I saw the film Upthat day but remember little else of the day.
Ten years ago today was the start of the most difficult year of my life. The year I left the job I loved, was apart from Lauren for a good part of the year, and the year I lost my mother. Every time I hear of someone turning 33 I think to myself ‘I hope your 33 is not like mine was’.
The summer was relatively uneventful. I played on the football team I was on and taught a summer class.
In August of that year, we made a trip to Baltimore to visit my mother, who was alone in the house while my dad was in China. We timed the trip to be in Baltimore when my dad got back. We took a bus to New York and saw some people on that day trip.
In September, Lauren moved to Oxford, for a 2-year post-doc. I started my last quarter of teaching at De Anza; I was to join Lauren in Oxford, in January. It was difficult to adjust to Lauren not being around. It was just me and Geordi, our cat.
In October, I got a call from my parents; my mother had been diagnosed with Stage 4 liver cancer. I was distraught; I broke down in tears in a staff room at work; I teared up while teaching; I presented at a conference in Los Angeles and I have zero memory of what I said or how it went. I wondered how much longer my mother had to live.
I spent Thanksgiving alone that year, talked to my parents on the phone and saw Precious.
Lauren came back in early December, and we prepared to move from Mountain View to Oxford. Geordi got very ill. I had to stay in Mountain View over Christmas while Lauren went with her family to Sacramento, because Geordi was ill. The medical bills grew to be more than one month’s salary and I seriously considered putting him down due to the cost - I’m glad I didn’t because that was only about half of his life lived so far, and his 2nd half brought so much joy to my dad.
In late December, I flew an ill cat across the country and saw my mother for the first time since her diagnosis; she didn’t look good.
In January, I went to Oxford. I had offered to stay in Baltimore to help my mother; she refused. I remember getting into an argument with her about how I wish she would acknowledge just how ill she was; that was one of the last face-to-face conversations I had with my mother. The last thing we did together was bake, the day before I left for Oxford.
I hated Oxford. I didn’t belong there. It was Lauren's place, not mine.
In March, my sister said I needed to come home. I got to Baltimore and within 48 hours, my mother was dead.
There was the funeral to plan, the eulogy I gave, the burial. There was the depression, the sadness, the grief.
In May, I went to visit Lauren in the UK. We then went to Germany and The Netherlands. While in The Netherlands, I found out my flight back to the US was cancelled, due to an ash cloud. My new flight back would happen to be on the day I turned 34.
The last day I was 33
The last day I was 33, we took a train to Edinburgh. Lauren had a job interview the next day, and I thought why not go? When am I going to get to Edinburgh again.
A year after I saw Up, I took a taxi, to a train, to a bus, to a plane, to a train, to my dad’s car; from Edinburgh, to Oxford, to London, to Washington DC, to Baltimore.
The difficult year was over.
Somewhere on that journey on the day I turned 34, I contracted the Chickenpox.
Every Saturday morning, our 6-year old has a swimming class.
I always take our toddler along, to get him out of the house (even though there’s not much to do while big sis is swimming). We find something to do to keep him busy for the 30-min of class, then the three of us go to a play park, or something. Our kids, like most kids their ages, love the play park. There is talk of what play park to go to with the older kid, who likes to go to what we call ‘the faraway play park’ (for obvious reasons); I like the faraway play park, but it’s kind of far when lugging around two kids by bike. Our toddler also has a favourite park, which has the ‘big slide’, but both are happy enough to go to any play park, as long as it’s not the crappy one that’s part of a housing complex that I’m never sure we’re allowed to be using in the first place.
Every Sunday, our toddler and I drop our older kid off at gymnastics, and I take him to swimming class (he loves swimming class). After they are both done, we sometimes go to the beach (even when it’s probably way too cold), or go to soft play (when it’s definitely way too cold) or go to a play park (when it’s not too cold). Both kids have fun; the toddler explains the fun to Lauren when we get home, in the best way he can: ‘my jump swimming’ (I jumped in the swimming pool); ‘daddy water’ (daddy went under water); ‘slide in the park’.
The point of all this is, I take our toddler to things that he seems to really enjoy. Lauren doesn’t like taking the kids out (especially when it’s cold), so I’ve been come the ‘take-the-kids-out’ parent, which I’m fine with because I don’t really like sitting at home.
Atop Arthur's Seat
Then, you get us at home.
With Lauren around.
Our toddler generally wants nothing to do with me.
In the morning, he wakes up by saying ‘Daddy Awake!’ or ‘Mummy Awake!’ or shouting for his sister (he’s a very loud kid). If I go in there, he says ‘Daddy go! Want Mummy!’ I tell him Lauren’s in shower, and he starts crying, or shouts ‘Nooooo!’.
He’s eating breakfast and Lauren has to do our daughter’s hair so I go into the kitchen to keep the toddler company and get stuff for him; ‘Daddy go!’ He’d rather sit at the table, in the room by himself, than have me around.
In fact, the only time he ever wants me when Lauren is home, is when it’s time for him to go to sleep, after he has fussed and argued about not wanting to go to sleep for 15-30 min. He wants me to put him to bed, where I sit, in silence, and we do nothing fun.
I think this sort of rejection would bother me, except that I went through almost this exact same thing with our daughter, 4 years ago. Down to the wanting me to lie on the floor next to her cot at bedtime.
Our daughter still occasionally says I’m ‘no fun’, which isn’t a lie, really. I don’t think anyone would ever describe me as Mr. Fun or the life of any party.
Our kids think I’m the best when we’re out of the house, so in public, I look like Daddy-o Primero, but at home, I’m just some guy no one wants around.
In my head, I tell myself the lie that the kids don’t want me around at home because they know I’ve lugged them around town, from Portobello to the faraway play park to places in between, and they just want to give me a break at home.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. When you tell a lie enough, it comes the truth.
On the afternoon of 6th April, as I was hugging the porcelain throne, I wasn’t thinking about how crappy I felt, or how I would feel after. I had two thoughts running through my head; ‘Dammit, the streak is over’; and Seinfeld:
A couple of days before, I had been at work, telling my co-workers how our toddler and Lauren both had norovirus and had been sick (for those not in the UK, ‘sick’ means ‘throw up’). Lauren seemed to get over her sickness in about 24 hours; the toddler was sick today - 5 days going for him, so far.
I followed up by saying that I was fairly certain I had not been sick this century. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think I had not been sick as an adult, which goes back to 1994. The only sickness I have strong memory of was when we lived in Nigeria (we moved from Nigeria in 1988). Now, I’m sure I must have been sick at some point since 1988, and even 1994, but I have no memory of it. Lauren has never remembered me being sick either, and I met her in 2003.
So on the afternoon of 6th April, I couldn’t believe the streak had come to an end. Although I have bragged about not getting ill very much, our toddler was able to do something no one else could, from long before he was born. He was able to get me to break my vomit streak; thanks, little guy.
Today, 7th April, I don’t seem to have stomach issues, but am extremely lethargic and only able to stand for about 5 minutes at a time. I don’t do ill well, I think because I don’t have a sense of what it’s like to be ill, and even less sense of what it’s like to be sick.
Here’s to hoping I can start a new streak that lasts the rest of this century, or at least this decade.
In early March 2018, we were hit with The Beast from the East. The storm brought a lot of snow. More snow than I’ve ever seen in the UK. The image I have of the storm is this one:
Our kid, who was 5 1/2 at the time, in snow that was waist high. Every time someone brings up that storm, I think of of where the state of our family was at that time.
A couple of weeks before the Beast from the East hit, we were to meet our little boy for the first time. We drove the long distance to meet him, only to find out he had gotten ill the day before we were to meet him. We did meet him, but he looked awful; not the best way to meet your son for the first time. After a couple of days of hoping he would get better, Introductions was postponed until further notice. We drove back to Edinburgh.
Then the storm came.
When I think of that storm, I think of being in limbo.
Meeting him the way we did kind of made me question the decision to adopt him. He looked so ill. It was also very unclear when we would start up Introductions again. He had somewhat recovered after a week, but had lost a lot of weight and everything just seemed...in limbo.
When I think of that time, I think of our older kid, in her last hurrah as an only child.
She loved the snow and, looking back on it, if we had been able to bring the little guy home as scheduled, she would not have been able to spend as much time out in the snow, getting all the attention an only child gets. That week of the storm is about as close to our older kid as I’ve ever felt, and I think that, for me, it was my last hurrah of giving her all my attention, and I loved it.
A couple of weeks after the storm, we were the family we are now; a family of four. When I think of March 2018, I think of that storm, I think of being in limbo, I think of both of our kids; the older one being an only child for the last time and the younger one not knowing how much his life was about to change, by gaining a forever family.
March 2014 - The Plane
In March 2014, I felt like I could go nowhere without hearing about MH370, the plane that seemed to disappear into thin air.
We were not parents at the start of March 2014, but were at the end of the month; March started like a lamb and ended like a lion.
We went through Introductions with our first kid that March and were staying at hotel near her foster family. We would go to breakfast in the morning and all we would hear about was that missing flight. As sad of a story that flight was, it was a distraction to me; I obsessed over reading about it. Not because I was obsessed about it but because I needed the distraction.
I was very nervous about adopting a kid. I even told our social worker a few weeks earlier that I didn’t know if I wanted to go through with it.
For people who have not gone through Introductions, it’s hard to describe just how taxing it is - physically, mentally, and emotionally. We visited our kid’s foster family just this past weekend, and joked about who we were during that week - how little we knew and the toll it took on us.
Ever since March 2014, when I hear the occasional news story of MH370, I think of that week of Introductions and I think about our kid; who she was as a person then, and who we were to her - complete strangers. I think about her now, and how she is probably the person that feels least like a stranger to me, and how life can turn a stranger into a father, or daughter.
March 2010 - The Madness
On March 20 2010, I dozed off watching a basketball game; March Madness. I love March Madness. The NCAA tournament is my favourite annual sporting event.
I was sitting on a sofa at the Gilchrist Hospice, in Towson, Maryland. I was jet-lagged, having arrived from the UK a couple of days earlier.
My mother was dying.
I was woken up by my sister at some point later that night. She told me that a hospice worker had said that it was nearly time.
My mother was leaving us, and soon after, we watched her take that last deep breath. Then she was gone.
My mother’s funeral was a week later. The day after her funeral, I drove Lauren to Dulles Airport, for her flight back to Oxford. On the way home, I listened to Michigan State (I’m an alum) beat Tennessee to make it to the Final Four. MSU wasn’t expected to do that great that year, but the team made all the way to the Final Four, which was something to be proud of.
Every March since then, I consume the tournament as best as I can from a distance, and I think of my mother. It’s odd to think that a game played by giant men reminds me of a very small woman (my mother was no more than 5 feet tall), who knew almost nothing about basketball.
I also think about who my mother was, and who she had hoped her son to be.
I do like sprinting; I have very quick pick-up speed, even at my older age. I notice this every time I’m on my bike at a red light, next to another biker, and the light turns green. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that situation (without kids on the bike with me) where I haven’t just left the other biker in my trail. My legs can move very quickly, but not for long periods of time.
I don’t like running.
For me, running is moving your legs for a long time. Sprinting is not. I don’t think I’ve ever liked running for long periods of time, partly because, I get winded. I can’t pace myself. I want to sprint - all the time; which is an insane thing for anyone to do, unless they are in a short race.
I don’t like running.
I signed up for a 10K a couple of weeks ago. Why, you may ask?
I signed up for the shirt.
A year ago, I signed our kid up for a 1K kids' run, thinking she would like it (she likes running more than I do), and she did. She got a shirt. I liked that shirt. I wanted a shirt, partly because I had to run with her for the 1K, and why shouldn’t I get one? Turns out adults can’t get shirts for a kids’ race, and adults can’t sign up for a 1K run.
This year, I signed up for the 10K race that is happening that same day, as part of the Edinburgh Marathon Festival.
After I signed up, I realised the only shoes I own that could be called ‘running shoes’ are at least 12 years old, and pieces of the sole have been coming off for the past 2 years. I got new shoes.
I then realised that I have no idea how to prepare for a 10K. Part of me thought of doing nothing - I ride a bike 50-75 miles a week, so why train? Riding and running are two very different things. I need to train. I found a website with a 10K training plan.
I started training on Tuesday. As I jogged that first day, and then again two days later, I had to constantly remind myself not to start sprinting. I don’t like jogging; I don’t like running.
But I’m going to be ready to run this 10K; so I can get a shirt.
In four weeks, the UK is scheduled - possibly, maybe, maybe not - to leave the UK. Nobody knows if it will happen, what it will look like if it does happen, or the repercussions if it happens.
On the radio, I hear an ad where you hear a ‘European’ asking what life will be like post-Brexit, you also hear a ‘Businessperson’ and a person ‘married to a European’. These people say they don’t know what life will be like for them post-Brexit and don’t know how they will be affected. The ad directs them to a website that will help them through this.
The thing is, nobody knows what life will be like for these people. No one knows this, because there is no real plan in place. I work with international students. We have no idea how Brexit will affect these students, and we should be people that know this sort of thing better than Joe Schmoe on the street.
I’m not going to comment on if the UK should have voted to leave the EU in the first place; I wasn’t a UK citizen at the time, so I couldn’t vote, and as a resident of a country, I feel like I should accept the will of the people who have welcomed me to live amongst them.
My issue is, there seems to have been no real plan on dealing with the outcome of the people voting the UK out. It’s been nearly 3 years since the vote happened. To now be 4 weeks away and not know what will happen is kind of scary, and is utterly ridiculous.
I hear the ad on the radio and talk about Brexit at work and I can’t help but laugh because what else can I really do? Cry?
In October 2014, we went on our first ‘big’ trip with our older kid. She was 2 years and 2 months old. We went to York. It was a 2 1/2 to 3-hour train journey. She sat on the train, watched Peppa Pig, we got there, she played in a play park the evening we got there, went to the National Railway Museum the next day, took the train back. I remember nothing significant about the trip, in regards to our kid, except that I had to change her on a bench in a park the evening we were in town.
In February 2019, we went on our first ‘big’ trip with our younger kid. He was 2 years and 2 months old. We went to York. It was a 3 to 4-hour car journey. It was not as pleasant of a trip.
Our second kid doesn’t travel well.
There was a the 30-min tantrum that went on in the car while we were driving down to England. There was the not wanting to sit on during the 30-min train ride from where we were staying into York. There was the (short) loud tantrum (including throwing things) at the National Railway Museum. There was the seemingly never-ending crying/whining/complaining that happened on the drive back to Edinburgh.
Other than that, the trips were very similar. I took our buggy (same buggy, BTW), with a kid in it, up a bunch of stairs to get onto the walls of York, and down again. We went to National Railway Museum. We saw Geese.
Other than the fact that I will always remember our first trip with one kid as being very easy, and our first trip with the other kid as being very difficult, they were basically the same.
But that one thing, though.
I’m not looking forward to flying anywhere with our kids, like, say New York...at least not anytime soon.
A few days ago, I sat in the courtroom at the Edinburgh Sheriff Court, for the fifth time. The first four times are documented here.
This time around, things (at least in court) went the way they are supposed to go. We were in the presence of the judge for less than 5 minutes and, just like that, our second kid was adopted.
Getting to this stage was quite another story. With our older kid, our first court appearance was about 6 months after she moved in with us. In this case, it was nearly a year. I thought about going into why it took so long, but I’m not really sure, other than shoddy social work being done, at every step of the way.
I’m glad it’s done, and now our lives can move on, and I hope I never need to be in the Edinburgh Sheriff Court again.
If you happen to be along London Road or McDonald Road in Edinburgh on Saturday morning, or Portobello Road/Moira Terrace/Inchview Terrace (I don’t get why the name of the road changes so frequently) on a Sunday morning, you may see me and my crew.
Me, in front, on my red bike, my yellow reflective vest and my (terrible) grey helmet; our 6-year-old, in the rear, on her blue tagalong, with her pink reflective vest and her pink/white helmet; our 2-year-old, between us, in his bike seat, wearing his white helmet, that used to be a pink Disney Princess helmet, until the outer cover fell off.
We ride. Or, as our kid’s tagalong’s name is (no joke) Wee Ride!
Riding with two kids is hard. There’s the wanting to have a conversation while riding uphill and I’m completely out of breath; the nursery rhyme singing; the tantrums.
The hardest part though, is balance. One kid wants to see the police car going by and leans to the right and whole bike goes rightward. One kid decides he wants to act out the ‘The children on the bus jump up and down’ and the bike rocks. Both kids what to see each other (which I don’t see how is possible with out setup) and the bike sways from side to side.
It’s a skill to get around with them.
To add to it, I got a ‘new’ (used) bike about a month ago and the centre of balance with the kids on is higher than my old bike, so it’s been taking some getting used to.
As we were riding to Portobello a couple of weeks ago; as I was avoiding bumps in the road I saw coming up, avoiding glass and other debris on the the edge of the road, moving out of the way and waving cars to pass by us, I was thinking that to some very, very, small degree, this is what it must be like to be a pilot a commercial plane. A bilot, if you will.
The kids can’t see what I can see; they can’t steer, or break, or make the decision of when we leave from a stop. I am the one who does all that. But, because they are my kids, my goal is to get them from Point A to Point B, with as little pain or stress as possible, and hopefully no accidents along the way. This is what the aim of airline pilots is, is it not? Get passengers from Point A to Point B, with as little pain or stress as possible, and hopefully no accidents along the way.
I’ve been biking since I was very young (3 or 4), and I love it. I love the freedom and the speed. I’ve always been a bit reckless when I bike by alone. I have yet to tell our 6-year old the kind of bike stunts I was doing when I was her age, and don’t think I’ve told my parents either. I’m still a little reckless, but stay within the law; I don’t mind going over bumps; I often try to go as fast as possible, even to the point of regularly breaking the speed limit (20 mph) when riding down Leith Walk. I weave through traffic, when I think it’s safe enough to, and have been known to give a finger or two to drivers who think they own the road. I don’t do any of this with my kids (although our older kid likes to race other bikers when the toddler is not with us, so we do go fast from time to time).
With this mindset, I wonder what it would be like to be a commercial airline pilot, when they fly alone. Do they care about avoiding turbulence? I’m guessing not. Do they care if the plane tilts to one side sharply as it turns? Again, I’m guessing not. I’m guessing, as long as they know what they are doing isn’t going to lead to a crash, a little recklessness while flying solo, isn’t that big a deal.
So, last week, while biking to school with just our older kid, the bike slipped on the ice, and we fell off. I saw the ice, I saw the turn. I probably should have walked around the corner instead of trying to bike it. I was thinking like I solo flyer, and not one with a passenger.
The bilot messed up, and we had an accident. I got a number of cuts on my legs, as they scraped a pedal, the chain and the road beneath us; the wrist that broke my fall is still stiff.
Our kid was not hurt at all. I asked if she was ok and she said she was scared. She said she was scared to keep going, but I said it would be ok. I got her from Point A to Point B -- even with an accident -- without physical injury, but with some stress. I felt terrible.
As I picked her up from school at the end of the day, I asked how she was doing. She looked at me like she didn’t get why I was asking the question. I guess she was ok, and that made me feel better.
So, the next morning, even though it was still icy, we went to school the way we always to.
Our toddler is now at a stage of language development where almost everything he says is in two-word sentences:
‘Daddy bike’ (Daddy is going on the bike)
‘Mommy office’ (Mommy is at her office)
‘Isla pasta’ (Isla has pasta)
‘Me anna’ (I want some banana)
The ‘Me’ thing is at the stage where it drives us all a little crazy. He wants to do everything himself, even things he’s clearly too short to do, like drive a car (‘Me car’). He then gets upset, sometimes to insane tantrum levels, if he can’t do it, or worse, if he can’t do it, and someone else does, like open the door using door knob he can’t reach (‘Me door’).
He’s also at a stage where he has a one-track mind, and pays no attention to anything going on around him. I have to say, there are times I like this side of him, which our daughter has never had. I’ve been able to put away laundry, for 15-20 min, while he’s focused on some toy, or ball, or box, or something. While at dinner, he can be so focused on building a tower (‘Me tower’) with his cup (‘Me cup’), uncooked spaghetti (‘Me pasta’), a piece of pineapple (‘Me bapple’), and a plate ('Me plate') that still has food on it, that he doesn’t realise we are telling him to stop because the food is going to fall all over the place. When we have to grab the plate to prevent him from getting food everywhere, he will have a tantrum, shouting ‘Me plate! Me plate! Me plate!’.
He’s also at the stage where everything has to be just so. For the past several weeks, he only wants me to put him to bed, giving him his night time milk (‘Daddy milk’). Almost every night, we ask ‘Mommy milk?’, he says yes, then as soon as he’s in his room with Lauren, it has to be ‘Daddy milk’.
This is a long-winded blog post to get to a short story that happened about a week ago, that’s not even that funny, now that I’ve written all this.
About a week ago, we were at the kitchen table, our older kid was eating an orange. While eating, she asked him if that night it should be ‘Daddy milk’ or ‘Mommy milk’. He wasn’t paying attention; he was focused. She asked again; no response; he was staring dead on, completely focused on something. A third time she asked him and he finally answered: ‘Me orange!’
For years, I have been writing about how much I don’t enjoy reading.
The only reading I regularly do these days are kids books (to my kids), sports articles, and film articles. I really enjoy following sports and film, even though I have very little time to watch either.
A couple of months ago I started hearing (via podcasts) and reading about two films that critics seemed to like. The thing about these films was that they were both available on Netflix (the only way I can watch films these days). I thought, I can actually watch these, even if I have to watch them in 20-min segments over several days.
Roma was released on Netflix on 14th December. I watched it on 17th December, and I was actually able to watch the entire film in one day (though in two segments). The film is in black and white, the opening shot is amazing, but then....I didn’t do anything for me. I can see how ‘film people’ would talk about the cinematography, the directing, how the the director was making a film in honour of the woman who took care of him as a kid. I get all that, I do, but, to be honest, I thought the film was boring. It was slow-paced, didn’t have much of a plot, and I just didn’t think the main character was particularly interesting, for the film to be a good character study.
Needless to say, I was somewhat happy when, for the first time, I heard one critic who wasn't completely glowing over this movie, on a podcast I was listening to that she was a guest on. Thank you, Tasha Robinson.
Shirkers was also getting a lot of buzz. It won at Sundance; it’s been getting a lot of award nominations; it currently has a 100% score on Rotten Tomatoes. So when I saw it was also on Netflix, I thought, let’s do this.
This I could not watch in one day, but was able to watch in two.
It’s a fascinating story, and, on paper, should be a great documentary, but I found it very hard to get into it, mainly due to the narration. Something about the narrator’s tone (I should mention she’s also the director and the documentary is about her) was so annoying. I couldn’t put my finger on it, then I happened to come upon this review, which describes her narration as ‘self-pitying’ and that was it. That’s the issue I had with the film. I think, if she got someone else to narrate it, who was not so involved with the story of the documentary, and was narrated in 3rd person, it would have worked better for me.
That's my 2 cents on 2 films. I'm hoping I get to see more films in 2019 than I did in 2018.
I don’t know why my first blog post in over a year is about film criticism, but better that, than about books (since I’ve not read any non-kids books in over a year).
My mother was born on 25th December. That will never change.
The way I feel about Christmas, knowing my mother’s birthday, has changed over time.
The beginning
As a young boy, like most kids, my parents’ birthdays didn’t mean anything to me. I don’t remember how old I was when I realised that my mother’s birthday and Christmas were the same day. I was just excited about Christmas presents, that I don’t think my mother's birthday occurred to me.
The grump
There was a time, when I realized my mother’s birthday was the same as Christmas that I was annoyed that my mother’s birthday was the same day as Christmas; I’d have to get TWO gifts for one day! Jeez! And to top it off my mother was impossible to shop for (much like I am now, I suppose). She always said she wanted nothing, but what sort of kid doesn’t get a gift for his mother’s birthday and Christmas?!? TWO gifts for one day! Jeez!
The sensitive kid
As I got older, I didn’t feel bad for me that my mother’s birthday was Christmas; I felt bad for her. I mean, no one outside of your family will even know it’s your birthday because they are obsessed with Christmas. I’m not one who likes to tout my birthday is coming up, but it’s at least nice to hear friends and colleagues say happy birthday to you. That doesn’t happen very much if your birthday is on Christmas because you don’t see those people. It was still a lot of work to get two gifts though.
The young adult
At some point in my life, I think it was me that came up with the idea that we shouldn’t get Christmas gifts for the adults in our family. Christmas gifts were for the kids. (I should note that I still love this idea and I like not receiving gifts from people, as odd as that may sound). At that point in my life, Christmas became more about my mother’s birthday than Christmas. 25th December was my mom’s birthday and it just happened to also be Christmas. I also looked at it as all these people in the world celebrating my mom’s birthday. I’ve always liked that view of 25th December.
The birthday after
My mother died in 2010. Her first birthday without her was very difficult for me. I remember walking around Mesa, Arizona by myself for about 45 min that afternoon, in tears. 25th December would never be the same again. On that day, I knew there were families around the world, filled with joy and happiness. My family was filled with sadness and grief.
The years since
I don’t look forward to 25th December these days, but I try to keep that to myself. I try to not even think about it. I mentioned the other day to Lauren that we don’t have any Christmas tradition, but I’m not sure I want one, because it will be another reminder of the date.
Our kid is excited and I’m doing my best to be excited for her. Knowing this year will be her last Christmas as an only child makes me want her to enjoy it all the more (nothing kills your Christmas more than your sibling getting the gift they really wanted and you getting socks).
I’ve cried every 25th December since my mother died, and I’m sure I’ll cry again this year.
Over the past few years, I try to own Christmas as my mother's day. I try to see the lights and celebrations as the world celebrating the life of the woman who made me who I am. When the day comes though, I know there will be an air of sadness over me, as there is every year.
My mother was born on 25th December. That will never change. Happy birthday, mom!
My dad's cat, Geordi, had to be put down today. He had had kidney problems for more than 1/2 of his 13-year life and it just got to be too bad this time and he had to leave us.
Geordi was Lauren's and my cat until we moved to the UK, so it's a tough day for us.
Geordi was found when he was 4 months old, along with his 3 siblings. When we went to the shelter, I was more interested in getting one of his siblings, a Calico, but the feeling wasn't mutual. It jumped out of my arms and ran away. Another one of his siblings hissed at me. Geordi walked up to my hand, sniffed my knuckles, and rubbed against them. He was our can from that moment.
We went through a lot with Geordi. Lauren naming him after Geordi La Forge; when we figured out he was loosing his baby teeth when we found teeth all over the flat over the course of a couple of months. We went through the period of him peeing in our dustpan, getting on top of our fridge, getting outside and chasing squirrels, and generally being a manic cat in our apartment. He would poke Lauren in the face to wake her up, pee on her side of the bed (never mine, for some reason), wrestle with me and sit on any grading I had to do. His incredibly loud an incessant meowing, that could both drive you crazy and also make you feel like you were having a conversation with him.
I moved him from California to Maryland with Geordi while he was recovering from surgery after one of his kidney stone problems. My mother was very ill at the time and I didn't know if bringing a cat into my parents' lives was the best thing at that time. I never got a good sense of how my mother felt about him, but he was a godsend for my dad when my mother died a few months later.
He was a different cat in Maryland. A much calmer cat, who seemed to match my dad incredibly well. Not the cat that would race around at full speed, but a cat that would take his time getting around - what was the rush in a much bigger space to live. He also became a cat that could go outside without the constant worry that he would run away. He still was a loud meower though and always would want to tell my dad about his day when my dad came home.
He was my dad's loyal companion for nearly 8 years, who my dad talked about more than anything else.
Even though I haven't seen him very much since 2010, Geordi is very much a part of my life. We talk about him all the time and just a few days ago our kid saw a cat and she immediately said that it 'looks like Geordi'. I look at him every time I unlock my iPod, looking at his regal best and have never considered changing the lock screen on that iPod.
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.
