Five Happiness

Return To Form

2011-10-28T19:10:00.000-07:00

It has been forever, friends. My apologies. Much has happened in the vast interim since my last posting.

We thrive, we drink in life in gulps, then sated, sit back and watch the growing world.

Tallulah, nearly three years old, continues to amaze with her vocabulary. She asked her grandfather last week, "Papa, what's your availability to play with me?" I had to count the syllables on my fingers.

Harper, whom Tallulah affectionately refers to as "Fig," is quite literally the happiest child I've ever met. She wakes up laughing. She makes her needs known with polite chirps, and generally charms everyone in her path. It is a delight to behold.

This week we are in New Orleans attending the wedding of my young cousin, Carroll Ganier. I have known him since he was a toddler, and to see him as a thirty-one year old, grown, and moving about the world with confidence and poise, engenders a security in my heart for the futures of my own two young children.

Yes, life is good. And not to be too premature, but we just put down an offer on a house. I believe the appropriate phrase is, "Eeeek!"

More on that later. But not too much later.

All The Best,

Bradley

One Small Step For Bradley

2010-10-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

After you've willingly exited an airplane flying at ten thousand feet, much of the rest of your day seems rather boring.

Such was my day, Monday, October 11th, 2010. After my dear friend, Josh Lozoff, took me to skydive as a gift for my impending fortieth birthday, I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing about doing it again, and again, and again. Never before have I experienced the complete zen, whole mind-a-blank wonder that filled me from head to toe as I rocketed out of the Cessna aircraft and sped to earth at 170 feet per second. Once I stopped screaming, I realized how extremely happy I was. That the Earth was clearly getting nearer made my comfort even bigger. I am in the hand of God, a time-rift without decided conclusion. Do i live or die? What bliss to know these feelings at least once before I smash into the Earth.

But the 'chute did work. I did slowly and gracefully float like a little wind-drifted balloon, back to the ground.

Some have called this a rash, selfish act. I am a father and a husband. These are my life's work, and I take them very seriously. My rebuttal is simply this: we take risks daily. Getting in an automobile and joining faceless thousands upon our highways is more of a crap shoot than working with a professional skydiver. Climbing a cliff, relying on my knowledge and ability is much safer than choosing to enter traffic at any given time of day. In addition, traffic, cars, and faceless drivers seem to detract from the sanctity of my daily life, not give solace, or provide me with an immediate experience with the miraculous. Perhaps I'm not looking close enough. I'm too busy driving.

In the thirty five seconds of free fall, I knew something akin to complete peace and spiritual understanding that has only increased my ability to be a present and loving partner and parent. That, to me, is not only important, but in my life, absolutely necessary.

Plus, it was cool.

Five Happiness Eagerly Awaits New Arrival

2010-08-18T14:57:00.000-07:00

A hummingbird's one hundred and sixty beats per minute, our newest family member's heart rate, as was officially checked at Chapel Hill's Birth Center, earlier this afternoon.

It's true, we're expecting the currently moniker-ed "Zigan the Zygote" sometime at the end of February, (the 28th.) Tallulah thinks it's a boy. Bradley thinks it's a boy. Felicity thinks girl. I could be the proud father of two little girls. wow.

This is exciting for us, especially me, as I'm an only child. The idea of two babies running around is quite new and the challenge is wonderful!

So, that's all for now, but we'll keep you updated as we know more!

We Remain,

Five Happiness (we're firing a dog to maintain our numbers.)

Closer and Farther Apart

2010-08-08T08:24:00.000-07:00

Summer has been hot. Very hot. Last year at this time we visited Seattle for a wedding. It was a record breaking 100+ week. No one has air conditioning.

This week, as was the week previous, and promises to be next week, we endure record breaking 100+ degree days. So, I guess we're used to it. But this heat brings some serious challenges when it comes to entertaining a 20 month old...

Walks outside are impossible. Stuck inside, we get creative with all four rooms of our four room house. We visit the dogs in their air-conditioned garage. We go for rides in the truck (with the A/C!) and we rest.

Lu has always been a good sleeper, but now she will take it upon herself to find a spot in the middle of the floor, lay her head down on her blanket (affectionately dubbed, "Nightnight",) and say "rest." Then, five to ten seconds later, she's back up and running. It is good to see she has gained some useful skills for adulthood this early.

On a more somber note, this week Felicity rushed back to Utah after her father, Boyd, was hospitalized for a serious brain hemorrhage. He's not out of the woods yet, but things are looking very good for him. All of us at Five Happiness ask you to keep him in your thoughts throughout his recovery. Boyd is a strong hearted, athletic seventy-two. He's got plenty of things left to do. Teaching Tallulah to paint is only one of them.

In the interim, Daddy is parenting on his own, for the first time. I've cut my work days in half to spend more attention on my sweetie. She only inquires after mommy in the mornings, and sometimes after naps. For the most part she is taking this change in stride. Not much phases her, save low blood sugar, or fatigue. We have started video chats in the afternoon with Felicity and her Mother, Marie, who jumps at every opportunity to see her darling granddaughter. Who can blame her?

In hindsight we see clearly the strengthening effect calamity brings. Bonds are tempered and struggles endured for the better. But while they last it is hard to look beyond obstacles to see the greater picture. We see only the desperation of the moment. I am working very hard to keep Tallulah's environment as unchanged as possible, but even she knows something is off. But I can see her mind grow with every new thing she encounters. Somehow, being farther apart from family will bring us closer.

Yours, as always,

Bradley and Tallulah

A Year of Firsts

2010-07-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

Tallulah is now just over eighteen months old. Her life is full of new experiences. I find the same true in my life as well. I have never had an eighteen month old girl. It is wonderful.

Yesterday, for example, we ran around the pond in our backyard for what seemed hours. The sky began to bruise, a nice cooling breeze lifted it's head, and my daughter experienced a Summer rain for the first time.

She knows the ASL sign for "rain" and "wet", and immediately used them upon feeling the drops on her skin. When she saw the ripples on the pond surface, she signed "wet." All new for her and for me.

We purchased a small wooden bench/table for her to use in the house. It gets her up to counter height making her able to wash dishes, or, more accurately, splash water all over the floor. Here are a couple pictures of our little maid and her new platform:

I love the look on her face that seems to offer mild disgust at the work presented her. The caption might read: "Really? REALLY?"

We also made a trip to the North Carolina beach for Father's Day. Regular readers might recall last year's trip was cut short for me due to a dog emergency. But we made up for it this season. A family friend owns a huge house on South Holden Island. My Uncle Buddy, his girlfriend Robin, my parents, Tallulah, Felice, and I all had a blast in the warm (really warm) waters of the Atlantic.

Tallulah made her first ocean swim, without any prompting. She climbed out of her custom swimming pool in the sand, some hundred yards away from the waves, and marched towards the surf. Fearless. After enjoying herself immensely, she waved her hands in front of her signing, "all done" and headed back to the safety of the shaded pool up the beach. Quite an adventure. I have never felt quite so proud.

We are thankful for all we have here at Five Happiness. My design business is starting to pick up. I'm working on a Tuscan style patio, complete with olive trees and a terracotta fountain. I have a new drum set that closely matches the fantasy kit I've always dreamed of playing.

Felicity has negotiated a great position at work allowing her ample time with Tallulah, and keeping the best parts of her job, eschewing the worst. Nice. And she's beginning to work with Arbonne, a Swiss-based company specializing in high end skin care and cosmetics. She's excited.

I leave you with a couple of images from our lovely hut. Both include cameos from what appears to be a Palestinian terrorist masquerading as our dog. No wonder he's such a pain in the ass.

From our hearts to yours,

Team Pants!!

Spring Has Sprung

2010-03-09T16:50:00.000-08:00

Well, it has been a long time indeed. Much has transpired here in North Carolina at Five Happiness. We've missed you.

Tallulah is now almost fifteen months old. She turned one year old December twenty-first, and had her first birthday cake (carrot.) Life is incredible here. Spring is finally knocking down the door Winter boarded shut. The rains have been fierce, drenching the ground Seattle-style. But it's making for a verdant growing season.

Bradley is in school studying Landscape Design. He has been selected to represent his school in a nationwide competition in April. We'll be sure to give you an update once he's swept the awards. His sculpture is gaining noteriety in the Triangle area. He's received a paid commission and working on a custom stone wall. He is researching a design/sculpture business he'll likely start sometime this year.

Felicity is the happiest mother on the planet, because Tallulah is such a lovely, smart li'l thing. (see below)

We count our blessings daily, missing our friends, but keeping you all in our hearts. We endeavor to keep this blog more regularly updated, so stay tuned.

Much Love,

Bradley, Felicity, and Tallulah

2009-12-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

Merry Chrismas, Tout Le Monde!

from

Five Happiness

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

Old Friends, New Friends

2009-10-14T17:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-27T06:41:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-21T07:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T17:17:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-18T04:23:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-27T19:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-21T17:40:00.001-08:00

The Movable Feast

2009-02-11T09:37:00.000-08:00

[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

2009-02-01T11:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-31T14:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-28T09:09:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-27T13:51:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-01-15T15:18:00.001-08:00

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...

2009-01-09T12:33:00.001-08:00

"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

2009-01-08T12:40:00.000-08:00

"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!

2009-01-02T12:16:00.000-08:00

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?"

•

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

I Am Human

2008-12-30T10:34:00.000-08:00

These are easy days. I enjoy the comforts of my home, my wife, my child. We stay in bed until we're rested and we eat when we're hungry. We are taking our cues from Lula who follows her needs like a compass.

But I feel limited in my abilities and aptitudes in this sphere. I can't feed my daughter but indirectly through Felice. I can clean, I can change diapers, but I know this isn't my core competency, to use a cliché phrase. I am best on a edge of a building, preparing to descend it's face, cleaning the windows in a meditative flow. I am best out in the world making children laugh, adults face beauty in spite of themselves. I am best listening to middle school students try to express themselves through poetry and movement. Until Tallulah is old enough to interact, I fear I'll feel inadequate and useless. My solution is to work, work, work. And sleep, sleep, sleep.

This is a common complaint among new fathers, I think. Feeling out of the loop, relegated to observation, hand waiting, feeling cooped. True to our nature we feel left out, without a role. But this is not about us, needy and wanting. This is about giving life and freedom to those who mean more to us than anything.

We have had our fun. Our running around, carefree. This is a new season. We do the furrowing, and the sowing, not just the reaping. I come of age as my girl comes into life.

I created a movie montage of photos from the pertinent points in Tallulah's and our lives. It begins in Spain, as did Lu. It follows the snowiest day of the year, and also the shortest. It documents birth, family, and joy.

I also wrote a song for my daughter, First Splash. It accompanies the video. Please enjoy.

All the Best from Five Happiness,

Bradley, Felicity, Tallulah, Marvin & Iggy

Further Evidence of Divinity

2008-12-29T15:35:00.000-08:00

Richie told me about the "Pregnancy Points Game" he and his wife developed while waiting for their boy Oz to arrive. It goes like this: Each act of kindness he bestowed upon her, rubbing her feet, cooking dinner, cleaning the loo, was worth points. Five, ten, maybe twenty for an excellent seven course Italian dinner. The most points wins.

Delivering a baby is worth One Hundred Fifty Thousand points. Richie is still trying to win. He's at two-twenty.

I am also trying to win. However, a natural childbirth is worth Half a Million points. Attending and aiding the birth gave me as much as Richie has after nine months of his travails. I'm still only at six hundred and two. Eat that Costleigh! (No, I mean, that. Chicken Parmesan.)

But the little kindnesses I manage to orchestrate give deeper satisfaction than winning affords. As do those of our friends. Wes and Laura came by last night with their eight month old, Quentin. Laura made us a beef stew. We sat around watching Q play with Lu's toys, admiring both of their newness. What a treat! I realized how closed in we've been for the last week and a half, snow notwithstanding.

I am forcing myself to go out and do something completely unrelated to child rearing for a few hours to better appreciate these moments. They'll never come again. The moments, that is...not Wes & Laura. I hope.

Tallulah's Family

2008-12-28T11:27:00.000-08:00

Grandma Mansanarez, Brother Kirk, Felicity...

Brother-Man

Mother/Grandmother

Auntie Lacey

Grandma

And our extended family, the officers of Black Rock City Animal Control...

(clockwise from left: Stefan, Marshall, Winda & Oz (Lula's first suitor,) Gary (our driver), Heather (co-pilot), Sven, (keeper of the ceremonial tequilla), and Destiny, (Mother-in-Training)

Laura Loves Lula

Wesley Loves Lula

8-Way + F9 + 5 Happiness = Super Love

Without you we would be much poorer in spirit, (and spirits.)
We love you all. Thank you for all your support, friendship, laughter, and tenacity!

"Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away. "

-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Tallulah Speaks

2008-12-27T17:17:00.000-08:00

[Peering over edge of crib. Looking left, right, ensuring parents are fast asleep before delivering monologue]

Tallulah: Well, hello there. We have to be quiet. My folks are still sleeping, and they have bat-like radar for sensing if I even breathe funny. Which, I must admit, I do quite often. I like to snort, several times in a row as though I were one of those funny ladies being interviewed by Jessica on Murder She Wrote. "No, of course I didn't murder them in their sleep. (snort, snort snort,) I'm just a baby!"

This has been an unusual entrance for me. I was expecting the ticker tape parade the troops get after conquering some huge obstacle or foe. Well, that birth canal was HELL, let me tell you. And Mom didn't even let me pack a bag. It was just hanging out upside down sucking my thumb...or was that my toe? And then my waterbed just went "Floooey" and I ended up spelunking through her pelvis like Bear Grills in some bloody survival show. Luckily my rope held my weight and I made it through unscathed, though I was a shoe in for the youngest member of the Coneheads movie. Thank God for Doctors Without Cold Hands! I am prepared to give my college fund to these forward thinking physicians.

Dr. O'Neal caught me with Johnny Bench's catcher's mitt and tossed me on mom's belly before I had time to put my helmet on. Luckily she crowned me with a nifty knitted number, though the pink was a bit presumptuous. I prefer a mauve, thank you. My auntie Ali Bosie knows what I'm spittin'. Word to my Treestump.

But everyone was crying. Dad, (big wimp,) the doula, (just misty eyed,) Mom, (actually she was just in shock from my quick evac. I think she expected me to ask before leaving the house.) So all I could do was sit there looking around, waiting for the champagne and confetti. WTF people? It's been nine months. As if you didn't have time to prepare! Whatever. I'm so over it. Give me a tit.

So, here we are: I'm doing my best to get what's coming to me. That colostrum crap took way too much work to get. I had to claw my way through the nipple to get to the top shelf. But Mom's giving it up in a big way. I can eat whenever I want. All I gotta do is open my mouth, stick my tongue out a bit, and SLAM, I'm on the nipple. Areola firmly planted in the kisser. Mom makes some funny faces when I do, and I haven't learned the vocabulary she uses to express her joy at my buffet. Something about "Turrett's Syndrome... " I dunno.

Ooooohhh, I think I'll poop. This'll be a gas! Then, when Dad comes to swaddle and change that paper towel he calls a diaper, I'll pull a Chuck Norris and kick him in the chin, or grab Mom's glasses and toss them behind the changing table! Yeeeeaaah! This is livin!

Oh no. I think they're about to wake up. Oh, wait. No, they're just snuggling. Puh-leeze. I guess it's time to demand some attention. Let's watch Heroes, or better yet, that DVD of Akira Dad just ripped. That scene with the melting teddy bears is boss! I love the crotch rockets! I hope Mom doesn't sell her SV 650. I think that should be the start of my inheritance.

[Yawn] Hmmmm. I really can't seem to keep my eyes open. I might just... [Falls asleep standing up. Dad cracks open one eye.]

The Land of Sleep...Nice Place to Visit. Too Bad You Can't Stay.

2008-12-26T08:53:00.000-08:00

After a week of one to two hour bursts of sleep, peppered by Fussy Baby (tm) we seem to have fathomed subtle signs of the few significant issues concerning our daughter: Wet Butt, Starvation, Borborygmus Belly, and the vague but important What, You Don't Love Me?

We now achieve eight to ten hours of sleep per twenty-four hour period, which I'm told is an accomplishment. Hooray. I'm going back to bed.

But that is just how we do it. We wake, change a diaper, suckle, swaddle, and dip back into the sleepy pool for a few hours. Repeat until rested. Mornings start around 1 or 2 pm. But we end the day at 10 ready for bed but not exhausted. I can then accomplish some minor tasks such as writing this journal instead of cleaning the office or making money.

Actually, I'm on paid leave right now, as is Felicity. She's home for a while, but I go back to work in a couple weeks. This new life really fuels my labors with new vigor. No matter what I'm doing, I'm doing it as though Tallulah was watching, at my best for the first time since I met my wife. What a motivator, this little bug we made. She doesn't even know the power she wields. Probably for the best. I'm sure she'll figure it out just in time to graduate driver's ed and request the keys to the Saab.

Before Lula was born, I was terrified at the prospect of raising a girl. What do I know about girls? Dresses, berets, stupid girl games, blah blah blah. Now, I just see my child. Thank god. I was beginning to feel like a real ass. I mean, I still feel like an ass, just one not concerned with the label "Girl." I'm more preoccupied with the label "Father." That, I can handle.

I find myself dreaming of future moments. Rock climbing with her, teaching her to make things from scratch, like waffles or a house, or friends. When I took physics in high school, the concept of potential energy excited me. A bowling ball on the edge of a roof was filled with possibilities. But the abstraction from future event made it even more mysterious and alchemical. I feel the same way about my girl. She's a bowling ball of potential.

Let's go knock down some pins.

First Days

2008-12-25T15:25:00.000-08:00

We spent almost 48 hours in the hospital after Tallulah's birth. Felicity had previously tested positive for Strep B, so she required an antibiotic IV in the birthing suite. Unfortunately, her quick labor did not allow the necessary four hours the drugs needed to be effective. No emergencies, but the physicians wanted to watch over Lula to ensure no infections were present.

This simply meant we stayed in a full-care, catered hotel room whose location was in a hospital. The ridiculous amounts of snow outside further encouraged us to stay and order in. Despite an uncomfortable "sleeper" couch, (awful and misleading name,) we were cozy and all was well. Our only problem was poop. Or, lack thereof.

The meconium, the tar-like first stool lining a newborns gastric tract, had yet to appear. Twenty-four hours came and went. Then thirty-six. No poo. Normally, I'd be fine with an absence of baby crap, but this was beginning to worry us. By the middle of the third day of our stay, our pediatrician called in a surgeon to scope the poop, as it were. She arrived, calmly applied KY to the end of a Q-tip, and, well, did what surgeons do: poke around.

The term "Hershey's geyser" comes to mind. Yet for all the reactions I've had to other people's children, and their doting over waste products, I was somehow elated. Nor have I yet run in the opposite direction of my child's cries, as I've done with other banshee-babies. I remain a mystery to myself. As Whitman wrote, "I contradict myself. Very well. I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes."

We left the hospital on the 23rd of December, elated and ready to show the world our perfect, pooping child. Then, we discovered that we knew very little about what our little girl could do. I can just imagine her saying to herself, "What do I have to do to get these people to look in my diaper?" or "Can't you distinguish cries for hunger from the need to burp? Get with it!". Well, I can now.

Our super-doula Anna, came by today. She, like us does not celebrate Christmas, and so we had a nice little meeting discussing the finer points of breast feeding, swaddling, and the safest way to shake your baby. Yes, I said "shake the baby." (I enjoy crafting words into sentences which make some blanch if taken in the wrong context. ) All these calming techniques were miracles to new parents just learning how to cope with behaviors we certainly displayed as infants ourselves.

Armed with this info, Felicity, even in her tired state, feels so much more confident with our girl's feeding schedule. I have a penchant for swaddling. "Back in the swaddle, again..." I sing to my daughter as she becomes a human burrito. "Prepare the Korova Bomb Squad" I call to Felice when Lula exhibits rooting behavior.

The names have begun, in earnest: Lula Cady, Lu-Berry, Chicken (?), Chirping Biscuit (her Indian name, as she chirps when satisfied,) and Tallulah Butterdonkey, as in "Tallulah's great, but her donkey..!" This might require a longer explanation than normal attention or interest demands, as do, I suppose, most family maxims and nicknames.

We are, on this Christmas, full to overflowing with pride, love, and joy. These are gifts I wish upon all our friends and readers of this blog during the holidays. May you all find moments which are filled with all three.

Jubilantly,

Bradley, Felicity, & Tallulah

The Wonderful and the Sublime

2008-12-24T19:08:00.001-08:00

I have only been alive for thirty-eight years. My wife, a few less. But in our short lives few things can compare to the endurance, the sheer physical trial, and the elation of a natural childbirth.

Felicity and I discovered she was pregnant almost immediately upon our return from Spain. It seems we conceived under the shadow of the Alhambra. The fecundity of the region spilled over into our lives in more ways than one.

When we arrived back in the States, we landed in Raleigh-Durham to visit with my parents, Stephen & Carol. While strolling in Chapel Hill we both happened to notice, across the street, the signboard of a local shop; Tallulah's. We both did double-takes. Then turning to each other, uttering the same words almost simultaneously, we said that was a fantastic name for a child, should we ever have a baby girl. We did not know then that we were to have a baby girl in December.

Fast forward: birthing classes with the renown doula, Penny Simkin (www.pennysimkin.com)

A woman with decades of natural and assisted birthing experience, having attended hundreds of births, now aids women and their partners in understanding the complexities of this miraculous process. Felicity and I took her class, were more than favorably impressed, and walked away with a wealth of knowledge. Had we not taken that eight week course, I would have been lost in the murky depths of my wife's incredible labor.

We opted to hire a doula, one Anna Rourke (www.breathwise.com) to assist us both in our decision to bring our daughter to term naturally. And again, what a difference that made.

Felice's labor was quick, by any standards. She went into labor at four pm on the Winter Solstice. Just one day past our due date. Though we had been hoping labor might arrive on this auspicious date, we had no idea what nature had in store. Her labor started quickly, with intense contractions lasting almost two minutes at times, only a minute or two apart. Normally a woman's labor progresses evenly, allowing for a bit of momentum to be gathered and the woman to acclimatize . But hers fell like the heavy snowfall that had turned Seattle into a thickly blanketed frozen tableau.

Knowing the forecast called for almost eight inches of snow, we made sure friends with adequate transportation were standing by. Thank god for Gary and Heather, and their 4x4. By five pm, we were at the birthing center triage who informed us Felicity's cervix had dilated to 9.5cm. One begins to push at 10.

Thus began what I can only describe as the most heroic ballet of pain and collaboration I have ever witnessed. Anna met us at the hospital and guided Felice through a two hour progression, masterfully anticipating contractions, fear, anxiety, and pain. By seven o five, our daughter Tallulah Cadence McDevitt had arrived.

No crying, no frantic search, or panic. Lula was placed on her mother's breast, took her new lung's first breaths, and opened her steel blue eyes to her parent's gaze. Simply magical how the new child knows more about what to do and where to go than we, limpid, afraid adults do after so much experience.

I looked into the eyes of my daughter though glazes of tears, my wife's body involuntarily shaking with surges of adrenaline, and fell deeply in love. No other cloudy emotions to wonder about, or concerns to muddy our presence. Just pure awakeness. Pure being and there-ness. I have no other words to describe it.

Vignettes and Images of Spain

2008-04-08T14:49:00.000-07:00

Rear View Mirror: Reminiscences on Andalusia

-An early morning in Seville. As my darling wife slips back to sleep, I stroll down the stairs into the street. The sky is an intense electric blue. I take a new direction through unfamiliar alleys towards the gardens promised on the map. I detour towards a cafe near the garden's entrance. Inside are four well dressed middle aged Spaniards, each with toastadas and cafe con leche. The waiter is tall, elegant, and efficient in movements as in speech. He comes to me. "Digame" he says. "Talk to me." I order my tostada, my coffee. He nods and is off to work. As he makes the order, the other waiter walks by with a large bowl full of freshly washed cockles, still in shells. When my waiter brings the toast, he presents it like a bull fighting torreador, his free hand gesturing in a subtle wave of pride. It is delicious.

-We dine on paella, sip tinto de verano, watch the people walk by. It is a reverse sort of sight seeing, waiting for the sights to arrive rather than seeking them on foot. It is how I prefer to see a city. To wander until you find the right spot for the city to wander past. Here, in the shade of newly leafed trees we lingered at our table. Our adolescent server, between his duties, flirted with friends hovering on the polite outskirts of the courtyard. The day grew hotter. It is Spring, after all.

-Salobrena: A city by the sea. Less than an hour's drive from Granada, the Mediterranean coast holds this hilltop town in it's green plain palm. The castle at its peak is the golden apple we enter the maze of streets to find. This Moorish outpost served as a garrison to the Alhambra; a sort of pre-lookout in the early days of Iberian Homeland Security. The Moors, it seems, had some enemies. If the town's buildings and roads had been in place when the castle's original occupants were alive, no one could have ever found their way up to the walls for siege. We made a few erroneous turns before we were able to visit what we dubed "the Alahambrita". The view, a 360 degree panorama of the Spanish foothills and Mediterranean coast, enjoyed our mostly silent regards.

...more to come...

In Which Team Pants Circumnavigates An Itinerary

2008-04-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

Ole, Seville!

We are back to the United States. Currently we lounge in respective comforts at Soggy Acres, the name of my parent's property in North Carolina. We chose to break up our international travel with stops in Durham allowing us to adjust to time changes and process our journey. I believe we chose wisely. Plus, they have a hot tub.

Our last post found us in Granada, pleasantly enjoying the provincial hospitality of our expatriate friends' villa. From there we took the high speed train across the Andalusian plains towards Seville. Upon arrival we made haste to our pension, located in the heart of the old city. After checking in with an adorable and ancient senor who had the high voice of an old woman, we made our way to more foods and thence to the cathedral.

I must find a way to encapsulate the sights and sounds of our travels in a more efficient way than this, for to simply write full sentences and paragraphs skips over so many impressions we gathered. I believe the next post will be just that; a cavalcade of vignettes and impressions, peppered by photographs.

The cathedral surprised us, glimpsing over rooftops as we winded through the bottleneck streets at night. Its height watched us walk the cobblestones between the close walls. When we at last flowed out into the main plaza before it's grandeur we were welcomed by the sounds of a virtuosic classical guitarist. The instrument played off the ancient walls and the monuments. In a mist of natural reverberation and ghosts we strolled away and back again, unable to leave the aural enchantment. We bought his CD. http://www.torkematik.com

I think I could live here, but it would require some frequent visits to the Mediterranean coast, and most certainly to Morocco. Ever since reading Paul Bowles and falling in love with his prose in high school I have wished to travel to North Africa. It is the Moorish influences that attract me most to this part of Europe. I have little in common with Spanish machismo or the fiery passions germane to its natives. I prefer open spaces. I prefer contemplative vistas or complex and graceful architecture. I prefer more fresh vegetables. But to feel the power of this land's antiquity and the relaxing breath of el viento viejo, I yearn to stay.

The morning light is magical. Low, intense, gold and deep saffrons are splashed on everything making the surfaces glow and glimmer. Shadows are long and black. The air is cool, even damp. Breezes are mustered and bother along the streets like sleepless revelers. We take it in and breathe it out. I wish the whole day were morning.

But the days are long and morning only their start. We have learned to ride the ebb of the day's heat during the siesta and plan our days around it's surcease. Upon rising for the second time of the day we feel renewed and as though we have a second morning to explore. A fantastic pace that refreshes and slows our sense of time's passage.

Time is an illusion, siesta doubly so, to paraphrase Douglas Adams. We must press on. We depart Seville early early on a Monday morning. We return to Amsterdam.

In Which Team Pants Visits the Alhambra

2008-04-02T14:00:00.000-07:00

The Alhambra...

Sure, you say...you saw the biggest tourist trap in the city. Sure. We've all been. We know.

But, well...ok. then just look at some photos...how 'bout it?

I'm pleased. Took over 200 photos. These are a few of the good ones.

con amore,

Bradley

In Which Team Pants Click Castanets

2008-03-31T08:31:00.000-07:00

Flamenco!

Our hosts, after guiding us through the maze of Granada's street for sumptuous meals, more great drinks and more delicious food, brought us to a tavern in the upper hills frequented by local gypsies. We entered a narrow, white walled, darkly lit cavern with a small stage at the end and were taken to a small table near the front of the room and ordered mas tinto de verana. The crowd's electric buzz created a palpable fission echoing our day's wonder and magic.

A few minutes later, the flamenco guitarist and cantor glided through the crowd to the stage followed by three young dancers in full regalia. They calmly took their seats traditionally placed around the edge of the stage. The guitarist begins to strum with a measured fervor. Someone else claps, beginning the pulse so characteristic of the form. As the beat and music took over the hall one of the dancers, as though vaguely possessed by the rhythmic strain, her face pained with a look of sorrow or lost love, began to slowly stomp and spin her body, flaring the scalloped folds of her long dress. Her eyes opened. She stared into the body of the crowd like she was taunting a slave or teasing a suitor. Her glance, as she danced, occasionally dropped to the floor. Then with a laughing smile, looked up with just her eyes. So dark. So sensual.

We all felt the passion of the dance, the notion of placating tourists for cheap dance dollars now gone from our heads. These people were there to perform something they felt was a part of their souls. They threw their bodies into the dance, the music, the song. The tempo would abruptly rise with the command of the dancer's footfalls, speeding to a crazy rapid blur, and then slow to a beautiful and dulcet pulse. When the dancer sped to the final climax of her dance, all whirring and clacking contrasted with the svelte gyrations of a passion, her triumphant pose seemed more statuesque than any actor I've witnessed. A real source of passion somewhere in these hills, I mused to myself.

Three more dancers, each lovelier than the last, took their turns turning and carving the floorboards of the stage with their heeled shoes. Enchanting and haunting, their eyes might occasionally meet ours and chills would blossom like goose flesh.

A brief pause before the next dancers took the stage. This time we would witness bailaores, male flamenco dancers, who's abilities put all others to shame. He finished his extraordinary dancing with a flare and finish that was soaked in a gentle and graceful humor borne from serious competence. Flawless.

We left the evening singing down the streets, my fingers working the beautiful castanets I purchased from a gypsy outside. Percussing and laughing a staccato, we all danced our own personal flamencos on our way back home.

In Which Team Pants Kick Ass and Take Names

2008-03-29T02:47:00.000-07:00

Upon waking in our pension, the alley below comes into aural focus like a distant television set left on overnight on the Noisy Malaga Street channel. The Andalusian sky; a crystal azul mocked by solitary clouds who defy the expanse of sun-filled sky. The day is ours. We've left Holland behind. The snow, the wet cold, and the mistakes. Oh yes, we made mistakes in Holland. I am a savvy traveler, made all the more so by loosing my wife for forty-five minutes during a snow storm. But I digress...

The autobus North to Granada passes between the small mountains which separate the town from the Mediterranean. Some hills are covered with scrub. Scruffy Brillo pads bereft of greenery, balding like middle aged Greek man in a brash sun. Occasionally we see the ordered olive rows, but I wonder where the grass grows? There is none. The scenery looks like California, and then I remember the spaghetti westerns filmed here, and I say, "ah." "This land was designed by Hollywood executives and producers to appear Old West, without the fuss of paying union wages!"

Arriving in Granada appears much like arriving in Mexico: cheap buildings with advertising written in that machismo font that gives me hives. Until descending into the valley, one might believe it all looked like that. The Franco-inspired, near communist grandeur reflected in the monumental fountains and architecture suggests otherwise. It only hints at a regime's belief that all this ancient city served to highlight their impunity and divine right. But the ancient withstood the brief shadow of dictators as easily as the reigns of caliphs and catholic demagogues. Here are the baths fed by aquaducts still in use, built over one thousand years ago. Here, a catholic church is easily recognized as Muslim in style, bells replacing the muezzin's voice in the arched windows of the tower. Each most likely built on the backs of the poor or enslaved.

Our host's house is magical. Shaped like a U with an open courtyard in the middle, the stairs bring you upwards to a rooftop patio under the gaze of the Alahambra. Upon arriving, we quaff mas tinto des verana (i've butchered the spelling in favor of phonetics) and I get a lesson in slicing Iberian ham. It's placed in a convenient stand and shaved to produce paper thin, succulent slices. These hams are curred three thousand meters above sea level in the dry air of the sierra nevadas. The rare air produces rare flavors and savory "tops" to beverages.

The drinking continues until one in the morning. We weave the streets taking in pubs and tapas, bars and wines, savoring the different scenes as we eat and drink our way through the night.

We sleep like dogs.

In Which Team Pants Arrive in Spain

2008-03-28T13:19:00.000-07:00

"No, you don't know."

These were the first words my wife uttered to me when I answered, "I know" to her question, "Do you know how much I have wanted to be here?"

Well, as it turns out, I didn't know. She's alive here in a new way. Not to imply a lack of life elsewhere, stateside and all that. To the contrary; Spain, and most of Europe it seems, evulses a creative surge in my girl's demeanor, her vivre, her happiness. It is no mere accident her name is Felicity. But it is not always evident, say, if you're her dialysis patient trying to refuse treatment, that she's a happy happy girl. It's not always evident that she is searching for the best in everyone. It's not always right at the surface that this woman gives one hundred percent of her energy, all the time, to whom upon which she focuses. She just is; trust me. And here, in Andalusia, the blossoms are in Springtime.

Malaga greets us with a warm, Mediterranean breeze that blows the night's darkness in swirls around the lit lamps and shiny streets. The evening involves us intricately with gentle nudges and eddies that pull us onto further corners of it's glow. Malaga.

Our pensione is called Rosa. La Senora calls to us after we arrive and acknowledges they do have vacancy. "Arriba" she says. From where we are not sure. Felicity thinks senora is behind a door to our left. But I believe she's on the landing above. She is. I say, "Arriba. Si?" "Si." She replies, and we climb the four flights of stairs towards her voice. On the top stair landing we are presented with a lovely, albeit tiny, room with a small balcony overlooking an even tinier (tinyer?) alleyway from which the smells and savory scents of fresh fried fish flow upwards through our open doors. Now, with my wife hungry for Spain and fish, we descend upon the alley with the gusto of a tomcat to the mouse carcass.

Our fat and balding servant does not speak english. That's OK. I'd have been disappointed if he did. I don't speak Spanish. Ha! Far from it. I speak a universally understood colloquial spooge of hand gestures and facial expressions largely gathered from my travels in the U.S. They seem to go over nicely here, except when it comes to verbs and nouns. I defer to my wife.

We did eat. I swear. The fried octopus made me weep. It was bomb diggity good eatin', to paraphrase the Cajun folk. The baby mussells, drowned in butter and lemon juice did for to make a salavation or two. We et. We did depart, well fed. We did expotition. And that's a story for manana. Which brings up the question: how do you spell the word describing the letter N with the funny squiggle cloud over it? Enya? Sail away, sail away, sail away....

I remain,

soup