It was cool to sit there with our kid, watching the ping pong balls drop onto the stage; hundreds of them, as the acrobats avoided getting hit by the ping pong rain.
Ping pong and acrobats. Both on one stage. Who thinks of this stuff?
It must be August in Edinburgh, when the Fringe Festival hits town, the population triples, and the smell of hamburger cooking is already wafting into my office as I come in in the morning.
I’m not a hard core Fringer who sees multiple shows a day, or even one show a day. In the past 3 years, I’ve seen about 20 shows and all but one of them were seen with our kid, so I’d say I’ve kid fringing, or kringing (and cringing) over the past few years.
Even though I’m not hard core, I like the Fringe. I like the completely bizarre costumes I see people wearing as they walk around the streets of the city. I like everything in the center of the city covered in posters, like we live in some sort of imaginary world. I don’t even mind the tourists who stop inexplicably to take a picture of something that I don’t see as picture-worthy.
I like that for one month a year, you can see just about anything you could imagine on a stage; I’ve seen a guy get kids to laugh so much about boogers while every parent in the audience looked disgusted; I’ve done several kid ceilidhs, seen improvised musicals, David Sedaris, non-improvised musicals, W. Kamau Bell, incredible physical performances, Tig Notaro, bubble performers, and some performances so bad I’ve walked out 10 minutes in (along with 2/3 of the rest of the audience). The phrase ‘meh brand’ means something in our house entirely because of a show we saw several years ago.
That being said, I also like coming home on August days, being completely removed from the fringiness of the city, on our little street where you would have no idea the population had grown by 3 times, and where you wouldn’t know that acrobats avoided getting hit by ping pong balls at about 3:15 this afternoon.
As a boy, I used to get so dirty; my mother hated it. I remember my mother scrubbing me so hard to get me clean that it hurt. She would then coat my body with Vaseline, because we lived in such a dry climate.
Seven years ago, I told this story at my mother’s funeral. I hope it was more eloquent at her funeral than the three sentences I used to start this blog because I think my eulogy to her was the most meaningful speaking I’ve ever done in my life.
My mother always seemed to have Vaseline in our house, up until she died.
After my mother died, I stayed in my parents’ house for several months, using the bathroom my mother had been using. When I moved to Edinburgh, I ended up taking some things from that bathroom, mainly for nostalgia purposes. One of the things I took was a big tub of Vaseline my mother must have been using. It’s not the sort of thing you think of taking when you’re moving internationally, but it just seemed like the thing to do.
That tub of Vaseline has been with us since then.
I get dry spots on my knees and, when I care enough, I dig through our closet and find that tub. I sometimes get a dry patch between two of my fingers and when I care enough, I dig through our closet and find that tub.
A few of months ago, we noticed that no matter how much lotion we would put on our kid’s legs, they would get ashy and dry. We started using baby oil on her skin, but she would still end up getting dry legs. Then I remembered that we had that old tub of Vaseline in a closet somewhere. I pulled out that tub of old Vaseline and we now use it on our kid.
I don’t know if I should be using 7-year old Vaseline on our kid (I don’t see an expiration date on it), but every night after I’ve scrubbed our kid (though not to the point of pain), as I am coating her body with Vaseline, I think of my mother. I think of how my mother and how she had used the same tub of Vaseline on her skin that the grandchild she never met is now has on her’s.
So there I was, in the cemetery office, with my shirt half off....
21st March will mark 7 years since my mother died. My sister has said that she is losing sleep (she responded to an email from me at 2:30 am the other day). I’m listening to Alison Krauss, whose music (for some inexplicable reason - my mother had no idea who Alison Krauss was) always reminds me of my mother.
For the first time since my mother died, I plan on going to work on the anniversary of her death (I’ve taken the day off any time it’s fallen on a weekday) and will try to make it as normal a day as I can, even though I know it won’t be. It happens to fall on the day our kid turns 4 years and 7 months so, partly as a distraction, I’m going to try and teach our kid on that day, to say that if she’s asked how old she is, she should say ‘four and seven twelfths’. I'm even considering making 7/12 of a cake to keep my mind off things.
My mother didn’t want to die (very few do, right?). Even though she was very sick, she didn’t want to accept her oncoming death to herself. I felt like many who knew her were not ready to admit it themselves either. No real plans had been made about what to do with her body after she died. I feel like I knew what my mother would have wanted, but the circumstances didn’t allow for that, partly because my mother didn’t want to accept that she was dying.
It led to some degree of family strain after her death that I won’t get into here; it’s really not worth bringing up in any more detail. All I have to say on the topic is, if you have some around you that you love - anyone - tell them. Write it down and let them know what you want with your body after you die. It’s not a fun thing to discuss, I know, but it makes things easier for everyone when that day comes.
In the end, a decision was made to bury her in Baltimore.
Why did I start the blog with the sentence I did? Death sucks and me with my shirt half off is what I think of when I think back to the time my mother died, and try to find moments of humour in that time of my life, of which there were very few.
We had this idea that on my mother’s grave placard, we might be able to place a Gye Nyame. We brought this up to the cemetery manager (I’d hate that job, by the way). She was open to trying, but had no idea what a Gye Nyame was. My dad tried describing it to her then I it hit me that I literally had one on my body; on my left shoulder blade to be specific. I had had a Gye Nyame tattoo for over 8 years at that point so the obvious thing to do was to lift my shirt up.
So there I was, in the cemetery office, with my shirt half off, showing my tattoo to the cemetery manager, who I had only just met. We all thought it was kind of a funny scene. It was a welcome break to what we had been going through over the past few days.
In the end, the cemetery manager couldn’t get the Gye Nyame on the placard, which was fine, really. To be honest, I don’t know how much my mother would have wanted a Gye Nyame.
Whenever I think about mother’s death, I think about watching basketball in the hospice in the few hours before she died; I remember my sister waking me up from a jet-lagged sleep to tell me it was time; I remember that last gasp of air my mother took; I remember calling Lauren in the very early hours of the morning. I remember a lot of things that make me feel very sad.
Then I remember showing that woman my tattoo and I chuckle. My mom would have laughed too. I miss my mother every day.
I went back digging through old blog posts before I sat down to write this. The first blog I wrote about the Oscar Nominees was short and sweet. Back then they only had 5 nominees. Those were the days, when I didn’t have to carve out time to watch 9 movies (and didn't have a kid to deal with), like I did this year.
I think there were a number of good movies in 2016, but not a lot of great ones. I still hold 1994 as the best year of movies in my adult life, for anyone who cares to know that information.
I’ve been able to find the time to watch all the Oscar Nominees again this year, and have ranked them by my preference.
I’m not normally one to cry during films, but there is a certain kind of relationship in films that always get to me. Scenes that involve mothers, children, and loss on film are my Achilles heel. I still tear up every time I see this scene, I tear up.....
If this film wasn’t such an emotional gut-punch for me, I don’t think it would be anywhere near this high on my list. I was shocked at how much this film affected me. I went into it not thinking I would like it. As a parent of an adopted child, watching a film about a guy looking for his birth mother, I was positive it would ignore the parents that raised him. The film was so much more than that. There was so much about how he lost his birth family and how hard he tried to find them, as a young boy. Seeing that part of his life really made me feel for his longing to find where he came from.
I want our kid to see this movie when she’s old enough to get it. It’s a movie that will stick with me for a long time.
My sister said she didn’t like Moonlight as much as she thought she would. Her comment got me thinking that maybe this is a film most appreciated by black men. I don’t personally know of any white people in my life that have seen this movie, so I’d be curious to hear their thoughts.
This is the movie from 2016 that I most want to see again. It’s not a movie that can be described by plot; there isn’t a plot, but there is a theme. It’s about a guy, who has grown up in not-so-great circumstances, who is most likely gay, but can’t admit that to himself.
For me, the 3 actors to play main characters at three points in his life, each gave heart-breaking performances. If film awards were not given to the person performing the role, but to the character, Chiron is my character of the year.
I also liked the way the movie ended, and I may be in the minority there, but I like that it gave me something to wonder about at the end.
This is a film I thought was great while watching it and for about 48 hours after watching it, but I know I won't remember it in a year.
I don’t know what it is about a type of movie set in or around Boston that has this effect on me: Mystic River, The Departed, Gone Baby Gone, The Town. I remember really liking every one of these movies but could tell you almost nothing about any of them now.
I like Casey Affleck and always have (he was one of my favourite things about Good Will Hunting, and that’s saying a lot, because I love that movie). I thought he was great in this and I thought Michelle Williams really pulled out all the stops for the scene that got her an Oscar nomination. One thing I didn’t care for was Lucas Heghes. He’s getting a lot of praise for his role, but I didn’t care for his performance much.
Again, good movie, liked it a great deal, but won’t remember it by summer.
I happened to see the mother of one of our kid’s friends shortly after seeing this movie and she asked what I thought. Her one line review of the movie sums up very well how I feel about it: It’s definitely more about style than substance.
When I watch a film, the story, and the way it’s told have to both be great for me to think the film is great. This story did an excellent job of telling a story; I loved the movie as a musical, I thought the songs were great, I thought the actors showed range of talent (though John Legend put them to shame on the singing front the second he opened his mouth). But the story under all of this was a pretty basic story.
This film was the opposite of La La Land. It’s all about substance and not so much about style.
As the film ended I thought to myself, that I’d really like to see the play on stage; I think I would have liked it more.
The performances were exceptional, but the film felt very ‘stagey’, as I guess it should, since it’s based on a play. This stagey feel took something away from me, but I’m not sure how it could have been improved.
Great performances, would be great on stage. As a film though, something was lost for me.
I think I read/heard too much about this film before I saw it. I thought it was just OK, to be honest.
There was talk of a twist ending, but I thought it was fairly well explained and therefore not a twist. I kept waiting for a twist that never was. Maybe I saw something people didn’t see, but Lauren had the same thoughts I did, so I can’t be just me.
The thing I liked most about this film was the score. I’m not a score person, but this score and that of Moonlight stayed with me. Scores don’t usually do that for me.
I saw this film, I thought it was decent, I didn’t really like it that much, but feel like I should see it again because I feel like I’m missing something.
There is an interesting plot line in this movie about why two brothers are robbing specific banks, and it winds up with an interesting....I don’t know if I’d call it a twist, but an interesting way things end up.
This movie got a lot of good reviews (98% on Rotten Tomatoes), and I’m wondering if it’s that thing about the plot that people really like, or the performances (which I just thought were OK), or what.
I just didn’t connect with this film, and a second viewing might be in order to better appreciate it.
I was leaving work when I saw the list of Best Picture nominees on Twitter. My first thought when I saw the list? ‘Dammit, I’m going to have to see Hacksaw Ridge’
To me, knowing almost nothing about the story, this was some religious film directed by Mel Gibson, who has been known to hit you over the head with religion and violence in his films. I didn’t really feel hit over the head with the religion aspect of the film; it is a true story and has religion as a major part, so I guess you have to go with that part of it. The violence was a bit much, but I would imagine that is what war looks like. It was gory, very gory, but again, if that’s what war is like, you have to go with it. And the war scenes were very well done, in my opinion.
I did have some problems with the story and how the guy got to the point where he wanted to join the army (I didn’t feel like the film really explained well enough his reasons) and why it wasn’t a problem for his brother to join the army and not worry about killing people - I think exploring the relationship between the brothers would have been good, but that would have added significant amount of running time.
It was better than I expected it to be, to be honest, but I won’t go championing it to people, because it’s not for everyone. You have to like war movies, and not be bothered by religion playing a role in a film to go for this.
Hidden Figures suffers/benefits from the same thing Beasts of the Southern Wild did, in my opinion. I felt that latter got a lot of praise because it was done on a low budget with untrained actors. I feel that Hidden Figures is getting a lot of praise because of the message and history behind it, and not the film itself.
Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a great message movie, about true events, and I think every pre-teen girl (especially minority pre-teen girls) would benefit from watching this movie. That being said, I’m not a pre-teen girl and I felt like I was watching a movie for pre-teen girls. It felt like a Disney movie (even though it’s not). It was very soft around the edges, with very cliche scenes.
After watching this, I kept thinking I would have liked a film about the same subject a lot more, if it had Ava DuVernay behind it; she would have made it a much grittier film, and one not so much for pre-teen girls.
The film that got no love
It didn’t get a best picture and didn’t get nominated for either of the sub-categories it may have qualified for (animation and documentary). The film is Tower. I thought this film was amazing and was disappointed it didn’t get any Oscar love. Here's the trailer...
Christmas always reminds me of my mother. She would have been 74 on Christmas Day this year. Needless to say, it’s not the easiest time of the year for me.
A few months after my mother died, I had a dream that still sticks with me. In the dream, I knew my mother had died, but she came back. She knew she had died; we all knew she had died, but we were glad to have her back. We also knew that she would have to go away again, and she did. The dream left me with a sense of peace. I never felt like I got to say goodbye to my mother and that dream was a way for me to in my head, what I never got to do in reality.
A few months ago, I saw the film, ‘Les Revenants’, about a town dealing with a number of townspeople who have returned from being dead. It’s not a horror movie, but more a movie about how people of the town try to understand, and deal with, the undead. I didn’t love the movie, but a few weeks ago I thought I’d give the French TV series based on the movie a try.
Something about the show had really struck me. I can’t stop thinking about it; the concept of these people coming back from the dead. I watch the show and am constantly taken back to the dream I had about my mother.
I don’t know how much of my interest in the show is in the show itself and how much of it is connecting me to my mother, at a time of year when I’m constantly reminded of her, and bringing me some kind of comfort, like that dream did 6 years ago.
2003 was an odd year for me. I didn’t eat any ice cream that year (anyone who knows me well knows just how shocking that statement is). I temporarily left my job at De Anza that year to start a PhD at UC Berkeley (anyone who knows me even not so well knows that PhD never came to be). I went from living in a decent-sized apartment in Cupertino, down the road from the Apple headquarters, to a studio on the Oakland-Berkeley border.
Thanksgiving Day of 2003 was the second oddest day in an odd year for me.
I woke that morning, 27th November, 2003, knowing I would be driving down to almost the exact neighbourhood I had just moved from, on the Cupertino-San Jose border, to have a Thanksgiving meal at a house I’d never been to, hosted by a person I’d never met who, I think, was related (I honestly don’t remember how) to my aunt. My uncle and aunt were visiting my cousin, who went to UC Santa Cruz at the time, for the weekend, and were going to this woman’s house for Thanksgiving. I said I would make zucchini bread (because that’s what I do) and drive down there for the afternoon and evening.
In the late morning, I went to a pick-up football (soccer) game I’d never been to before. I didn’t score (I never seemed to score in pick-up games), had a decent time, and thought I’d go back at some point (I never did), then came home to get ready to go to this woman’s house.
I had to really prepare to go to this woman’s house. She had some sort of smell-sensitivity disorder. I was not allowed to have any artificial scent on me when I arrived at her house. I had to take a shower with unscented soap, not put on any deodorant, get in my car, close the windows, not stop to buy gas, or go anywhere else where I might run into anyone wearing cologne, or deodorant, or smoking. I got ready, I got in my car, closed the windows on a day that was a little warm for November, in a car that had a busted air conditioner, and drove the hour to San Jose.
The dinner was nice. I remember little of the food. There were her two, very well-trained, white fluffy dogs, that could walk on their hind legs. There were her small group of scent-sensitive friends, who told us how they became to be scent-sensitive. There was my uncle, aunt, and cousin. Then there was the odd conversation. I remember that more than anything else on Thanksgiving Day, 2003.
Before I go on, I should mention that this woman was Jewish, only because that comes into play shortly. I should also mention that I’m not Jewish.
This woman had a niece who was at The University of Oregon. She thought her niece and I would make a nice couple. I have no idea why she would think that, but she did, and I appreciated the thought. She mentioned that her niece would be coming down to visit her at some point soon and she could introduce us. She thought the distance between Berkeley and Eugene, Oregon (430 miles) would not be a problem. She then asked if I was Jewish. I said I was not. She said it wouldn’t be a problem as long as I would ‘be willing to convert’. Because, you know, that’s the sort of thing you should be willing to commit to doing when you are being asked to possibly date someone who lives 430 miles away from you and the only things you know about this person is that they are are female, go to the University of Oregon, and are Jewish.
That moment goes down as one of the most memorable of my life. I half thought she was joking but didn’t want to offend her by laughing, or even chuckling, if she wasn’t. She was not joking, and I’m glad I didn’t laugh it off.
To avoid responding to the possibility of religious conversion, I simply said that I was meeting someone the next day and wanted to see how that panned out before committing to meet her niece. This was actually the truth. I had made tentative plans to meet someone the next day. Plans I wasn’t sure I wanted to really go through with (because that’s the kind of person I am), but thought it would be a good idea, at least a better one than being hooked up with someone who would expect me to convert.
The evening went on and I drove home that evening, knowing more about scent-sensitivity than I had 6 hours earlier.
A few weeks later, I got an email from the woman. She asked if I was interested in meeting her niece, who would be in town soon. I said no. I told her that the person I had met the day after Thanksgiving and I were dating and things were going pretty well, so I’d pass. I was glad I didn't have to lie to the woman about not meeting her niece; I would have felt terrible doing that to her.
Every Thanksgiving since then I think about that woman, and her niece, and wonder if her niece found a nice Jewish boy (or a non-Jewish boy who was willing to convert). Every Thanksgiving since then I'm thankful I met that woman and I'm thankful for the awkward moment she and I shared.
Thanksgiving Day was the second oddest day for me in 2003. The day after Thanksgiving in 2003 beat that day in oddness by a mile.
On that day, the day after what I thought would be the oddest day of the year, I ended up meeting that person I was tentative about meeting; the person that I'm not sure I would have gone through meeting without the conversion comment the day before; the person I told that woman about in an email a few weeks later. The person who is now in the room next to the one I’m in as I write this, 13 years later. We’re not in California anymore and I can hear our kid sleeping soundly, on this not-so-odd November evening, in 2016.
I’m not sure I even know when Thanksgiving is this year, but every Thanksgiving season I am thankful my aunt invited me to that dinner. Every Thanksgiving season I think about that woman and I’m glad I met her. I’m not sure I’d be where I am now if I hadn’t.
I should start by saying I’m not a foodie. Food is not the first thing I look forward to when I travel. This has a lot to do with me being vegetarian, and always living under the assumption that there may be one item on a menu that does not have meat.
That being said, I have found that the most annoying thing about travelling with a kid (or which many parents will say there are many) is all about food, and not in the way that you would think.
Our kid likes to eat.
Last week, we were skyping with my sister while our kid was eating. (We find that skyping during mealtimes is a good way to keep her from being just a blur to the people we are skyping with as she runs around our flat like a maniac.) We don’t often skype with my sister while our kid eats, due to her schedule, but my sister mentioned more than once how watching our kid eat made her feel hungry; ‘she makes the food look so good’. We’ve had this comment from other skypers in the past, because our kid really likes to eat (unlike many other kids I hear about).
I should say that one more time; our kid likes to eat.
We flew to Berlin today. We landed around lunch time and thought we should get something at the airport. Our kid wanted pasta (I should note that I have grown to dislike pasta immensely because I’m constantly making it for our kid). She was insistent on getting some sort of cold penne thing. I got a couscous salad.
After one bite, our kid declared that she didn’t like the pasta. I said she could taste my couscous. She ate all my couscous for lunch. I ate penne (I should note that I have grown to dislike pasta).
After a bit of a hassle to get from the airport to our hotel (no need to bore you with the details), we got into downtown Berlin. Our kid must have said ‘I’m very hungry!’ about 19 times. All of these times were less than 3 hours after we had had lunch and even after eating some bell pepper, carrots, and candy, the phrase continued time and time again.
After settling into the hotel, we went to find a place to eat. With a kid less than 4, on foot, you’re limited to walking a few blocks from your hotel to find a place to eat. There are a number of great looking restaurants near our hotel - a falafel place that caught my eye, an Indian place, Thai place, Mexican, Sushi. We didn’t go to any of those places. We went to place that had chips and sausage on the kids menu.
Lauren thought the menu looked very ‘German’, so I thought, what the hell, when in Rome...Berlin....why not?
As expected, there was one vegetarian item on the menu - ‘noodles with vegetables’. We walked in to see the place was run by a Chinese family. Sweet, I thought, ‘noodles and vegetables’ might actually be decent (yes, I’m stereotyping).
After much whining from our kid about how hungry she was, the food came. She liked her chips, but not her sausage, she liked Lauren’s beef and vegetables. She liked my ‘noodles’ because they weren’t noodles. They were penne. Seriously? My second penne meal in less than 5 hours. Did I note already how I’ve grown to dislike pasta? I ate it and our kid ate it too (she’s a good eater). Did I hate it? No. Was it remotely what I had in mind when I thought I was getting noodles and vegetables? Absolutely not.
Our kid wanted ice cream after dinner. I like ice cream. There was an ice cream place right next to the restaurant. She wanted chocolate chip ice cream. I asked her if she was sure she didn’t want chocolate. She wanted chocolate chip ice cream. I got the chocolate. She wanted to taste my chocolate ice cream. She wanted to swap. I ate chocolate chip ice cream. Our kid ate the (far superior) chocolate ice cream. Was I happy about this? No I wasn’t, but what am I to do?
Some might say, I’m being a good guy for giving up my preferred ice cream, or meals, for the sake of my kid. Some would say I should let my kid live with her choice. I wish I could be more of the latter when it comes to our kid, but I’m more the former.
I don’t really want to be a good guy who gives up his ice cream to his kid, even though she was given the chance to get it herself in the first place. I don’t really want to be the good guy that passes on an awesome-looking falafel place to eat penne and vegetables. I don’t really want to be the good guy who eats penne he doesn’t want while his kid eats the couscous he would rather have.
I don’t really want to be that guy, but I am. In the end, I don’t like travelling and dealing with our kid’s eating habits. But I want to be the guy who has a child who sees the world. And I’m willing to eat some pasta in foreign countries (I should note I’ve grown to dislike pasta) if it means I expose our kid to the great cultures of the world.
I was going to the gym on Saturday when 3 young Chinese men approached me, asking if they could interview me about exercise in Scotland. Always up for helping out students, I thought, 'Why not?'
They asked me what sports were popular here; what sort of exercise I do; my thoughts on team sports; what sports are offered at the University of Edinburgh (it was at this stage they realised I wasn't a student - I don't look that young, do I?).
The interview ended with an odd question where they asked what I would say to someone 'fat and lazy' about exercise. I tried to talk about walking as a form of exercise, and got the response 'Why would they listen to that? They are FAT and LAZY?'. All right then, I thought, no need to get too worked up about it. I rephrased the same idea and I don't think that's what they wanted to hear, and they thanked me for my time and I went to the gym.
On Sunday, I took our kid to the Royal Mile, because she really wanted to see Elaine Davidson, who lives in Edinburgh and regularly sets up shop on the Royal Mile. Our kid somehow thinks Elaine is some sort of family friend. Elaine is great, but she has no idea who we are; she's just super-nice to everyone.
We ended up at the Castle, where we were approached by a group of a dozen or so Italian students, who wanted to interview me. Always up for helping out students, I thought, 'Why not?'
I still don't get the point of this interview, a day later. I was asked questions like 'What is a popular Scottish food?' (Haggis), 'What is a popular Italian food?' (Why are you kids asking me this; you're the ones from Italy), 'Who is the most popular Italian athlete?' (again, you're the Italians). I did answer all their questions and they thought our kid was cute, although she didn't like that daddy took 5 minutes indulging these strangers and their questions, because you're not supposed to talk to strangers (good point).
We did, eventually, see Elaine, but she was talking to someone so we did a quick hi-bye.
Later that afternoon, I was walking to Sainsbury's, waiting to cross the road, when I saw an elderly woman who was staring at me and giving a half-smile. I gave a half-smile back. She came up to me and asked if I had a lot of hair under my hat. I showed her my hair and then we talked and walked to Sainsbury's together.
I'm not a social person (I would actually say I'm anti-social), but I've always liked talking to elderly women. I've said I'm an old soul many, many times. Occasionally up for talking to elderly women, I thought, 'Why not?'
We talked about hair, parenting (in her time and mine), and it was one of the more pleasant walks I've had walking to Sainsbury's.
What's the point of this blog? I've been quiet about the world has been going for a while and I thought, 'Why not?'
We live in a world of growing isolationism when someone running for president of the the country where I am a citizen, who I am not willing to give the dignity of even naming, talks in such extreme isolationist rhetoric that I don't feel like I would be welcome to live in that America. I live in a country where 'the people' have decided that they don't really like foreigners and want to keep them out, which makes me feel unwelcome where I am now (not Scotland specifically, but I have no plans to head south of the border anytime soon). I'm someone who has never felt 'at home' anywhere, but not feeling at home and feeling unwelcome are two very different feelings.
Here I am an American, living in Scotland, on a random weekend in July, who had social interactions with some Chinese students, some Italian students, a Brazilian woman with piercings all over her body and a woman who may have been German (although it makes no difference to me where she was actually from).
I like diversity. It's a good thing. It has made the world far better than worse. Who are these morons who want to end it?
I feel like my life, and that of my family, has been like that of the character in the poem. We tend to take The Road Not Taken. My dad, an American, ended up in West Africa for a big portion of his life; my mom, a Ghanaian, ended up in America for a big portion of her life; me, a who-knows-what, had now ended up in Scotland for the past 6 years.
When I was a university student, I joined a student organisation for students who had some sort of mixed-raced background. I met several trans-racial adoptees as part of this organisation. It was from meeting these people that I decided I wanted to adopt a child at some point, and I feel forever grateful for the friends I made at that time in my life, who were adopted, because they opened my mind up to something I hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about before then.
Although I had known a few adopted kids growing up, this was the first time I really got to hear the stories of adopted children; where their lives were before they were adopted and where they ended up, at the time I got to know them.
I often wondered about the lives of these friends of mine. Particularly, I wondered what their lives would have been like if they had not been adopted, or if they had been adopted by someone other than their parents. I never felt comfortable enough to ask these friends (or their parents) their thoughts on this; I thought it was too prying and kept those thoughts to myself.
Now, I find myself on the other side of that coin. I’m a parent of an adopted kid, and over the past 6 months, I’ve thought a lot about our kid’s life with us and what it would have been like if we had not been in the picture.
I hadn’t really thought too much about our kid’s possible ‘Sliding Doors’ lives until we started travelling with our kid, and my witnessing our kid finally getting to see the lives we had lived that she was not a part of before she came to live with us. Lauren and I have very diverse backgrounds (as you can see from our wedding photo) and it’s been interesting to see someone so young exposed to our family diversity in such a short time span.
someone told my dad that this was the most diverse wedding photo they had ever seen
Because of diversity of locations of our family, our kid’s life has been a whirlwind over the past 6 months. She’s made 4 trips to 3 continents in that time; that’s insane! It’s while on these trips that I wonder where our kid’s alternative lives might have taken her.
Amsterdam
In the past 6 months, our kid has walked over canals in Amsterdam, has been a few feet from meandering Ghanaian cows, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, seen the Grand Canyon. She’s fallen down a flight of stairs in Maryland, eaten freshly roasted tuna from a market woman in Ghana, played in a pool in Palo Alto, and sat on the shoulders of a man more than twice her height in Phoenix.
Baltimore, Maryland
She has received hugs and high-fives from family that didn’t know she existed until a couple of years after she was born. These tokens of affection have come from family and friends who are from all over the world; people that she can say are her family and friends of her family.
Koforidua, Ghana
Our kid is now like the rest of our family. Our kid’s life is like that of the character in the Robert Frost poem. In the end, she has ended up taking a life less travelled by the majority of kids adopted in the UK. And I would hope that ‘that has made all the difference’.
We had always planned on sending our kid to the Gaelic Nursery/Primary School that opened up in town a few years ago. Although I'm not sure what the benefits are of learning Scottish Gaelic, specifically, it is widely known that learning a 2nd language (even if it's a language that's only spoken by 60,000 people) is beneficial.
Our kid started going to the nursery school in August and getting her to and from school was 'Bus Hell'.
Getting a 3-year old to walk to a bus stop when you have to catch a specific bus, by a certain time in the morning, is just the start. Then there was the waiting. The waiting for the bus to take her to school. The waiting at the school when the bus got there far too early (the next bus would get us there late). The waiting for the bus to take me to work (which I seemed to always just miss, even though there are at least 3 buses that can get me from near her school to near my work). We would leave home at 8 and I would get to my office at about 9:45. Nearly 2 hours of bus-related activity, every morning.
Then there was picking her up.
I work from 10:00-1:30 and our kid gets out of school at 3:00. I had the option of walking home (30 minutes), being at home for about 15 minutes (not enough time to do anything), then heading out to catch a bus to her school. Alternatively, I could go straight from work to her school on the bus and then have to figure out what to do, in a part of town that has very little to do, for an hour.
After a month of this, I thought, let's get a bike and a child's bike seat. OMG, that's the best idea I've had in the past year (or two, or three).
Now, we leave home at 8:30, get her to school at 8:45, and I'm near my office by 9:20. Our kid has time to watch Sesame Street before heading off to school; I have time to go grocery shopping before work. At the end of the work day, I bike home and am home before 2 and don't need to leave to pick her up until 2:45; it's amazing how much housework can be done in 45 minutes (and it's work I don't have to do at 9 pm anymore).
All I can say is, the Bike Heaven has put Bus Hell to shame. I love the bike and all it does for my life.
I used the call the gym my church. I used to go every Sunday morning, being there right when it opened at 9, with the other (few) Sunday morning gym goers. I would also go a couple of times after work, during the week. I love the gym.
I'm not someone who goes to the gym to get buff; it's where I go to clear my head and get some exercise while doing it. That being said, I weighed myself almost every time I went to the gym (we don't have a scale at home) and had a goal. I typically hovered at about 77-78 kg (about 170 lbs). I had this goal of getting down to 75 kg, but never seemed to.
Now, with our kid, I don't get to the gym anywhere near as often as I would like and have even considered cancelling my membership. If I’m lucky (and I rarely am), I can go two times in a one week. More often, it’s once a week, or once every two weeks.
I hadn’t weighed myself at the gym for months. The combination of me not going much for a while, the scale being moved from where it used to be (and me not bothering to find out it’s new location), and me feeling like I didn’t want to weigh myself because of my lack of gym-going.
Finally, at some point in January, I discovered the new scale location and weighed myself. I didn’t believe the electric scale. I got off of the scale twice to weigh myself again, and again. I left the gym assuming there was something wrong with the scale. It just can’t be.
A week or two later (the next time I made it to the gym) I weighed myself again. WTF. Either the scale was still broken or I had lost over 5 kg. Me, the guy who since the age of 14 had this idea that running would help me lose weight (running has never worked for me) had lost that much weight by not particularly trying; I lost the weight from riding a bike around town.
Until that point, I didn’t realise just how much bike riding I do in a given day. Here’s the breakdown:
I ride our kid to school (1.8 miles, mostly downhill):
I ride myself from our kid’s school to work (2.5 miles, mostly uphill):
I ride from my office to our flat when I leave work (1.4 miles, pretty much all downhill)
I ride to pick our kid up from school (1.8 miles, mostly downhill).
I ride our kid back home, on a slightly different route than going to school (1.9 miles, mostly uphill).
I ride 9.4 miles a day. You tack on taking our kid to weekend classes and I ride a bike well over 50 miles a week.
I’m not a ‘cyclist’. I don’t have much ‘gear’ or a cool bike. Although I’m amazed at how many people with ‘gear’ and cool bikes I blow by on my uphill ride to work everyday; me with my kid’s bike seat on the back and my work trousers (I do have dedicated bike shirts, but not really 'bike' shirts, just shirts I only wear when I bike). Either these people are really taking their time getting places, or they’re posers, but I digress.
I’m not someone who ever set out to log hundreds of miles on a bike; I just wanted a little more time to get stuff done and a little less time dealing with Bus Hell.
So, the moral of the story: if you want to lose a lot of weight, put your kid in a Gaelic Medium school. That’s the point of this whole thing......isn’t it?
