Category Archives: Family

My Dad’s Father’s Day gift came a day early, as he was discharged from the hospital after over a week of care following some surgery complications. There’s really no greater gift, and I only hope he keeps recovering – drinking his fluids, eating his healthy food, and getting better. He’s had a difficult few months – first breaking his arm, then having his gall bladder removed – and this latest complication had me more worried than usual.

As I watched him sitting on his hospital bed, it struck me that he looked a little like my nephew Noah – wide-eyed and innocent, and in need of just a little help. Luckily my Mom was staying with him, and I realized once again what a blessing it was to have medical people in the family. The hospital is a scary place without some inside knowledge (and even that won’t get you through the ER admission process any faster.)

I’m wishing him an extra-special Father’s Day, and somehow I value him just a bit more this year. I love you, Dad.

When faced with a choice between attending a child’s dance recital or a graduation ceremony, always choose the latter. Don’t make the common mistake of thinking a dance recital will be more exciting and bearable – it will just be longer – much much MUCH longer. Andy and I won’t be able to make this year’s dance recital (and I swear it’s not because we planned to attend ‘Kinky Boots’ that night, it just happily worked out that way.) We did, however, make it to the pre-school graduation ceremony. Noah and Emi played, wait for it, Noah (of big boat biblical fame) and… umm, Mrs. Noah. (Figures that women didn’t even get names back in the time of the Great Flood. Thank God the teacher said Emi would make a great Miss America so she knows there are other career choices out there.) Nobody ever said I’d make a great Miss America, and I do feel I’ve suffered because of it.

The twins couldn’t have cared less. They just wanted to get home and open their presents.

More importantly, they wanted to begin their first and last summer before Kindergarten. That’s certainly reason to smile.

Milo’s favorite number may be five, but he’ll have to wait one more year before that’s how old he is. In the meantime, he will have to celebrate number four with this cake from Andy. In the first picture, he reminds me so much of his grandfather in that mischievous grin that it’s almost spooky – in a good way.

Some posts don’t need prose, just a few favorite faces.

Being a parent is the most difficult job in the world. I don’t have the selflessness, time or money that go into raising a child, and I always knew that. It helped that I never had the desire, but more people need to make that choice based on their circumstances. Fortunately, my Mom and Dad planned for my brother and myself. We never wanted for anything because they had the foresight and love to make sure we were set to attend college, see a bit of the world, and never go to bed hungry. That was my Mom’s big thing: she never wanted us to go to bed hungry, because when she was little she sometimes did. Those are the things that I remember.

On this Mother’s Day, I honor the woman who gave up so much because she had grown up with so little. We didn’t get a chance to do our annual Broadway trip yet, but hopefully we’ll schedule something for late summer or early fall to make up for it. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Most of the Easters of my childhood were spent in scratchy starched miniature three-piece suits, stuffily sitting at a tiny kids’ table in my Grandmother’s apartment in Hoosick Falls. After being forced to go to church, we’d load our Easter baskets into the car and make the hour-long drive from Amsterdam for a lunch of ham and potatoes, and a dessert of chocolate treats.

Somewhere there’s a photo or two of my brother and I sitting beside two huge pastel-colored baskets, grinning ear-to-ear with the beautiful bounty of sugar before us.

As much as we loved our Gram, something about the whole formality of the day dampened what should have been an otherwise-happy occasion. As any good Catholic knows, Easter is the real high holiday of the religious year. Christmas gets all the gift-laden glory, but the resurrection is where the real power is at. Anyone – in fact everyone when you think about it – can be born. Only one guy was born again and brought back to life. (That’s how the story goes, at least, even if I was unclear as to where JC went after escaping that cave and leaving his clothes behind. Naked guys couldn’t get nearly as far today without incident.)

Catholic confusion aside, my brother and I focused on the treats of the day, and worked to extricate ourselves from the watchful eyes of our parents and doting grandmother. We’d invariably shed our jackets, untuck our shirts, and lose our clip-on ties.

If we ate most of our lunch, we’d be excused to explore the bedroom and guest room, leafing through Gram’s books and playing her music boxes. While ‘Misty’ played from a spinning trio of porcelain ships, it was a rose-lacquered music box clock that played the waltz that would forever signify my grandmother.

As a braille-like drum turned and plucked bands of stiff metal, the magical pluckings of the music boxes filled the wooden surrounds of Gram’s bedroom. As each one slowed to a sad stop, we’d wind them up again, as tight as they would go, and the music sped up in a way that made us smile. Such was the excitement of Easter morning for two little boys in Hoosick Falls.

Of greater interest to one of those boys was a jewelry box that held all sorts of sparkling confections. If I have any notion of how to accessorize, it’s largely from these early days of rummaging through my Gram’s jewelry. Though most of her belongings were garish costume pieces (my favorite) a few held great value, such as the ones seen here. It was a lesson that informed the rest of my life: the most ostentatious-looking items weren’t necessarily the most valuable. That would be our little secret.

In her own way, Gram taught me what really mattered, and though we could glitter and glam up with the best of them, the love between a Grandmother and her grandson was worth more than the prettiest diamond and the bluest sapphire.

Five years ago this world was blessed with the arrival of my niece and nephew. Since that time Emi and Noah have enriched my life in ways too numerous and core-changing to name in this silly birthday post. They make me rethink what’s important, they bring an innocence and a joy to my adult concerns, and they have given my parents purpose and a place to give their love.

I’m just enjoying watching them grow up. It feels like it’s going quicker and quicker, but birthdays are a time for reflection and celebration, and a place to pause for a moment on all that has happened.

Happy Birthday Noah and Emi!!

“Family is really important to me, but strangely enough family is not necessarily your blood… Sometimes our family lets us down and we end up creating a new family for ourselves. And family is really people that you know you can rely on, people who won’t judge you, people who have your back, people you can trust, people who are loyal.” ~ Madonna

There’s a lot about the Bible that pisses me off. Some of the lessons are noble and true, some of the sentiment is powerful, but much is antiquated and too easily misread. One of the biggest stories that has always bothered me was that of The Prodigal Son. Maybe it just hit too close to home. Maybe I just need to learn forgiveness. Or maybe there is no justice in the world and there never was.

The Parable of the Lost Son

Jesus continued: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate’ So he divided his property between them. Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. When he came to his senses, he said, “How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.” So he got up and went to his father.

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. The son said to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”

But the father said to his servants, “Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” So they began to celebrate. Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. “Your brother has come,” he replied, “and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.”

The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, “Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!”

“My son,” the father said, “you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.””

Moral of the story? The son who has fun, fucks up his life, and goes back to beg for more ends up in a better position than the son who behaves and becomes a productive member of society. Granted, there is some higher forgiveness and grace at work (at least I hope), but there is no way that this supersedes the bottom line that if you’re bad, you get the help and the love and the forgiveness and the compassion and the fucking fatted calf.

Way back in high school, when I had already seen the rift between the recognition, help and attention the kids who behaved and did well got as opposed to the ones who messed around, got arrested, and did whatever they wanted to do, I wrote a Letter to the Editor of the local newspaper lamenting the way some of those good kids were treated – or not treated as the case may be. It’s about more than getting attention. Everyone always pulls the attention card and thinks that’s it. Newsflash: some of us don’t need any help getting attention. As far as it being a case of whining and complaining that ‘It’s not fair!’ well, it’s not. And if life is unfair, it’s because certain people make it so, and others let it happen.

There are a few choices. Work your ass off, do what you’re supposed to do, and be a responsible, decent human being. It’s not always fun, but it’s the right thing to do. Or, give in to whatever wish and whim you want, fuck up and have a blast. It’s way more fun, and if someone’s going to be there to take care of you and your kids when you need it, why not live it up? A friend suggested that I find a surrogate mother, have a baby, squander my money on a ridiculously lavish house and cars and motorcycles and become the son in need. My friend’s mother, when confronted with the age-old question of which child she favored the most, used to say, “The one that needs me the most.” There’s something very sweet in that, and something so unjust it makes my heart break.

“Family isn’t blood,” she said bitterly, continuing to back away. “Family is who loves you, who takes care of you.” ~ Bruce Coville

The real lost sons are the ones who take care of themselves, who pay their credit card bills in full every month, who don’t make impetuous selfish decisions, who don’t fuck up their lives, and who don’t expect anything from anyone. We’re not lost because we can’t take care of ourselves, we’re lost because it hurts so much and we never say it.

There’s nothing quite like having a fun Sunday morning after a sleepover at the tail-end of winter. Last weekend we had the twins over and they kept us busy all the way through Sunday. When they asked to stay for a little longer while their Dad had to pick up some wood, I couldn’t refuse. The photographs speak for themselves.

Like much of my family’s communication, the way my brother and I talk is largely fucked-up. In this instance, and many of the interactions with my brother, it’s more comical than anything else. I’m talking about when he was trying to explain the name of this car to me. Originally I think he said it was a Malibu, but then he switched jokingly to the ‘Malibooty’ so that’s what I’m calling it. It’s the same old nonsensical gab we have from time to time, like when we text about football. Anyway, here it is – the Malibooty – in all its green glory – with a backdrop of butter.

For my brother’s birthday we had dinner at my parents’ house in Amsterdam, NY, where the twins enjoyed an influx of Uncles. It’s always risky celebrating a birthday in the midst of February in upstate New York, but this year we escaped the usual winter storm that prevents us from joining in the festivities.

Emi and Noah are getting more and more interactive, and get to do pretty much what they want, so we were treated to some wild swings of singing and playing, running around and jumping, and just a little bit of actual eating of a birthday dinner. It’s much more fun to watch when you don’t have to worry about putting them to bed or raising them for the future. So we just watched and chuckled.

Here, Emi channels her inner Janis Joplin, even if there was little singing involved.

Noah played a monkey game with me and his Dad.

It’s all about the pose and the rock-star posture.

The birthday boy and father overseeing dinner and phone at the same time.

Doting Uncles.

I’m not quite sure how it began or who started it. It was a Saturday in winter, and neither of us had anything to do. I sat in my bedroom. Across the hall, my brother sat in his. Blind to what the other was doing, and behind our closed doors, we did what ten or eleven-year-old boys do: he probably marched plastic soldiers over his rust-colored carpet while I likely watered a plant on my windowsill and waited for it to grow. Though we often played together, on this particular Saturday we were doing our own thing. Somehow, though, in the way that only brothers realize, we were keenly aware of the other going about his business – and when one of us opened his door, he found a gift from his brother.

As I said, I don’t know who started it, but soon it was a bit of a game, and a rare bit of unabashed affection. I opened my door to find a wrapped piece of candy that he left. Out of the blue, and without reason or explanation. I rummaged through my room and found a toy, tip-toed across the hall and placed it outside his door. A few minutes later his hand crept out to retrieve it. Inside my room, I smiled and beamed, and felt one of the most pure feelings of love I’d ever experience. It was the love of giving, as much as the love one brother felt for another.

A little while later, I opened my door and there was another gift. The game went on for a few more rounds, as we scrounged for presents and tried to surprise the other without being heard. It’s a simple memory, but one of my favorites. I’m not sure my brother recalls it – I’ll have to ask him. It always reminds me that, when left to our own devices, we always fared rather well.

Today is his birthday, so I’m sending out this virtual wish for a happy day – and a happy memory that, up until this moment, only my brother and I shared.

When you sit next to my nephew Noah and Suzie’s son Milo at the dinner table, there’s a good chance you get to witness some pretty funny things. Such was Andy’s vantage point when he captured these photos on his new iPhone (yes folks, Andy is finally on the 21st century texting scene!) We gathered the crew to celebrate Mom’s birthday, and the pictures tell more funny stories than I ever could.

(Be sure to watch for the frightening shot in which Suzie unhinges her lower jaw to take a bite of some pasta. To be fair, I also included a photo in which my mouth was full too. Throwing shade on myself, look, I can do it.)