle said, foregoing greetings and salutations.
My mind immediately jumped into exactly why daycare would call. Either Sienna did or something or something happened to Sienna. Daycare isn't the type of place that will arbitrarily call. Or to put it another way, if someone bit Sienna they would mention it to us when we picked her up, not with a midday phone call. Conversely if someone bit Sienna and it broke skin then we'd get a phone call.
"She is running a fever. I'm going to go pick her up. A lot kids are sick today. There is a bug going around."
That was rather good of Danielle given that I was covering a co-workers project at work and I wasn't in a spot to work from home easily.
After I turned off my headset I thought to what was going on. The day still had its stresses at work though nothing compared to the sudden shift in priorities. How sick was Sienna? Was it a cold again? A cough? A something else?
That is part of parenting. Wondering exactly what is wrong with your child without letting your mind get away from you. Or at least too far away from you. It sucks really. The this is only the beginning and in the grand scheme of things - I can't quality it as a bad day since Danielle will take care of Sienna and we'll all be well in the end.
Wayne
Monday, November 7, 2011
About My Nonny...
Someday Sienna is going to ask about her grandparents - or if she is anything like me her greatgrandparents. In honor of Magic Johnson announcing he was HIV positive 20 years ago and a coincidence I give the Nonny post.
I ended up thinking about Nonny*, my paternal grandmother a couple of times in the last two days. Yesterday it was when Danielle and I were discussing Grandparents naming - my father goes by Nono, my stepmother goes by Nona, and my mother-in-law will go by, according to her, "whatever Sienna wants to call her." This morning my co-worker John and I got onto the subjects of old school toughness and grandmother's**. Ergo, you get the Nonny entry.
My Nonny was an Italian woman disguised as a block of flesh measuring 4 foot 6 high by 4 foot 6 round. I never recall seeing her in anything except a black dress, white shirt, thick glasses, and unmoving black curly hair - though pictures show her with a occasional bit of color. She had made a living as a seamstress, which accounted for her incredibly strong fingers and hands. If she grabbed you she GRABBED you and there was no way she was letting go until she wanted to. She was old school in how she dispensed love, justice, and wisdom.
By the time my brother and I were old enough for her to have a noticeable impact on our life, she had been tempered by numerous other grandchildren - or at least that is what we are TOLD. It is a frightening concept to image her at the height of her kickassness powers. She spent about a third of a year living with us - spreading her love between ourselves and various other family members the other two thirds of the year. After my Mother died she ended up getting an apartment about half a mile away from us.
Food is Love...
Like all Italian grandmothers my earliest memories of Nonny involve food. Not in one of those cooking all day events, or homemade sauces, or any family recipe secrets - my memories involve pizza. Specifically pepperoni pizza from Centre Pizza in Framingham. If Nonny was coming over we got pizza. This was a HUGE deal as Papa Gino's was actually closer and cheaper, though Nonny knew we liked the more expensive Centre pizza and the tiny pieces of pepperoni dotting the salty cheese which sat on a field of spicy goodness.
We've Heard So Much About You...
As I already mentioned my brother and I had heard seemingly thousands of Nonny stories. Her old school ways came from being a street smart Bostonian with a love that melded with pride in the form of my two Aunts - Linda and Anne, and her baby boy my father Joey. By the time my father was six Grandpa** was no longer in the picture, which effectively left Nonny as a single parent during the 40s & 50s.
A single parent resulting in a thousand stories. Here are my favorite all-time "Don't Mess With My Nonny Stories."
A Plate of Spaghetti
Nonny was watching my cousin Ricky and asked him what he wanted for dinner. She made him a plate of spaghetti and put it in front of him. "I don't want THIS" Ricky said. Wordlessly she dumped the plate of spaghetti over Ricky's head.
The Tree v Nonny
Nonny was driving her car and slid off the road straight into a telephone pole. The pole fell onto her car roof, crushed it inward, leaving her bloodied and unable to move. She looked ratched unconscious when the paramedics showed up. One of them said, "We have a big one in here." Without opening her eyes she replied, "When you get those pole off me I'm kicking your ass."
Nonny & Boyfriend's
My Aunt Linda's boyfriend Phil was over and in the forbidden upstairs room. Specifically the bedroom. Which is when my Nonny arrived and saw him on her bed. She ran across the room and JUMPED onto him, landing a perfect form body splash. She looked like a fullback hitting the hole and reportedly got good air on the jump. She then chased Phil out of the room, bouncing him down the hallway for being where he was not supposed to be.
No Sympathy for Your Dumb Actions
Nonny was babysitting my brother and I when I was about ten years old. I loved black olives. It was my favorite food in the world and we always had 24 ounce cans of olives in the house. I asked my Nonny if I could have some, she said yes - except not too many - and left me to my own devices. I then ate the ENTIRE can.
Then I drank the remaining olive juice.
Soon after I threw up olive and olive juice all over my bedroom floor - I can still picture the tiny chunks of olives sitting on the wood floor our cat Smokey walking over the remains, giving one good sniff and then sprinting out the room. In tears I ran to Nonny and asked her to make me feel better AND clean it up. "You Son of a Bitch, clean up the mess. I told you not to do it." She then handed me paper towels.
Now, by now stretch of the imagination was Nonny mean. She was quite loving. When my mother died she gave me some practical words of wisdom, "Your mother is dead. It's done. I'm old. You have to help take care of your father."
Practical. To the point.
She had just come up from a different place and really was of a generation where she wanted and needed her children to do a bit better than she did.
Her Practicality on Education...
My mother's family disowned her for a while since she was Jewish and married a Catholic. Very Romeo & Juliet - though without all the death. I once asked my father how Nonny had reacted - seeing as how she was a hardcore Catholic. My father told me that she actually didn't care as long as it didn't interfere with his graduate school education. All she cared was that he did well in school. When my brother was born and my Nana and Grandpa (the Jewish side of the grandparents) heard he would be raised Jewish all was forgiven. Knowing my Nonny, she probably figured she already had enough Catholic grand children anyway.
She was Street Smart & Protective...
Having heard about the street smart and protective stories I actually got to see it in action one particular time. I was goofing around in my driveway with my friend John and I had a fold up knife in my front pocket. All of a sudden from a window overlooking the driveway came a booming voice, "Wayne, get up here!" "What? No. We're going out." "Up here now!" "I said--" "Up.Now.John, go home."
Ticked off I went into the house. She greeted me with, "Is someone bothering you? Why do you have that knife?"
She had seen the outline of the knife in my pocket. She threatened bodily harm to whoever was bothering me. No cops. No questions. Just a name. "No one, is bugging me, Nonny." She looked through me to see if I was lying and when she saw I wasn't, her hand shot out and w
ithin half a second she had me off the ground and was shaking me like a rag doll. "Don't be stupid. You carry a knife and you'll find trouble!"
She took the knife from me and tossed me out of the room. I STILL don't know how she was the outline.
She Respected Courage...
My friends were terrified of Nonny. She could intimidate without trying. One day John wanted to play with me and couldn't find me at home. He then rode his bike to my Nonny's apartment to see if I was there. I wasn't. I thought she would be mad that he went there. Instead of she loved it, thinking he was respectful enough to go there. John is the only friend she would actively ask about and I think it made her doubly happy when she found out his parents were first generation from Scotland. She would always ask, "Is that, Son of a Bitch John coming over?"
Ah Yes, Son of a Bitch...
That was a way of saying she liked someone. You were a "son of a bitch" and somehow it made the person smile. In the days before political correctness she had a mouth on her that wasn't even offensive since every adult I knew about her talked the exact same way. I can't even repeat the words in this blog.
I do know that she gave it was well as she took it.
She was always "Ma" though...
Parents have a way of reducing you to a six-year-old child and my father was no exception as he always said, "Ma" in a thick Bostonian accent that was a badge of honor from growing up in the city. Oddly enough other than his sisters I NEVER heard anyone refers to parents as "Ma" - always Mom or Mommy. Coincidentally no one calls my father Joey - only Nonny and her own part-Boston accent and part-old country accent managing to chew up the word and spit it out as seven syllables.
Yes, Nonny was a tough old bag.
Tough enough that she was declared dead. Twice.
Last Rites the First Time
During an operation to remove a brain tumor she received last rites. She survived. The Doctor declared that she had worn him out and that the tumor was SOFTBALL sized. Which admitted he would not have tried to remove if he had known it was so large.
Last Rites the Second Time
As my Nonny grew old she (reluctantly) was put in a Nursing-type hold in Fitchburg and as she grew weaker a hospital. Looking way too skinny and her skin seemingly translucent and looking like a wrinkling overcoat her heart stopped. As they worked to revive her she received last rites. She survived. Again. When told about it, she muttered the question, "Again?"
Coincidentally my Aunt Anne was in the room BOTH times she was received last rites.
A Final Goodbye...
After the second last rites Nonny was so sick that he little baby Joey was called back from the Peace Corp. She ticked HERSELF off by living and becoming healthily enough that she finally told my father to go away. Among the final words were, ""Don't have a funeral for me. I've inconvenienced you enough and you have a life to live."
She died several months later. There was no funeral. Only the memories of a Nonny who loved her family and lived life to the fullest. She also made me smile.
My favorite all time Nonny comments...
I ended up thinking about Nonny*, my paternal grandmother a couple of times in the last two days. Yesterday it was when Danielle and I were discussing Grandparents naming - my father goes by Nono, my stepmother goes by Nona, and my mother-in-law will go by, according to her, "whatever Sienna wants to call her." This morning my co-worker John and I got onto the subjects of old school toughness and grandmother's**. Ergo, you get the Nonny entry.
My Nonny was an Italian woman disguised as a block of flesh measuring 4 foot 6 high by 4 foot 6 round. I never recall seeing her in anything except a black dress, white shirt, thick glasses, and unmoving black curly hair - though pictures show her with a occasional bit of color. She had made a living as a seamstress, which accounted for her incredibly strong fingers and hands. If she grabbed you she GRABBED you and there was no way she was letting go until she wanted to. She was old school in how she dispensed love, justice, and wisdom.
By the time my brother and I were old enough for her to have a noticeable impact on our life, she had been tempered by numerous other grandchildren - or at least that is what we are TOLD. It is a frightening concept to image her at the height of her kickassness powers. She spent about a third of a year living with us - spreading her love between ourselves and various other family members the other two thirds of the year. After my Mother died she ended up getting an apartment about half a mile away from us.
Food is Love...
Like all Italian grandmothers my earliest memories of Nonny involve food. Not in one of those cooking all day events, or homemade sauces, or any family recipe secrets - my memories involve pizza. Specifically pepperoni pizza from Centre Pizza in Framingham. If Nonny was coming over we got pizza. This was a HUGE deal as Papa Gino's was actually closer and cheaper, though Nonny knew we liked the more expensive Centre pizza and the tiny pieces of pepperoni dotting the salty cheese which sat on a field of spicy goodness.
We've Heard So Much About You...
As I already mentioned my brother and I had heard seemingly thousands of Nonny stories. Her old school ways came from being a street smart Bostonian with a love that melded with pride in the form of my two Aunts - Linda and Anne, and her baby boy my father Joey. By the time my father was six Grandpa** was no longer in the picture, which effectively left Nonny as a single parent during the 40s & 50s.
A single parent resulting in a thousand stories. Here are my favorite all-time "Don't Mess With My Nonny Stories."
A Plate of Spaghetti
Nonny was watching my cousin Ricky and asked him what he wanted for dinner. She made him a plate of spaghetti and put it in front of him. "I don't want THIS" Ricky said. Wordlessly she dumped the plate of spaghetti over Ricky's head.
The Tree v Nonny
Nonny was driving her car and slid off the road straight into a telephone pole. The pole fell onto her car roof, crushed it inward, leaving her bloodied and unable to move. She looked ratched unconscious when the paramedics showed up. One of them said, "We have a big one in here." Without opening her eyes she replied, "When you get those pole off me I'm kicking your ass."
Nonny & Boyfriend's
My Aunt Linda's boyfriend Phil was over and in the forbidden upstairs room. Specifically the bedroom. Which is when my Nonny arrived and saw him on her bed. She ran across the room and JUMPED onto him, landing a perfect form body splash. She looked like a fullback hitting the hole and reportedly got good air on the jump. She then chased Phil out of the room, bouncing him down the hallway for being where he was not supposed to be.
No Sympathy for Your Dumb Actions
Nonny was babysitting my brother and I when I was about ten years old. I loved black olives. It was my favorite food in the world and we always had 24 ounce cans of olives in the house. I asked my Nonny if I could have some, she said yes - except not too many - and left me to my own devices. I then ate the ENTIRE can.
Then I drank the remaining olive juice.
Soon after I threw up olive and olive juice all over my bedroom floor - I can still picture the tiny chunks of olives sitting on the wood floor our cat Smokey walking over the remains, giving one good sniff and then sprinting out the room. In tears I ran to Nonny and asked her to make me feel better AND clean it up. "You Son of a Bitch, clean up the mess. I told you not to do it." She then handed me paper towels.
Now, by now stretch of the imagination was Nonny mean. She was quite loving. When my mother died she gave me some practical words of wisdom, "Your mother is dead. It's done. I'm old. You have to help take care of your father."
Practical. To the point.
She had just come up from a different place and really was of a generation where she wanted and needed her children to do a bit better than she did.
Her Practicality on Education...
My mother's family disowned her for a while since she was Jewish and married a Catholic. Very Romeo & Juliet - though without all the death. I once asked my father how Nonny had reacted - seeing as how she was a hardcore Catholic. My father told me that she actually didn't care as long as it didn't interfere with his graduate school education. All she cared was that he did well in school. When my brother was born and my Nana and Grandpa (the Jewish side of the grandparents) heard he would be raised Jewish all was forgiven. Knowing my Nonny, she probably figured she already had enough Catholic grand children anyway.
She was Street Smart & Protective...
Having heard about the street smart and protective stories I actually got to see it in action one particular time. I was goofing around in my driveway with my friend John and I had a fold up knife in my front pocket. All of a sudden from a window overlooking the driveway came a booming voice, "Wayne, get up here!" "What? No. We're going out." "Up here now!" "I said--" "Up.Now.John, go home."
Ticked off I went into the house. She greeted me with, "Is someone bothering you? Why do you have that knife?"
She had seen the outline of the knife in my pocket. She threatened bodily harm to whoever was bothering me. No cops. No questions. Just a name. "No one, is bugging me, Nonny." She looked through me to see if I was lying and when she saw I wasn't, her hand shot out and w
ithin half a second she had me off the ground and was shaking me like a rag doll. "Don't be stupid. You carry a knife and you'll find trouble!"
She took the knife from me and tossed me out of the room. I STILL don't know how she was the outline.
She Respected Courage...
My friends were terrified of Nonny. She could intimidate without trying. One day John wanted to play with me and couldn't find me at home. He then rode his bike to my Nonny's apartment to see if I was there. I wasn't. I thought she would be mad that he went there. Instead of she loved it, thinking he was respectful enough to go there. John is the only friend she would actively ask about and I think it made her doubly happy when she found out his parents were first generation from Scotland. She would always ask, "Is that, Son of a Bitch John coming over?"
Ah Yes, Son of a Bitch...
That was a way of saying she liked someone. You were a "son of a bitch" and somehow it made the person smile. In the days before political correctness she had a mouth on her that wasn't even offensive since every adult I knew about her talked the exact same way. I can't even repeat the words in this blog.
I do know that she gave it was well as she took it.
She was always "Ma" though...
Parents have a way of reducing you to a six-year-old child and my father was no exception as he always said, "Ma" in a thick Bostonian accent that was a badge of honor from growing up in the city. Oddly enough other than his sisters I NEVER heard anyone refers to parents as "Ma" - always Mom or Mommy. Coincidentally no one calls my father Joey - only Nonny and her own part-Boston accent and part-old country accent managing to chew up the word and spit it out as seven syllables.
Yes, Nonny was a tough old bag.
Tough enough that she was declared dead. Twice.
Last Rites the First Time
During an operation to remove a brain tumor she received last rites. She survived. The Doctor declared that she had worn him out and that the tumor was SOFTBALL sized. Which admitted he would not have tried to remove if he had known it was so large.
Last Rites the Second Time
As my Nonny grew old she (reluctantly) was put in a Nursing-type hold in Fitchburg and as she grew weaker a hospital. Looking way too skinny and her skin seemingly translucent and looking like a wrinkling overcoat her heart stopped. As they worked to revive her she received last rites. She survived. Again. When told about it, she muttered the question, "Again?"
Coincidentally my Aunt Anne was in the room BOTH times she was received last rites.
A Final Goodbye...
After the second last rites Nonny was so sick that he little baby Joey was called back from the Peace Corp. She ticked HERSELF off by living and becoming healthily enough that she finally told my father to go away. Among the final words were, ""Don't have a funeral for me. I've inconvenienced you enough and you have a life to live."
She died several months later. There was no funeral. Only the memories of a Nonny who loved her family and lived life to the fullest. She also made me smile.
My favorite all time Nonny comments...
- "Hitting a child is fine. Hitting a kid a lot is not-so-fine. You gotta know the difference."
- "I want you to be happy. If you marry a Jew that is okay. (Long pause) Though if you marry a Christian that'd be better."
- "Jesus died for your sins. If you went to Church you'd understand that. Though the bagels are good at temple."
- "I hope you get all your mother's looks. Not her driving though. She was a terrible driver."
- "Joey, you're my baby and I'll always love you. You're getting fat though."
- On my father's girlfriend Robin moving in with us, "An Italian? These kids are Jewish - she better raise 'em that way."
- On my friend Neal, "Every parent thinks his kid is special. His are wrong."
- On me helping my brother with his paper route at age nine, "Go to school or this will be your job forever."
- Upon meeting Robert Parish in a line a supermarket, "You're tall. You're black. You must be a Celtic. They don't allow other blacks in Boston."
What Does Magic Johnson have to do with all of this?
1991. The world was changing and Magic Johnson just quit playing basketball due to HIV. Nonny comes up to me, "Hey, Wayne, about sex." Me, "uhhhhhhhh." Really, how do you react when your sixty plus your old Nonny comes up to discuss sex. "You know Magic - right? Well, he got the AIDS. If he can get the AIDS you can get it. Wear a condom." 20 years later I STILL don't know how to reply to that.
Sienna. That is your greatgrandmother. The legendary Nonny.
Wayne--
* Interestingly enough Nonny is spelled Nonni and means "grandparents" or "grandfather" in Italian. I have no idea why we called her Nonny. We just did.
** John's family is from China and as a fourteen year old girl John's grandmother used to sneak food into the Japanese prison camps.
*** Depending on the story Grandpa either died of consumption when my father was six or Nonny threw him out of the house for being an alcoholic and he was considered "dead."
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
OWS - Lessons in Building a Society
I love Civilization Revolution. Managing resources, having an objective, building your civilization, and - if all goes well - a form of world domination. That is in the nice computerized version of society - it doesn't take into account free loaders, shadow markets, illegal markets and when-people-just-don't-get-along.
Occupy Wall Street is learning some of these lessons.
Recently there has been a spate of people -both homeless and apparently just a little bit off- showing up at Occupy Wall Street, getting a free meal, some clothes and other OWS resources and then, low and behold, not contributing anything. Simultaneously there have been several assaults on occupiers by...other occupiers. One that started as an attempted drug sale, morphed into an assault on three people and days later ended up with a group of thugs threatening to kill the woman who reported the initial assault. There continues to be not enough bathrooms and not enough garbage pickup - both problems that have doomed city growth - though admittedly only when one tries to grow crops instead of receiving donations.
OWS itself had an issue where too much drumming was upsetting the locals an agreement was reached where they would STOP drumming and the people in the drum circle saying they should DRUM more. And they WOULD drum more. Disagreement isn't bad. It is part of life.
These are the growing pains of any society. Usually one of the first dwellings a society builds is a jail. Mostly so the morphing into general anarchy - and there are a few who would love anarchy - thereby necessitating actual rules and consequences.
OWS is handling it about as well as one could expect. They aren't claiming to be some sort of utopia. They aren't even claiming to try and be a city actually. Though in a strange way there are indicative of social media and the new society. Arrive, sit, and THEN figure out what to do.
Really though. You usually don't get to see a small city pop up in a major city and OWS will continue to learn its lessons.
Wayne
Occupy Wall Street is learning some of these lessons.
Recently there has been a spate of people -both homeless and apparently just a little bit off- showing up at Occupy Wall Street, getting a free meal, some clothes and other OWS resources and then, low and behold, not contributing anything. Simultaneously there have been several assaults on occupiers by...other occupiers. One that started as an attempted drug sale, morphed into an assault on three people and days later ended up with a group of thugs threatening to kill the woman who reported the initial assault. There continues to be not enough bathrooms and not enough garbage pickup - both problems that have doomed city growth - though admittedly only when one tries to grow crops instead of receiving donations.
OWS itself had an issue where too much drumming was upsetting the locals an agreement was reached where they would STOP drumming and the people in the drum circle saying they should DRUM more. And they WOULD drum more. Disagreement isn't bad. It is part of life.
These are the growing pains of any society. Usually one of the first dwellings a society builds is a jail. Mostly so the morphing into general anarchy - and there are a few who would love anarchy - thereby necessitating actual rules and consequences.
OWS is handling it about as well as one could expect. They aren't claiming to be some sort of utopia. They aren't even claiming to try and be a city actually. Though in a strange way there are indicative of social media and the new society. Arrive, sit, and THEN figure out what to do.
Really though. You usually don't get to see a small city pop up in a major city and OWS will continue to learn its lessons.
Wayne
Monday, October 10, 2011
When a Protest Meets Politics
I have watched with amusement as Occupy Wall Street has gotten enough attention (it only took 20+ days) for Democrats and Republicans to finally look across the aisle at each other and...
...take completely opposite stances!
More than anything else the Occupy Wall Street leaders - if they existed, which like Santa Claus they do not - would take this as having reached main street consciousness. Yes, there are Occupy Wall Street support protests in many other states; however the press has been remarkably quiet on the entire issue until the last few days.
Seriously. Other than being told there are protests and nobody knows why Occupy Wall Street exists - the simple common sense answer being people want jobs seems too bleeding obvious for most people to comprehend - had anyone really been reporting on anything other sensationalized reports of a topless dancer, no list of demands, and pepper spray.
This all ends as Democrats and Republicans have figured out which side of the position each side is on and more importantly, how to position themselves properly for each base. I'll give the elevator pitch version: for Democrats Occupy Wall Street is the left wing Tea Party and for the Republicans Occupy Wall Street is a bunch of anti-American anarchists.
Glad that is out of the way. Oh, and Al Sharpton is heading down to Wall Street today. Maybe THAT makes everything mainstream official now.
Either way look for protests to continue and much like religions fail to point out we're all children of Abraham, look for all sides to fail to point out everyone just wants a job.
Wayne
...take completely opposite stances!
More than anything else the Occupy Wall Street leaders - if they existed, which like Santa Claus they do not - would take this as having reached main street consciousness. Yes, there are Occupy Wall Street support protests in many other states; however the press has been remarkably quiet on the entire issue until the last few days.
Seriously. Other than being told there are protests and nobody knows why Occupy Wall Street exists - the simple common sense answer being people want jobs seems too bleeding obvious for most people to comprehend - had anyone really been reporting on anything other sensationalized reports of a topless dancer, no list of demands, and pepper spray.
This all ends as Democrats and Republicans have figured out which side of the position each side is on and more importantly, how to position themselves properly for each base. I'll give the elevator pitch version: for Democrats Occupy Wall Street is the left wing Tea Party and for the Republicans Occupy Wall Street is a bunch of anti-American anarchists.
Glad that is out of the way. Oh, and Al Sharpton is heading down to Wall Street today. Maybe THAT makes everything mainstream official now.
Either way look for protests to continue and much like religions fail to point out we're all children of Abraham, look for all sides to fail to point out everyone just wants a job.
Wayne
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Lessons of Dangers at a Softball Field & What to Teach My Daughter
"This is our fucking field!"
A high school kid in a football uniform was glaring at me beneath the not-so-very-bright lights of Col Jacobs Field in Harlem, as I stood out in left-center field of our softball game, and was nearly plowed over by a sweep.
The kid, backed up by oh about 40 High School players to his immediate right and to his immediate left was another 40 pint-sized mini players of the elementary school size, had the tell tale smirk of enjoying the fact that the practice was taking place IN our softball game.
Hey, at that age I would have smirked too. Permits be damned or not. I also would have been smacked by my coach at that point.
I pictured the headline for the news story: Softball player shot over field dispute in Harlem. I pictured my own reaction if I read such a headline: Idiots.
Yes, I walked away - and bit my tongue because man, I had some verbal gold that I wanted to unleash. I have actually seen this situation before at a softball game. A young kid ran onto a field and the outfielder yelled at him - the kid then came back with a bunch of uncles and friends ("Yo, these are my Uncles!") and it took a fast talking Umpire to cool the situation down. The Umpire calmly said after, "Which is good because they were all packing."
I'm not saying everyone in Harlem packs a gun. I'm just saying that nothing good could have possibly come out of the situation.
What was interesting - I won't even say astounding, or surprising, or even that it did anything more than annoyed me - was that the coaches supervising the practices seemed to be encouraging the behavior.
Okay, I can't even saying encouraging, the female umpire in out game went to talk with the Coaches at one point and in the words of our left fielder, "They basically told her to fuck herself."
This isn't a big social post here. In downtown New York people are being arrested over similar fundamental issues. People just ain't sharing the wealth, or the field, or the piece of candy in a pocket.
I'm not advocating a socialist society - the field really was a microcosm - they had more people, were better protected, and had the field. Yep football coaches on the field - teach the kids they don't have to listen to anyone and to just keep practicing.
Still. Hopefully I'll be able to teach Sienna to share a softball field. Or at least move far enough away if the other people have a permit. Mostly though, I'll probably teach her that sometimes the actual argument with the people ain't worth it and it's more fun to blog about it later.
Wayne
A high school kid in a football uniform was glaring at me beneath the not-so-very-bright lights of Col Jacobs Field in Harlem, as I stood out in left-center field of our softball game, and was nearly plowed over by a sweep.
The kid, backed up by oh about 40 High School players to his immediate right and to his immediate left was another 40 pint-sized mini players of the elementary school size, had the tell tale smirk of enjoying the fact that the practice was taking place IN our softball game.
Hey, at that age I would have smirked too. Permits be damned or not. I also would have been smacked by my coach at that point.
I pictured the headline for the news story: Softball player shot over field dispute in Harlem. I pictured my own reaction if I read such a headline: Idiots.
Yes, I walked away - and bit my tongue because man, I had some verbal gold that I wanted to unleash. I have actually seen this situation before at a softball game. A young kid ran onto a field and the outfielder yelled at him - the kid then came back with a bunch of uncles and friends ("Yo, these are my Uncles!") and it took a fast talking Umpire to cool the situation down. The Umpire calmly said after, "Which is good because they were all packing."
I'm not saying everyone in Harlem packs a gun. I'm just saying that nothing good could have possibly come out of the situation.
What was interesting - I won't even say astounding, or surprising, or even that it did anything more than annoyed me - was that the coaches supervising the practices seemed to be encouraging the behavior.
Okay, I can't even saying encouraging, the female umpire in out game went to talk with the Coaches at one point and in the words of our left fielder, "They basically told her to fuck herself."
This isn't a big social post here. In downtown New York people are being arrested over similar fundamental issues. People just ain't sharing the wealth, or the field, or the piece of candy in a pocket.
I'm not advocating a socialist society - the field really was a microcosm - they had more people, were better protected, and had the field. Yep football coaches on the field - teach the kids they don't have to listen to anyone and to just keep practicing.
Still. Hopefully I'll be able to teach Sienna to share a softball field. Or at least move far enough away if the other people have a permit. Mostly though, I'll probably teach her that sometimes the actual argument with the people ain't worth it and it's more fun to blog about it later.
Wayne
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)