We put Michael Alexander to sleep at 9 last night. He fell asleep about a half hour later and slept until about 6 this morning, just after Mike left for the gym.
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
Showing posts with label AP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AP. Show all posts
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Snow What Matters
A blizzard in New York is polarizing. Living in Manhattan is a breeze, even with the high wind. You don't have to shovel anything. You can walk anywhere and get what you need, unless it's a salad from Whole Foods (more on that later.) But if you live way out in Brooklyn or Queens, it can ruin your day, or even a couple of days. People whose only access is an elevated subway train can't make it work, and most of those people aren't paid when they can't show up. Many people who work in offices that aren't newsrooms can work from home, changing the dynamic of everyday life in your neighborhood. Different people are at the gym or out to lunch. It can be a luxury, almost like a snow day when you were a kid, for those who get to work from home. Generally, it's a lighter workload and those working from home can sneak out to the gym or linger over sashimi instead of slurping down some bodega soup at their desk wishing they were in Spin class. While newspepople need to get to work regardless of where they live, there's little argument that financial services execs should have to trek to the office. Are investors really eager to rebalance their portfolios in the wake of thundersnow? I think not. Yet some bosses, or at least Mike's, decided it was essential for them to staff the office. Funny how Mike was one of three people in the otherwise empty building yesterday. One left at 1 p.m. after muddling his way into Midtown from that faraway planet we call Jersey where he could have been cuddling with his wife and kids.
Back to Whole Foods. My father-in-law, who is visiting for Michael Alexander's first Christmas, went out to get salads from my mother-in-law and me. He returned empty handed as none of the regular salad selections were stocked. I made a second run with him to see what we might forage. In place of usual mezzes and cobbs was a stockpile of greens topped, or toppled, with quinoa and rice. Clearly the salad maven couldn't make it in from the outer Bronx so the guy who restocks housewares and cleaning supplies was summoned into the land of Caesars and Nicoises. The butcher and the fishmonger couldn't make it in either, so the protein of choice (or no choice) was quinoa. I managed to muster my taste for something called a harvest salad comprised mostly of red grapes. I do like grapes, but rarely as the star ingredient in a savory salad. Still, they were more appetizing than a giant lump of unseasoned quinoa. Quinoa is a good source of magnesium and phosphorus, and an excellent source of manganese. It's a complete protein, meaning it is one of the few grains that contain all the essential amino acids. But, still, they could throw in some veggies to brighten up the greens. Veggies, not grains, need to be the bigger player in the plastic tub. I digress. The real problem here is that the salad maven, the fish monger, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick stocker who couldn't make it to Union Square yesterday lost a day of pay. Meantime, Whole Foods saved on wages and reaped sales from these substitute salads as snowmageddon shoppers crammed their carts for fear the staaaahrm will never cease and even the Chinese takeout places that fueled the shattered city on 9/11 would shudder.
I can kind of, sort of, understand the fear of a Depression era born rural Vermonter who must travel 10 miles to Johnsons' General Store and about 150 miles to the nearest supermarket. I get why he might fire up his pickup truck and scour the megamart shelves after the forecast hits. But really Manhattanites? Really Union Squarers and East and West Villagers? You really, truly fear you will starve if you don't pile your puny apartment with perishables you'll purge after the slush subsides? It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, or react, to a storm that means nothing more than donning an extra layer and risking destruction of your favorite shoes. That's the woe of Manhattanites in winter. You don't even need to leave your walkup. A myriad deliverymen will climb seven flights to bring you steaming sacks of specialties from the Seven (or close to all of the more than 100 identified by the International Hydrographic Organization) Seas. What should concern you is how polarizing such an event is for NYC. While many, if not most, Manhattanites steal a day or two to complain about the whiteout and embrace any excuse to be lazy and order in, outer borough dwellers are largely losing a big chunk of their piddly weekly hand-to-mouth wages. It's so easy to lose perspective and forget about other peoples', most peoples', struggles when we're luxuriating in the city that will serve us whatever we can pay for, whenever we want it. Snow or no snow, the deliveryman will show.
I'm guilty of this, too. I just let my conscience come out occasionally so I can rant.
Being a Manhattanite is completely different from life in New England where I was born and grew up. In my early years as a newspaper reporter and AP newswoman, I was buried in storm coverage. I'd work around the clock to cover every fatal crash, rushing to the scene on the same dangerous streets that claimed those lives minutes ago, and keep constant tabs on every outage. I could drive through what TV "reporters" called "impossible" conditions. I do not miss having to play rugged, wake at 2 a.m. to dig out my car and clear the first few feet from my driveway and the street below. I don't miss being one of the few motorists on the snowy, icy streets, and usually the only one with any confidence in her skills to get where she's going. Living in the city makes life so easy. Yet for most it just makes it easier to complain about something different. The snow that "cripples" your commute. Ha! Yeah, none of us buys it. You just might be lucky enough to have a boss who is as wussy and proud as you. Try being a newsperson. I mean a real newsperson who covers every detail of every second and gets fired for getting to work a minute late even when the apocalypse hits. Seconds count, even more so when the thundersnow strikes. You were supposed to be at the office ahead of that. So stop asking your Facebook friends if it's safe or feasible to travel those two miles to work from Brooklyn. Even trudging through snow won’t take more than an hour and you’ll see the city in all its glory, enveloped in white. My AP colleagues will attest to this. That little bit of incidental cardio (walking two miles is NOT exercise; you must go to the gym for that) will help clear your mind. It can even merit a story in its own right. My musings on my walk to work during the New York City Blackout of 2003 was fun to write, especially in the trenches during a 15-hour shift with no flush toilets or food. Be lazy if you want to be lazy, but don't forget that those who really can't make it to work aren't getting paid enough to order curry.
Back to Whole Foods. My father-in-law, who is visiting for Michael Alexander's first Christmas, went out to get salads from my mother-in-law and me. He returned empty handed as none of the regular salad selections were stocked. I made a second run with him to see what we might forage. In place of usual mezzes and cobbs was a stockpile of greens topped, or toppled, with quinoa and rice. Clearly the salad maven couldn't make it in from the outer Bronx so the guy who restocks housewares and cleaning supplies was summoned into the land of Caesars and Nicoises. The butcher and the fishmonger couldn't make it in either, so the protein of choice (or no choice) was quinoa. I managed to muster my taste for something called a harvest salad comprised mostly of red grapes. I do like grapes, but rarely as the star ingredient in a savory salad. Still, they were more appetizing than a giant lump of unseasoned quinoa. Quinoa is a good source of magnesium and phosphorus, and an excellent source of manganese. It's a complete protein, meaning it is one of the few grains that contain all the essential amino acids. But, still, they could throw in some veggies to brighten up the greens. Veggies, not grains, need to be the bigger player in the plastic tub. I digress. The real problem here is that the salad maven, the fish monger, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick stocker who couldn't make it to Union Square yesterday lost a day of pay. Meantime, Whole Foods saved on wages and reaped sales from these substitute salads as snowmageddon shoppers crammed their carts for fear the staaaahrm will never cease and even the Chinese takeout places that fueled the shattered city on 9/11 would shudder.
I can kind of, sort of, understand the fear of a Depression era born rural Vermonter who must travel 10 miles to Johnsons' General Store and about 150 miles to the nearest supermarket. I get why he might fire up his pickup truck and scour the megamart shelves after the forecast hits. But really Manhattanites? Really Union Squarers and East and West Villagers? You really, truly fear you will starve if you don't pile your puny apartment with perishables you'll purge after the slush subsides? It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, or react, to a storm that means nothing more than donning an extra layer and risking destruction of your favorite shoes. That's the woe of Manhattanites in winter. You don't even need to leave your walkup. A myriad deliverymen will climb seven flights to bring you steaming sacks of specialties from the Seven (or close to all of the more than 100 identified by the International Hydrographic Organization) Seas. What should concern you is how polarizing such an event is for NYC. While many, if not most, Manhattanites steal a day or two to complain about the whiteout and embrace any excuse to be lazy and order in, outer borough dwellers are largely losing a big chunk of their piddly weekly hand-to-mouth wages. It's so easy to lose perspective and forget about other peoples', most peoples', struggles when we're luxuriating in the city that will serve us whatever we can pay for, whenever we want it. Snow or no snow, the deliveryman will show.
I'm guilty of this, too. I just let my conscience come out occasionally so I can rant.
Being a Manhattanite is completely different from life in New England where I was born and grew up. In my early years as a newspaper reporter and AP newswoman, I was buried in storm coverage. I'd work around the clock to cover every fatal crash, rushing to the scene on the same dangerous streets that claimed those lives minutes ago, and keep constant tabs on every outage. I could drive through what TV "reporters" called "impossible" conditions. I do not miss having to play rugged, wake at 2 a.m. to dig out my car and clear the first few feet from my driveway and the street below. I don't miss being one of the few motorists on the snowy, icy streets, and usually the only one with any confidence in her skills to get where she's going. Living in the city makes life so easy. Yet for most it just makes it easier to complain about something different. The snow that "cripples" your commute. Ha! Yeah, none of us buys it. You just might be lucky enough to have a boss who is as wussy and proud as you. Try being a newsperson. I mean a real newsperson who covers every detail of every second and gets fired for getting to work a minute late even when the apocalypse hits. Seconds count, even more so when the thundersnow strikes. You were supposed to be at the office ahead of that. So stop asking your Facebook friends if it's safe or feasible to travel those two miles to work from Brooklyn. Even trudging through snow won’t take more than an hour and you’ll see the city in all its glory, enveloped in white. My AP colleagues will attest to this. That little bit of incidental cardio (walking two miles is NOT exercise; you must go to the gym for that) will help clear your mind. It can even merit a story in its own right. My musings on my walk to work during the New York City Blackout of 2003 was fun to write, especially in the trenches during a 15-hour shift with no flush toilets or food. Be lazy if you want to be lazy, but don't forget that those who really can't make it to work aren't getting paid enough to order curry.
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