Merry Chrismas, Tout Le Monde!

from

Five Happiness

Bradley, Felicity, and Tallulah (now one year old.)

Old Friends, New Friends

Five Happiness calls North Carolina home now, going on seven months. In that time we've reunited with familiar faces, some out of the blue not seen for twenty-plus years, others like the crunch of an apple: delicious and known. We have met new people in our search for our own kind, in looking for some hybrid of creativity and fearlessness matched by exuberance and emotional intelligence. They are rare, and do not breed in captivity. Our hunt is in the wild, so to speak.

In the old faces become new there is a joy to see what life has brought in the seemingly brief, yet vast intermission since we saw them last. Many have children, or grandchildren, even. They have "become" new to me, though familiar to themselves and true to all. It is so comforting and generous to be allowed to reenter a childhood friend's life as an adult, with all the challenges requisite: To allow them to be who they are, unclouded by the person you thought you knew. But knowing that you both share a deep and complex rooted past that chiseled you both into the shapes you now hold. We can credit each other for some small bit of that molding.

We take our time moving through days. We recently visited some Seattle friends traveling through. (see photos) Wes and Laura were in Virginia for a wedding and were tempted by the quaint burgh of Asheville, NC. We intercepted them and our mutual friend Trip for a lovely weekend full of children and easy days.

Wes and Quentin enjoy Tallulah and Bradley's Company

A Reflection of Parenting

Laura, Wes, Trip, Bradley, and Felicity Sip Sweet Tea

Upon our return we began in earnest to find people that could possibly fill the vacancies left by our dear group of Seattle friends. For those readers in the aforementioned population, don't worry. To plagiarize Sinead O'Connor, "Nothing compares to ewe." We feel sheepish to even mutton the phrase. Shear lunacy. [editor's note: There will be floggings as a result of this rash punography.] But that's not to say we aren't trying. Durham is a growing artist's haven. A downtown in the midst of revival, with lots of large studios is a scenario Seattlites will recognize, if their histories dip back into the Eighties. We have much to do, with work, our little rascal [status update: Tallulah is 20 lbs. and almost walking,] and the mix of socializing, working out, and play we place at the top of our agendas. We have time for all our family: you included. We want to hear from you. What you want to know, how you are, who you are...let us know you're out there. We'll write more.

When Tallulah reached six months of age, Felicity and I revisited the topic of having more children. She has always wanted Lu to have a sibling, and I, an only child, did not have strong feelings one way or the other. I think our friend Richie put it succinctly when he admitted he didn't know if he enjoyed being a parent or just enjoyed being his child's parent. We don't know if we like being parent or we like being Tallulah's parents.

There is a huge difference. We don't know what a second child would do to the family, what their dynamic would bring, or who they would be. Lu has been a graceful, quiet, easy baby. It seems almost inevitable a second would be more difficult. Are we strong enough to withstand more sleepless nights in service to another mouth's demands? Do we have the patience to be kind to each other through the difficulties of raising two children? What are the rewards of having more than one kid if you're not living on a farm and you need free labor? Rhetorical question.

There is the financial burden to consider. I am applying for graduate school, a three year commitment, one that will add another dimension of stress to our lives, not to mention my availability to our household. But we have already proven we can withstand anything. We are nothing if not creative survivors. And parents of a child who's looks would make the Gerber baby appear ghastly by comparison.

We shall see. I think we can do whatever we want. I adopt that posture in an attitude of defiant optimism, which has, at times landed me in trouble. But never bad trouble. Always a lovely pickle, which I devoured with relish.

The First Father's Day

A seasoned father must be accustomed to spending time away from his family. I guess the accumulated time gathered in daily life deposits a positive sum of memories and garners a confidence borne of full days and successes. I wonder too, how many fathers have had to sacrifice time with their loved ones to attend to business, emergencies needing attention, or duties in their family's stead. This, my first Father's Day, I spend alone.

I left my family at the beach house early Saturday afternoon upon hearing our young dog sitter wasn't willing to complete her task. As I turned on the car's stereo, my dad's CD player, containing string arrangements of Beatles' tunes began to play a mournful rendition of Eleanor Rigby, quite possibly the saddest pop song ever crafted. As I waved to my wife, willfully leaving one of my favorite places, and the opportunity to introduce my daughter to the Atlantic for her first time, I was proud to know I behaved responsibly. Sacrifice is a large part of parenting. I have stumbled upon a feeling I have feared for years, and largely avoided for most of my life: Adulthood.

Surprise to discover I fit this new coat well. It is sturdy, heavy cloth. New, but not starched or store bought. It feels hand made and custom tailored. It seems to change colors in different lights, sometimes somber, then festive, then a comforting hue. It is my favorite garment. I used to find it old fashioned and tiresome. Now I think it becomes me.

I look so forward to seeing my daughter each day. Her face is always full of smiles. That she knows me, and says so when she sees me, is my proudest moment. Any day with these gifts is better than any without. Travel seems hollow if I am not by my daughter and wife's side. That will pass into that confident security allowed veteran fathers, I'm sure. But that brass pang that sticks in my heart when I am alone and thinking of my girls stays with me. I hope.

The Puddle Maker

My Daughter: Tallulah Cadence McDevitt, AKA: The Puddler.
Whomsoever falls beneath her gaze instantly becomes transmogrified into a puddle.

I have been puddled several times already today. While working, Felicity emailed me the Puddler's face via my phone. Several of my co-workers were also puddled. My mom is puddled. As is dad, cousins, aunts, grandmothers...all shall fall.

I am sure there will be moments when the puddling will cease, perhaps temporarily. Maybe there will be a gawky, glasses and braces phase, or a ranting imperious teen reign. I believe, in spite of the potential neutralization of these powers, this girl will know full well her abilities and may, in fact, use them for good. May, being the key word. Much of those potentials lie with our parenting and adequate bribery.

Tallulah has sounded her first two words. The first was "Na-na" for "I'd like mother to get in here and soothe me with some milk." The second, "Dadadadadada" was a surrealist interpretation of a Duchamp/Arp performance from Zurich, circa 1916, entitled "That tall funny looking clown guy who Mommy hangs with." Though the added spit up landing upon the audience was all original material.

She repeats these savory words, with Cummings-like poetry sounds, onomatopoetic pops and gurgles added like red spices in a green soup. It is delicious. I am never full, always satisfied, and ready for another bowl.

Lula eats rice cereal, and now a lovely sweet potato goulash Felicity creates with mother's milk and only the choicest Garnet yams. I returned from work and fed little Lula. As we sign the ASL for "eat" and "more" she mostly watches the spoon. She guides my hand with hers towards her little baby bird mouth as if to say, "this is how you do it, dadadadadadada..." I savor each mouthful of surreal.

A Flower in New Orleans

Amazed, I witness the birth of a tiny bud-I watch it's progress from seed to flower. The first time the sprout breaks the soil of it's own purpose and begins to stretch toward light, I sense the new stem desire to bend before it bends. As first leaves form they yawn like open hands in broad sun, closing gently at the approach of dark. A blossom where yesterday there was no blossom, was white, was pink, is red, is redder still. Slender petal after delicate petal uncurls cautiously, then riotous and joyful, exploring the sense and senses gained in exploration. And they ripple tenderly in breezes, they wince slightly in soft rains, they shrug at suggestion of cold, and withdraw at the grazing predator's approach.

A gardener's masterful touch is learned after many hours of careful study and labor, but the new parent must follow instinct, though wisely honed by the advice of predecessors. I feel like a Darwin, or a Livingstone of child rearing. I am in uncharted territory with this new breed of flower, this unknown native of a distant land. But I do know its antecedents.

Felicity and I travelled to my antecedents' homeland, New Orleans with Tallulah and her "Kiki" Carol Ann (my Mom) last week. Our principle mission involved introducing Lula to her paternal Great Grandmother, Jeanette Gros, my only living grandparent by blood. But we also shared Lu with several cousins, some friends, and my Uncle, Kiki's brother, Buddy Ganier.

Tallulah with Great Grandmother, Jeanette

In brief, my birth name was Bradley Denis Gros. My father, Eric Marcel Gros, born in Thibodaux, Louisiana, grew up in the same house in which my Grandmother still lives. They built it in the early '50s shortly after she came to America from Europe where she married my Grandfather, Denis Gros. My middle name is in his honor. When my father passed away, I changed my last name to match my Step-Father's, but in blood I remain half Ganier and half Gros.

As my Grandmother's only grandson, it was vital to me she get the opportunity to experience her newest family member before progressing age prevented her full appreciation. She is 83 now and though moving slower, is still a force of nature. She was born in Pont de Neuson, France, the youngest of three children. Her family moved back to Poland soon after. Her oldest brother, Kazimir, was a gymnast. Had he joined the circus against his parent's wishes, he would not have been killed by the Germans in Buchenwald.

Her nearest brother, Stefan, escaped Auschwitz by swimming through rivers. Jeanette, (from the Polish, Janinne,) and her parents were held in Vichy run work camps in France until the liberation. A young Cajun sergeant befriended her, and because she spoke fluent French, Polish, and German, found her very useful in local dealings. He fell in love with her, and they married.

Jeanette's wedding dress was made from the recycled silk of parachutes. It was a thing of beauty. When Denis could not accompany his new bride back home, she came to the United States alone, at age twenty. She was processed through Ellis Island, and took a train to New Orleans, and then Thibodeaux, all with no English. She has lived there ever since. She still speaks with a thick Polish accent, full of lyric rolled R's.

I admire few people on this earth as much as my Grandmother, who has endured such hardships including the death of so many loved ones. Tallulah is as much a gift to her as she is to me. I treasure the moments spent in their company. As I sat watching Jeanette hold my daughter, my mother looking on, I felt my late father touch me, reciting a litany of joy that sounded like breezes through the oak trees outside. I felt an inward rustle of leaves, and each one opened and smiled.

Lula and Cousin Brady, in front of his artwork

With Great Aunt Emmeline

with Kiki, Emmeline, her daughter, Anita

Uncle Buddy Introduces Tallulah to the French Quarter

A Visual Travelogue

Vignettes of our time thus far in North Cackylacky:

Four Generations of McDevitt Women

Tallulah's Botticelli Impression (as Cherub)

Tallulah and her Great Grandmother Elizabeth "Bette" McDevitt

Tallulah's Alphabet Quilt (created by Rebecca Hix, left)

Dad and the Circle of Neglect

A New Five Happiness...The Feast Has Moved. Please Make Note

We have spectacular mornings. The sun rises with a deep golden hue and crawls lazily, heavily on the tall Loblolly Pines. A gentle heat seeps into everything and animates the day slowly, like a young child blowing up a balloon, or an inner tube for a ride down a river. The song birds begin just before dawn, ever mindful of sleeping beasts, careful only to sing just enough to carry dreams deeper and early risers with reverie. Tanagers, Blue Birds, Cardinals, Titmice, Chickadees, Wrens, Flycatchers, all reach an harmonious crescendo come breakfast time. Wildlife of every conceivable variety: Great Blue Heron, Red Tailed Hawks, Fox, Canadian Geese, Snakes, Turtles, and on and on...

By the afternoon, distant thunderheads, several miles high, trundle and morph into fantastical shapes and push breezes through new green leaves in ancient trees. The heat is only a harbinger of Summer fury, in its infancy now, but we can feel it-climbing out of it's crib and testing the latent powers it holds. Summer will be hot and humid. But we have that time tested, age old stand by, ensuring a consistent civilized nature: The ocean.

A mere three hours drive, the eighty degree waters, the lukewarm tide pools, the huge swath of beach sand, the sea oat forested dunes, the tickle of worn boardwalks and piers, festooned with crusty locals fishing for dinner. The occasional treasure; a shark's tooth, an intact conch, deep blue sand glass...and the companion of the wave's metronome measure-the lure of instant bliss. One, two, three...dive and surface reborn.

There is a great deal of that here, for me especially. I feel reborn into a world I am deeply familiar with, but each day seems new like a foreign country. The feeling I've only just arrived imbues the time with the same magical aether which permeates one's arrival to a new world. New smells, alive senses, sharp eyes, unknown people...everyone a potential friend. And now, this is Home.







Tallulah has settled in. She sleeps now, on my chest, wrapped in a comfortable cloth origami tying her to my body. Her weight comforts me, and as she gets heavier, I get stronger. She has begun to reach for the things she wants, and it all ends up in her open mouth. She looks like she is trying to taste the world. I remember discovering, perhaps at age four or five, that by touching objects with my tongue, I could instantly discern their composition-glass, stone, metal, plastic. Like an oral oracle, the taste and texture were unique. The temperature, exact. And I was always right. I imagine Lu doing that with everything new, the air, a toy, her foot...

Five Happiness, content, rests its head on your shoulder, as if to say, "I want to be still, and let the world, this new world, swirl about me...you are a rock and I hold on..."

I Am The Calm Center of the Storm

Tallulah doesn't know we're in another state. But she does know there is a lot more sunshine than there was a week ago. The blue sky is a patient reminder of why we're here. To slow down, to look, and to expand. Which we are doing in more ways than one.

Felicity loves her new cottage. As does Lu. I, on the other hand, am looking for stability in the form of honest work and a place where I can settle down to exorcise these ghosts haunting me. I have never been here before, but I grew up here. Each road I travel has new meanings added to the old memories. Here is where I kissed Sasha behind the fence, opposite where we shop for groceries. Here is where my best friend and I used our wits to escape from the mean punks, that is now a containment area for relocated Yankees. Here is where I played soccer in a neighborhood which has changed it's demographic from upwardly mobile to downwardly retracted.

North Carolina has the nation's fourth highest unemployment rate: 10.7%. So, I've decided to go back to school. New skills for a new environment. If they'll have me I will study Industrial Design at NCSU in Raleigh. They have a two year masters in design program that seems perfect. By the time I graduate, my daughter will be four. She will begin to write, to read, and to craft intelligent seating solutions for my ergonomics class. This prompts me to pontificate at length about her future interests, hopes, and dreams. But I won't write any of those down here...she will.

And to my dear dear friends keeping in touch personally: thank you for your support. We are making the best of the worst, and turning the lemons into meringue. I hate meringue. But others seem to really enjoy it.

To Begin Anew

Writing about our life is not easy. It is like looking up from your dinner to find your hot date has spinach on her teeth. You tell her, because you want to be honest, but you do it in a classy, clever way that won't make her hate you for seeing her with spinach on her teeth.

Our life is not easy, nor always happy. We are Five Happiness because we always try to remember who we want to be, though it's not always who we are. We get caught in the trap of wanting, and forget that we set the trap in the first place. We forget about the needs we have. We gloss over the simple and the necessary and jump to the complicated desires which require we step in the mud.

One of the intentions we hold foremost in our minds preparing for our jump into hyperspace (read: East coast) is paring down our lives to remember who we want to be and what we hold around ourselves and in our environment. For instance; I, who have been performing theater for most of my life, realized as a product of our discussions, I don't really enjoy it anymore. What a revelation. Trying so hard to make something the focus of your life when it is a falsehood is like running a car with the idea of gas. Getting out and walking feels like the best thing in the world. Like the diver taking off the lead vest, without the bends.

That's not to say I won't act again. But it opens up a huge space in my life. Now, I plan to get my master's degree, to be the creative designer geek I have always played at in my head, but never pulled into a form or shape I could set in my sight. Excitement where there was dread! Form from the void! That is creativity: Living purposefully. I have my wife to thank for these revelations. She who daily looks into the face of the future and wipes it clean of spit and goo. She sees things much clearer than I, especially after quitting her job of 16 years. That takes guts. Being an adult takes guts. This adulthood thing may actually be worth something. (Though Felicity and I agree, we're still 26 on the inside.)

I leave you, mon lectur, with this image. Destroy your ambition. As Anne Sexton wrote, "...ambition is the death of the poem." I believe it can also be the death of the life well lived. She was a student of Rilke in this sentiment. Strive to be a beginner. That way, everything is new.

A triptych

The Movable Feast

[Note to Readers: Originally published January of this year, it was removed for personal reasons. We now offer this to you in full disclosure, and as part of our parole.]


We have resisted this declaration for months now. Mostly due to our aching fear of leaving the known, comfortable grooves established by routine, friends, and searches for meaningful shared experiences. Besides moving into a custom renovated home on five acres, ten minutes from Lu's grandparents' farm, the dream of building our own house on rural acreage brings this inevitable conclusion to fruition.

Five Happiness is moving. Potentially for a long time.

We search for a place to let Flicker be a mother instead of nurse; a parcel of land to put down roots; a ground that perks, (good luck in the red clay of the Piedmont); a sloping hill overlooking water: Simple pleasures.

In our world, distance is relative. We could choose to skyrocket supersonic to our destinations and reunite with old friends in moments. It takes less than a day to travel around the world. I think there is something precious about the antiquity of older vehicles of romance, like the post, or travel by steamer that befits delayed gratification in ways a cross country flight cannot. Though I am sure we will employ these to get back to our second families as soon as we can, I can't help but feeling a anticipatory nostalgia at the notion of crafting a nook in the woods with my new family crafting contact with compatriots via handwritten letters.

We decided earlier this year to move to North Carolina for two reasons: My parents live there and have a keen interest in being an integral part of Tallulah's life. We're also able to take advantage of inexpensive properties that match our mutual desires. It is also an experiment on a grand scale. A testament to a parents' keen skills at bribery by babysitting, or maybe just their talent as educators can be seen when children stay in proximity, abstract or distant. But secretly, I am fed by deep creative currents in that place, eddies I cannot quite fathom. If the plan works as we hope, I'll be making bricolage for bank by the end of the decade.

I was raised in Durham. I went to a small school I reached by foot, walking two miles through the woods from my house,playing out my afternoons amid trees and deer and slow creeks. There is a history in that place I want to share with my girls, but also with my muse. She lives there too, I think. I dunno. I have this matchbook from the Cat's Cradle with a smeared eyeliner pencil number...I might have been playing that night, I think.

All jokes to the side, we are eager to begin to set roots in a land seeped with the lineage of Lu's ancestry, as well as the nation's leader in arts in education funding. America: Weird. Beautiful. Stupid awesome. [Does proper punctuation of the prefix "stupid" require a hyphen? Please advise.]

One of my theatrical mentors once told me that instead of living where you think you should make theater, make it in a place where you want to live. That is the plan.

I Love My Gay Daughter

Last night, Felicity and I took Tallulah to a small party. An informal evening, there was a photo contest between friends in Seattle and San Francisco. The party was an opportunity to judge the entries. But Lu was the big star. Except for that two year old who can talk and stuff. Whatever.

To hear so many people tell us that Tallulah is beautiful, that she is an amazing baby makes me nervous for her impending adolescence. I mean, if she's stopping them in their tracks now, what are we to expect? In this small, selfish way, I hope my child is gay. Is it so wrong to want to spare her the taunts of young adolescent male cruelty? I'm already practicing yelling to the world, "I love my gay daughter!" It confuses the conservatives, and I like that.

I was a sensitive boy. I never forced my opinions on girls I liked. But I watched other boys shove their desires and project their dreams on these intelligent, beautiful girls as though they were play toys. I can only craft my daughter's intelligence into such a power for good that she will be able to ward these inevitable suits with taunts and stratagems of her own. That'll show 'em. "Go on, Lu. Challenge them to a game of Boggle."

Felicity and I like to joke that until now, no baby has ever been born. There has never been a baby like this baby! (Said behind mock tears and sobs.) "Don't look at this baby! You don't know about our baby....aaaahhhhhhh!"

No one can possibly know about our baby, because she's the first. As I write this, it doesn't sound nearly as humorous as when we say it. So, I'll have to film this and post it so y'all can watch just how silly we can get with this li'l lump o' sugar. God, I love the apostrophe. It is just SO expressive!

Are we good parents, or simply having a blast at our daughter's expense? She's bound to grow up Republican if we continue like this.

We Play Hands and Feet

I like to play games with my daughter. We play, "Guess the Mustard, " in which she, using the contents of her diaper, guesses which kind of mustard I am thinking about. Also, "Touch the Weasel." In this game, she tries to lash out and strike the "weasel" played by our xoloitzcuintli, Prince Valentio Ignatius Momerath who is a dog. He frequently sniffs Tallulah to ensure she's still breathing, and, as his whiskers tickle her face, Lu will start in a violent whack towards the offending itch. It's fun.

But my favorite game is "Hands and Feet" where we hold said limbs and repeat "Hands!" or "Feet!" depending on which corresponding body part we hold. I have to interpret her squeals or spit ups as answers, but so far she is one hundred percent correct each and every time we play. I have a genius daughter. Her mother's genes, presumably.

Tallulah smiles alot. The books say not to interpret these facial features personally, but rather as a sign of a bowel movement or random facial ticks. I say "phooey". She smiles at our faces, continually. Not in some random fashion, but at my jokes, or when she poops on my hands. She laughs when regurgitated milk is the predominant pattern on Felicity's blouse. Good sense of humor, our kid.

She has sullen moments, too. But these don't last long. She doesn't cry but for a moment at a time, peppering her wakefulness like little sunspots. The sunlight is all you see. She is not fussy. We are blessed.

She is sleeping in my music studio as I play her music from Deep Friar, one of the best, least known beat masters in all of the world. Deep Friar is a musical polymath, able to make a noise on any instrument known to exist. His website, http://www.myspace.com/deepfriarme is all it will take to convince you of his excellent mastery of the bizarre and poly rhythmic.

I am Deep Friar. Don't tell my daughter. She thinks he's some handsome, young, unapproachable star. She'll find out sooner or later, and I would like to preserve the mystery if for only a few years. Meanwhile, I'll distract her with Hands and Feet.

In Living Color

Due to unprecedented popularity, here is a small compilation of Lu's latest moments...


Much Love,

Five Happiness

May Your Mouth Be Filled With Morton's

I am emotional. I cry easily. President Obama's inauguration speech....I cried. When I hear music by Fleet Foxes, or a Bach fugue, I cry. When my daughter stares into my eyes, I cry.

I often wonder if I am over-sensitive, or under-expressed, or, as John Irving wrote in The World According to Garp, I have "unsobbed sobs in my chest." I think of myself as an intelligent man, if somewhat prone to childish self-centeredness, who empathizes with the majority of humanity. I don't know the source, but there is a wedding blessing that hopefully wishes, "When one of you cries, may the other taste salt." My mouth is filled with Morton's.

I attribute my sensitivity to a generalized artistic temperament that has gotten me in more debt than it has gotten me employment. The term "artistic temperament" is often substituted for terms like "deadbeat" or "goodfornothing" less than "sensitive" or "undiscovered genius who just needs to be given the opportunity to prove himself, as well as a million dollar grant." Nevertheless, I will continue to be this bizarre combination of masculinity and wimpish sniveling cad and sculpt these disparate elements into the best imitation of a father I can.

I wonder if I can be the strong parent who can stand up to the inevitable tides of pain and anguish my daughter must endure. It is easy for me to watch others' misfortunes and stoically exclaim my indifference, though when a child skins its knee, I cringe, my armpits stinging like snake bites.

This antipathy is more evident when I'm faced with the prospect of labors and I'm tired, or we're all hungry and I just want to order out. I have to begin to make more deposits into this bank of energy than I make withdrawals. I return to my artistic temperament. When I am fed artistically, I have a limitless reservoir of energy and enthusiasm, as do, I imagine, others who work in fields defined by their joys and love.

Quincy Jones, the composer and creator of one my favorite tunes, The Streetbeater, has recently called upon President Obama to create the post of Secretary of the Arts. I endorse this idea, if for no other reason than to begin to ensure a reservoir of energy and enthusiasm for future generations of artistically inclined deadbeats like myself. Who knows, maybe my daughter will have the same problems. May her mouth be filled with Morton's.

Reframing...A Little to the Left?

The week spent laboring on windows several hundred feet off solid ground comes to an end. My tired body hurts all over again like a spiteful, mocking re-run of my first days as a window cleaner, though this time older and dusty. On the plus side, carrying two hundred pounds of lead ingots up flights of stairs to the building's roof to use as counterweights costs significantly less than 24hr. Fitness. In fact they pay me to work out.

Lemons, lemonade, Meadowlark.

Those non-Harlem Globetrotter fans may pick up frame of reference right here.

I am adjusting my perceptions to realign with necessities, rather than preferences. Call it a new preference. By using my day's labors to "work out", I feel better about myself and my earning a good wage. By seeing middle of the night diaper changing sessions as another opportunity to be with my little girl, I have fun. It's like this great Tich Nat Han exercise; while washing dishes, pots, and pans in the sink, imagine you're bathing the Buddha. The same care, respect, reverence, and dignity that comes with an experience like that is available at any level of service. It's just a matter of re framing your perception. No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem.

That is harder to do than it sounds. Believe me, I fail to keep out my indignation at the mere prospect of dishes, but now, somehow, it is in service to something greater. And that is a real freedom.

Recently I spoke at length with a friend curious of my spiritual back ground, but we ended up talking about his religious beliefs. They are very strong and upheld by an experience he once had while in college. He was transformed during an act of prayer and, as he says it, "came to the lord." This experience guides him to this day, and he is in his sixties. It proves to him, without a shadow of a doubt that the Bible is sourced from the word of God. I listened respectfully.

Amidst our discussion were obvious shields proffered to ward off any attacks of prostelization. We remained respectful of the slowly revealed morass of differences and began to retreat. At once he quoted scriptures providing dialogue that self-referentially insists it is anathema to questions. How can you question that, much less prove it? That, to me, is a discussion ender.

But I was most moved by my friend's conviction and the resulting behavior it has carved from his life. He is a good man. Generous, kind, forgiving, earnest, and hard working. He is a father, a husband, and now caring for an ailing mother in law. I see nothing in this man's behavior to suggest that his spiritual life is at all counter to what I believe is the correct way to live. Quite the contrary.

So we're really talking about the same things, just giving them different frames. A little more to the left.

And Today...

"We are born knowing how to eat, but we must learn how to roast" - Francois Rabelais

What did we learn today? Perhaps that sitting babies upright makes burping easier, or to wait a beat or two before completely removing a soiled diaper. I learned the world does not disappear if you close your eyes.

Bills! Those forlorn reminders of our duties to our utility lords are piled high upon the desk in unopened envelopes. Sifting through the heap, I realized that I must return to work next Monday. I have lost muscle and brain in this two week tender trap of my infant focused life. I have forgotten how to wake up at five am. I have forgotten that I am now the sole provider for my family. I feel as though I am a superhero with no powers.

But I have some new skills: A keen sense of purpose; the unfailing drive to provide; the knowledge the each day will find me arriving home to a house filled with my favorite things, (read: people.) That is motivation enough.

Last night was awful. I felt like Tallulah was angry with us. Screaming, fussy, over-tired, and simply not willing to accept it. Felicity and I took turns sleeping and overseeing the fussybug. I finally gave her a terrific swaddle and tucked her under my arm and went to bed with her lying next to me. She was asleep in moments.

Small miracles do happen. I am satisfied by such little victories. Some part of my idealistic, grandiose childhood has perished in the wake of my girl's arrival. But I still yearn for mountains to conquer, and lands to explore. They wait for me, but my little family cannot. This mountain, though movable, is my adventure for now.

The Little Things

"Kiki" holds Tallulah for the first time.

A full week or more has passed since my last post. Tallulah has visited the doctor twice now, leaving both times worse than when she arrived. First the dreaded heel stick, the nurse squeezing my daughter's heel to transfer blood onto a sheet of paper. Then a hepatitis B shot yesterday. The awful delay between the needle puncture and the impending cry was heart wrenching, though I have become more stoic in my regard to Lula's experience of pain. "Tough love" I believe it's called. More like callus pragmatism. I know that if I begin to wince with empathy at her pain now, its likely to be a slippery slope and I'll never stop crying until I'm dead.

Lu is a "beautiful baby" in her doctor's words. "They're not all like that, you know," he admits. Do all parents get that, or are there exceptions in which the doctor comes into the room and throws up his hands in disgust?

"You want me to work on that?"

"Gadzooks, that's one heinous child you've made"

But they would still say congratulations upon their exit. And so they should. Our pediatrician is renown for his excellence in care. He also speaks faster than a tobacco auctioneer on speed. Felicity is a nurse, used to hyper-intelligent physicians who use shorthand for English. She understood him perfectly. I thought he was Greek at first. It took me a good thirty seconds to realize that he was speaking in a New England dialect, but also starting more sentences than his mouth could comfortably hold. I began to imagine the exam room as a kind of stage for doctors. They should have a warm up act precede them:

"Ladies and gentlemen, and you there, little girl. Hold on to your ears. You're about to see the greatest doctor in the city; he talks fast, he moves slow, he makes jokes that take a second to get. He's not Greek! You'll love him, (except you, little girl,) heeeeeerrre's Dr. Blah!" In bursts the wry ham.

I have utmost respect for good doctors. I, who am squeamish beyond the pale, could not handle the trauma of dealing with sick people, much less children. When I performed as a clown at Children's Hospital, we began in the terminal ward. Thank god I was only wearing a plastic clown nose, otherwise my makeup would have run down my face. Simultaneously staring into death through the eyes of life was harrowing. But the spirit of a child is buoyant and only knows what it is given. These kids ranged in age from 4 to 18. They were all dying and they knew it, in whatever degree of abstraction they were capable. And they did all they could to retreat into any shred of normalcy available. Humor was a saving grace. They all laughed when I made prat falls, or bumped into nurses, or simply made faces from behind the bed. It was like the most fabulous torture I could imagine.

One child, perhaps nine or ten years old, lay in an isolation room. He could only watch me through the glass separating his fragility from the invisible hoard of spores and germs floating all around me outside. I had to keep ducking out of sight to wipe my eyes, but each time I came back to the glass his face shined with a grin that defied the death seeping in. I sat in my car for an hour sobbing before I was able to drive away.

Now I am a parent and I am terrified for my child. But that is not what I will give her. I will give her my courage, my humor, perhaps my knowledge, or at least the admittance of my lack thereof. Someday I might admit to her my fear of our awful fragility, our human condition. But that will not be until she can openly admit and witness that terrible beauty for herself. Until then, we build a mighty fortress with the little things.

Happy New Life!

Tallulah stayed up to ring in the new year. No one told her it was a new year, or that one rang it. She simply decided to avoid sleep. Not cranky, just blinky.

Blinky is a new state of consciousness in which she is calmly observant, taking in the world through her big, slate blue eyes, blinking long and slow blinks. It is beyond adorable. It might be a punishable offense in cute starved corners of the globe.

My mother Carol is here. Her friends in North Carolina have decided that instead of being called "Grandma" or "Granny" she'd be known as "Kiki". I didn't know what to make of that. I was a bit uncomfortable with it at first. The name conjured up memories of Elton John duets and (for some strange reason,) fat old ladies in loud mu mus. Yet, after her arrival last night watching her say "Kiki's here" to her granddaughter, I think it has a wonderful and calming ring to it. I can't wait to hear Lula say that word for the first time.

There are a lot of wonderings going on at Five Happiness these days. Bold speculation may be a more accurate term. Who is this creature going to be? Will she rock climb, or knit, or dirt bike, or surf, or program, or invest, or spend, or study, or all the above? The most important question is "Will she pay our medical bills after we are infirm?"

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I had a miraculous ringing in of the new year. Much to be thankful for. My friends, soaking in a hot tub with me, took turns telling me what they most loved about me. It was a generous, heartfelt, vulnerable moment that left me thankful that I can surround myself with wonderful people, talented and happy, satisfied and intelligent, silly and contemplative, who not only carry a high self esteem, but also fortify others with the same optimistic bricks and mortar. We have such a plethora of possibilities in our peers. Alliterate that!

For now, I am most thankful for my family. All of them. Certainly not too numerous to mention, but I will save the naming for another time. They know who they are. And to them I wish a Happy New Life. Today is the first day of the rest of it.

-B