Dead or Alive?

The people in our building look at us like we’re dead.

Good friends, who are new parents, recently said this to us, and brother did it bring back memories….memories of being in New York, a new father, feeling like I was getting those same looks, and not sure I was cut out for it.  It didn’t feel like too much fun at times.  Memories of being in an increasingly noisy apartment building, surrounded by increasingly younger people (no it wasn’t just us getting older), feeling so out of place and foolish telling people to “shut the **** up” out the window at 1AM (and for some reason in NYC it’s rarely “Hey could you hold it down.” It’s “Shut the f**k up!” waking even more people up in the process).

Friday nights had become our laundry nights.  While everyone else was catching cabs, dressed to go out, we were walking bags of laundry over to the laundry mat, heat, rain, or snow…in pajamas…livin’ it up bitches!!  There were a couple times that those Friday nights left us feeling pretty lame, the taste and memory of a me-centric life still oh so fresh.

I remember being in Vegas when Seb was 3 months old, walking around and people right and left saying “Oh isn’t he adorable…he’s the boss now!” or some variation of “He’s calling the shots now!”.  Oh, did I chafe every time I had to hear that. “He’s not the boss of me!” I’d want to respond.  “He’s not the boss of meeeeeee!”

Well, maybe he did become the boss of me.  Sometimes it feels like it – times three.  But it’s all good – I like to think we’re the boss of each other.  Responsible for each other.

Years ago, I would’ve been the neighbor that looked at you like you were dead, that kid in your arm symbolizing all the things you could no longer do.  Better you than me. You better believe I thought that more than once watching some dude carry his stroller up the subway stairs.  The End. The end of all your plans, all your goals, all your freedom to put your mark upon the world.

“When are you going to settle down and have kids? “  A question that came around every time we went home to Florida.  That’s what was asked.  Know what I heard?  “When are you going to get fat, bald, walk around in stained sweatpants and have no signs of the hopes you once had or life you once enjoyed?”

Needless to say I needed some coaching as the birth of our first son approached.  Serious coaching.  Luckily I’m married to Pollyanna.

“Well we can define who we want to be, we don’t have to change if we don’t want to.”

“Oh really Pollyanna?  That’s what you think.” Mr. A.J. would say.  “Oh it’s aaaalllllll going to work out just glllloooowingly huh?  So easy…”

“It’s not easy, but how it works out, that’s up to us.” Pollyanna would say.

“You’re crazy!  You are crazy.  You are so Pollyanna!” Mr. A.J. would say as he curled into the fetal position on the floor of their 300 square foot apartment.  “We’re so dead….so dead so dead so so dead….”

Nearly seven years later, and wasn’t Pollyanna just sooooo right.  Somewhere along the line we found balance, or balance found us, or we evolved, or gave in, or didn’t, or a little of all.   Maybe I learned a little about being where I was.  Be where you are.  Then get where you’re going.  Yeah sure, the bottom could fall out one day and we realize “Hey!  Assholes!  When you have kids you settle down, that’s why they call it settle down and have kids.”  But something tells me there are experiences to be gained from Pollyanna’s attitude (she’s smiling, smugly, this very moment).  She’s been on to something…. I must admit.

So, now, with perspective, do I ever feel like we’re dead?  You bet your ass I do.  Hello!  We have three kids!  So screwed. 

Real answer?

Today was one of those days when, in the safety of our neighborhood, I’ll let them ride out of their car seats, standing in back.  We go up the hills and down the hills, tumbling on the corners… and they’re screaming, anticipating, tingling with unregulated elation, laughing from the deepest belly and embodying the purest joy that exists in this world.
I watch them, viscerally feeling, remembering, and sharing the happiest memories of childhood.  The so-much-fun-you-piss-your-pants good times.  And  I.  Am.  Alive.