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