We got you dressed.  Eating breakfast was a challenge for you — never one to eat right when you wake up, you were also just way too excited to go.  You wanted to go NOW!  I found myself looking and listening to you, wondering what it was like when I was your age, going to Kindergarten.  Was I ever as eager as you were?  The same confidence that you have?  Ready to ride a bus at 5 years old — transferring to a second bus, no less, before your final destination?  I smiled proudly to myself.  No, I think you have more confidence than I did!

We drove out to the end of Southview Ct, just down the hill from the house I so desperately wished we would have been in for your first day of school (that’s another story!)  You about flew out of the van, still with the white clam-shell on top, full of vacation stuff, the back still filled with toys and God-knows-what.  And, you started walking to the corner of the road.  No worries.

When we caught up with you, the wait was on.  You posed for a few pics for Mommy and then scanned Noxon Rd. for the sight of flashing bus stop lights.  At 7:44AM on the button, your bus driver Joe pulled up and opened the door.  Mommy and I, smiling from ear to ear for you, feeling your excitement, hugged you hurriedly and reminded you to hug your sister before you left.  With that you climbed those steps without hesitation.  You never looked back.  My confident boy.  Joe introduced himself yelling and waving, “I’m Joe, and I’ll be his bus driver.”  I think Mommy and I grew a lot closer to Joe as soon as those doors shut.

In that instant, your world expanded and Mommy and I couldn’t be with you to share it. You had just begun a major part of your life, of which the bulk of the time, we will not be witness to.  At the time it happened, I realized it, but it hadn’t sunk in.  As I write here now, my eyes are a little wetter than they were — as if I were writing about 20 year old nostalgia — though it only happened 3 days ago, on Wednesday.  I scanned the windows in the bus as it started to pull away, looking to see if you found seat, looking for one last chance to wave good bye to you, to see your smiling face and most of all to let you know that I was proud of you.  But, I couldn’t see you.  Apparently, bus windows have now all been tinted since the 21+ years ago that I was last on one.

Mommy and I suddenly realized that we had planned to follow your bus  (yeah, we didn’t tell you) — I remember feeling that morning, as I saw the taillights of your bus move on down the road, like my feet were planted.  It all happened so fast, there was a sort of shock to the whole thing, I guess.  We hurried back to the van, carrying Kyra, hopped in and took off, and had no idea where your bus went!  We tried to sneak a peek of you transferring from one bus to the next, but we couldn’t get close to the middle school where you do your “Arlington Transfer”.  I have only what I imagine you looked like doing that — your trademark serious face, on a mission, going from one bus to the next, getting to school and doing it excellently!  And, again, I smile.

Instead, we drove to St. Martin’s School to meet you there and to snap a couple of pictures of you going into school.  Of course, your Arlington Transfer bus arrived later than expected, as Mommy and Kyra and I waited.  Finally, a bus pulled up a little after 8:30AM, the doors opened and off you marched with some of your friends, new and old.  You looked just as when we had left you.  You gave us a smile and a wave and sat with your classmates on the step of the school until your teacher came to lead you inside.

I got to tell you quickly how proud I was of you, give you hug and tell you to have a good day.  Then, off you went.  I thought about you a lot that day: Wondered what you said when the teacher spoke to you at the start of class that day.  Wondered what time you ate lunch.  Wondered if you were EATING your lunch.  Wondered if you were thirsty or hungry, in general.  Wondered if you were having fun.  And, lots of things like that.

We drove back to Southview Ct to pick you up that afternoon.  We were there in plenty of time, expecting your bus around 3:50PM, which came and went … then 4:00PM, 4:15PM, 4:30PM — getting worried now.  I called to get the number of Arlington School’s Transportation Department.  (Yeah, we didn’t have the number on us … or your route number.  Bad Mommy and Daddy!) When we finally go a hold of them, they told us not to worry — the buses got out late.  Finally, just shy of 5PM, a bus pulled up on the other side of the road and Mommy ran over to get you off.  A little mix-up on the first day — Mommy and I were worried about you — were you going to hate the bus now, were you scared, were you worried?  Of course, you took the whole thing in stride.  I don’t know if you were worried, you simply got off that bus walked across the street with Mommy like you were a commuter coming home on Metro North from a day’s work in the City — obviously tired, obviously hungry, both of which we expected.

You’re initial summary of the day: “it was kinda boring!”  Excellent.  Boring.  I guess that shows us that, once again, you’re a smart guy, ready to hit the ground running — get down to brass tacks.  As the week went on, the days became more interesting and I trust the next full week — yep, 5 WHOLE DAYS — will be even better.

Mommy and I got a glimpse of your new little life at the parent orientation on the evening of your second day of school.  We got to see where you sit, look at some of your pictures you drew, and generally check out your room and hear from Mrs. Christie, your teacher.  Now when I wonder what you’re doing, at least I can see you in that room, at your table, being your charming self.  Now I know what Grammy felt like when I started living that new little life almost 35 years ago — I had no idea then, but now I understand the stories she told me in a very different light.

I realize that this is the first of many stages of letting you go out into the big world.  It’s hard.  There’s a real sappy, goofy song I don’t really like called “Time in a Bottle” — but there’s one phrase in the song: “If I could save time in a bottle…”  That’s exactly what I’d like to do whenever I think about you spreading wings and expanding your world.  But, at the same time, I want you to go.  I love to see you experience things and learn and grow.  I love to see that Brendan Meyer brand of confidence, curiosity and willingness to experience new things.  I love to watch you shine.  You’ve yet to cease to amaze me and I doubt you ever will.  Congratulations, buddy!  Welcome to a bigger world.

Biding our time until we went to my brother’s house for the big game between the Giants and Patriots, Brendan and I decided to play a little football ourselves.  The fun we had that morning, along with our smiles, laughter and the quiet confidence we had as Giant’s fans, is what helped those guys pull off the big upset over the Pats.  I’m convinced of it.

We had fun and had faith in our team that day — nothing to lose!

I told Brendan tonight as I was putting him to bed how proud I was of him. We were laying there in the dark after reading the last chapter of Stuart Little.

“Hey, Brenie? I am so proud of you! You are a two-wheeler bike rider now!” I told him.

“Yeah, Daddy, I am almost a two-wheeler bike rider, right?”

“What do you mean, almost? No, you ride all over — “

“But Daddy. I fall off some times.”

“Oh no! Everybody falls off every now and then — especially when they’re learning. You are officially a two-wheeler bike rider!”

“Officially? …. For real?“

Though it was dark, in the sound of his voice I could see his chest puff out. His world had just expanded.

And, at the same time I feel so much pride, I feel a bit sad as it’s the first of many steps he’ll take that move him farther away from me.

Ride on, Brendan! I love to watch you go!

First of all, the little characters are completely ugly and ridiculous, but to be fair, that’s the voice of a 37 year old man. Kids love this stuff.

If that was all there was to it, this post would be done, but that’s not the problem. No, the problem is what these toys do.Each toy has a red LED embedded in it — the particular creature above has it embedded in its eye (the right one, I think.) The toy also includes a circular plastic disc that resembles a sort of monocle. Children are supposed to look through this eyepiece directly into the shining red LED on the toy. The somehow-modified plastic lens of the eye piece causes little images of Spiderwick creatures to dance around in the field of view while staring into this light.

That’s right, you read correctly. You are supposed to shine a bright red light into your eye! This cracked me up the moment I saw it. Look at the instructions they give you. What I like is that they specify that the toy be held 12 inches from your eye.

This is amazing. By the way, there are no warnings or disclaimers anywhere on the paper. What were the marketing folks thinking?

“What’s great is that you shine the light from this toy into your eye and you see these holographic-like images!”

“Shine the light into your eye?”

“Yeah! It’s not a big deal. It’s a little light”

Come on! This is like Dan Akroyd’s sketch on Saturday Night Live as Mr. Mainway selling the Bag O’ Glass.

Brilliant.

At the time, I didn’t even know he was homeless. “Good,” I said, pleasantly returning his inquiry. The Man was polite enough, albeit his clothes a bit dirty and worn. Why would I have thought he was homeless as I sat there in my own ripped blue jeans, spattered with paint?

“Would you happen to have any change so that I might buy something to eat?” asked The Man.

Jesus! I should have seen this coming a mile away, I thought to myself.

“No, sorry, I don’t have any change.” I said sheepishly shrugging my shoulders, hands out, palms up, arms slightly raised to just below shoulder height. Completely and obviously lying. Who the hell doesn’t have change when your eating at McDonald’s? I know they take credit and debit cards now, but most, I would think, still use cash. Yup. No change here, bum. Beat it. I’ve been conditioned to respond like this from countless solicitations on New York City subway platforms and streets by clearly insane people, stinking of urine and cradling what was left of their 5th of whiskey. Don’t talk to strangers, right?

The place wasn’t busy. I sat there with my son on my lap waiting for him to finish the late lunch we started well past the rush an hour ago. A 4-year old can spend an eternity eating lunch at McDonald’s and 5 minutes doing the same at home. He can also ignore everything you say, and utter the most inappropriate things at other times. I was certain this was one of those times, and I had no way of preventing it. To my surprise, Brendan said nothing. He whispered a few things to me about The Man — about, what, specifically, I have no idea. I was too busy trying to redirect his attention.

The Man had on dress shoes, multiple layers of unmatched clothing and carried a small duffel bag. The Man clutched a dollar bill and stared blankly out across the restaurant. I couldn’t look at him, but stole glances. He looked to have a black and blue left eye and was missing some front teeth. An unsettled feeling washed over me as I sat there unable to remove myself from the situation. My son returned to playing with his Happy Meal toy and slowly picked at his french-fries.

A woman approached The Man and spoke to him in a kind manner, her voice lowered so as to respect his privacy and dignity. I realized she was probably telling him where he could find shelter or a soup kitchen as I heard street directions and landmarks being mentioned. The look on her face was clearly one of compassion and not pity. Guilt and shame washed over me as I watched The Man look up at this woman, clearly taking in this information.

As she left, The Man saw me looking in his direction. “I used to live with my mother,” he began. “But she was evicted. Kenya, where I am from, turned violent after the elections. Now I have nowhere. I don’t know if I will see my mother again. I thought she would return. I used to live with her, you see.”

His rambling was incoherent, and what all of it was true or not true, I have no idea. The story didn’t matter. I sat there pinned by my son, still on my lap, forced to consider this situation that so many of us would rather ignore and pretend doesn’t exist. “I’m sorry,” I replied sincerely, but having no idea what to say, “that’s a difficult situation.”

“It is,” he said.

I didn’t know whether or not he was surprised that I was speaking to him in a rather conversational tone. As I felt the 30 or so guilty dollars bulging in my pocket, I figured that he knew my line about having no change was complete bullshit.

The Man and I sat there for an eternal minute, maybe two, maybe more, in awkward silence, as my son happily enjoyed his All-American McDonald’s experience. Glancing at he Man every now and then, my guilt of not engaging him lifted when Brendan ask me to play with his Happy Meal toy with him.

I started floating the idea that we should get going soon — both for sake of my 4-year old, who needs notice that we’re going to leave, and the Man, lest he think we were going to be available for conversation any longer. When I finally told Brendan it was time to go, I was glad he was agreeable. What the hell was my problem? Why did I really care if the Man talked to me — or to us? Why did I want to remove myself from this situation so badly? Why are some of us, like the lady who had just talked to the man, able to deal with situations like this while most of us cannot.

Then I realized I had a dilemma.

“Brendan. Are you going to eat the rest of your french fries? Do want to bring them with you?”

“No,” no he quickly responded.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I had no choice. I had to offer the left over french fries to The Man. Telling a lie about having extra change was apparently not beneath me, but at least I wasn’t as low as throwing out food in front him. How ridiculously noble of me.

“Excuse me, sir?” I approached him.

“Yes?” He looked up.

“Would you like the rest of these french fries?” Then I realized they were not mine to offer. “Brendan, that’s OK if give the rest of your french fries to this man, right?” Oh, please, please, say “yes.” 4-year olds have a way of being possessive of their things — even their garbage.

“Yes,” said Brendan to my relief.

The expression of gratitude on The Man’s face as he looked directly at Brendan was worth a thousand words. “Thank you” he said, “Thank you.” Smiling at him, he took a bite of a french fry. “These are good, aren’t they?”

Brendan nodded and smiled shyly.

“Come on buddy,” I said, ushering him to the exit. “Good luck to you,” I said to the man.

He smiled and nodded gratefully. We left McDonald’s and Brendan’s questions began.

“Why we give that man my old french fries?”

“Because he was hungry and has nothing to eat.”

I took the opportunity to tell him that The Man had no place to go. No family. No home. That there were people in this world like that. And, that it was very, very nice that he gave him the french fries he wasn’t going to eat.

Brendan understood completely. A 4-year old identifies with those most basic of human needs.

Me, I drove us to our warm home and thought about The Man. I thought about how far from being a decent fellow human I felt. I knew what I should have done. I should have at least bought him some damn lunch! Would it kill me to spend five bucks on a #4 with a Coke or maybe a warm coffee? No. Instead of that, I had to leave it up to my 4-year old son to leave the man left over french fries.

So, a shot of GCT — probably the millionth one on Flickr, but I couldn’t help myself.

Something about NYC — a fascination with it … an intangible I can’t quite put into words. The enormity of the city — population and architecturally — is never lost on me.

When you take a Metro-North train (the commuter train that services NYC from the north) you begin to get a sense of the city and hugeness when you cross the Harlem river — or is it called the East river at that point — from The Bronx into Manhattan.  You ride a short distance and eventually disappear beneath the concrete and steel as you approach GCT.  If you look out the window into the barely lit underworld, you see an unimaginable number of tracks all fanning out from your entry point.  As you almost arrive at the platform, you can see sets of tracks that go down to the lower level.

Just think about it…  Already underground.  Additional sets of track below you.  Tons upon tons of buildings and roads above you.  At this point I think, “How is this all possible?!”  I mean it’s borderline unreal!

Then you walk from the train platform and enter the main lobby of Grand Central Terminal and it’s just magnificent.  Stunning.  Huge.  Yet, somehow inviting as well.

If you’re going to meet someone here, you meet them at “The Clock” — the information booth with the clock over it in the center of the terminal lobby.  That’s where everyone decides to meet up when arriving at GCT from different origins.  And somehow, it’s never too crowded at The Clock that you don’t find who you’re looking for.

I saw it when it originally aired.  It got to me then and got to me all over again after arriving in my inbox at work.  Must be making its way around the internet and is readily found on YouTube in various forms, as shown below.  If you haven’t seen it; play it below before going on.

I can’t recall being so affected by something in quite a long time.  Every time I see the little boy running to his daddy’s arms and the look on his little face, my whole soul is affected.

Am I being overly dramatic?  Most would certainly agree that this is a very touching moment. But, there’s something deeper there affecting me — tugging at me.

Look at that child’s face.  Look at his emotion spilling over.  Look at his unconditional love for his dad, made self-evident in a way that only a child can.  See how he fits so perfectly into his father’s arms?  Listen to him.  Sobbing on Daddy’s shoulder. 

The moment is so simple, so innocent, so natural and right. 

It brings overwhelming joy knowing the two are reunited, but at this same moment I can’t help but be filled with sorrow, too.

To me this little boy exhibits the innocence, beauty and love of basic human nature, but the reality is that the world we live in today is responsible for this reunion occurring in the first place.  This tearful moment should never have happened.  And, indeed, for other little boys — American and Iraqi alike — this moment will never happen for the same wrong reasons.

Where did our human race stray from the essence of humanity that is so evident in this child?  I know it’s naive, but I don’t understand why so many others don’t see this.

It’s a question everyone has asked: why is it that when we get older, time goes by so much faster? In fact, it’s almost cliché.

On January 26, 2007, my son will be three years old. Three years can’t have gone by that fast! Time bends mysteriously these days. Quantitatively, three years still seems like a long time to me. But the speed at which I live through that quantity is constantly accelerating — pedal to the metal. This all started back when I was three years old, just like Brendan. I wanted to grow up — the faster the better. So does he.

My wife or I said to him they other day, in passing, not to grow up too fast (or something of that nature.) He became very upset.

“Why I can’t grow up? I want to grow up!”

We felt so bad!

“Of course you can grow up! Mommy and Daddy want you to grow up!”

Just not so fast. Every parent knows what I’m talking about. I can remember my perception of time while growing up, and three years would be approximately the equivalent of forever. A year was consider too long to think about. Months dragged on, especially the one between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the one leading up to your birthday. Weekends were even (mercifully, during the school year) long — except those prior to a report or project being due. Summers as a kid were always longer than they are now, too. Summer used to be so long that when you went back to school in the Fall, you’d almost forgotten what it was like. I now swear that Labor Day is observed the first Monday after Memorial Day.

I often like to put time in perspective of four-year blocks. That’s the time I spent in high school, and to this day I can remember being a freshman and thinking, “Holy crap! I can’t believe I still have four years of school before I’m done with all this!” At the end of it all, it seemed like those four years, though wonderful, were an eternity. From that point forward, time moved into the left lane and floored it.

The great four years of college went twice as fast as high school. By the time I learned how to stop pissing time away, I woke up and was 30. Does anybody know what I was doing during my 20′s anyway?

Welcome to 2007. Because of Brendan’s January birthday, reflection on time, his age and mine, is inevitable. I will be 37 this year; he will be 3. We’ll move through the next year together — at the same time. But, his time will pass slow, while for me, 2008 is knocking on the door.

So, I present for your consideration this twisted joke of human nature. For most, starting around the age of 3, we dream of being grown-ups — banging the dashboard impatiently, begging time to go ever faster through childood. Before you know it time responds, it’s then we start looking around desperately searching for the brakes. I haven’t found them over the last three years, so I am now trying to bring the blurry scenery of this ride into focus and take in every beautiful detail. I only hope that somehow Brendan will beat the odds and not step on his accelerator quite so hard.

Based on these past experiences with digital music players, I could never justify shelling out the bucks for the iPod. Also working against it was that I would only consider disk-less players since I used them primarily during exercise. And though the iPod Mini was disk-less, I jsut couldn’t get past paying that much money for a digital music player.

So about 6 months ago, I started hearing more noise about the iPod Nano and its smaller counterpart the Shuffle. And was finally swayed by a bunch of marketing hype. Yup. Hype got my money … well that is, Apple and Nike. They blew me away with the whole Nike+iPod gimmick. Now you could have a digital music player that could also speak wirelessly to a digital pedometer stuck in the sole of your shoe. I did realize immediately that this meant you had to buy an iPod Nano, buy the 2 piece Nike gizmo that connected to the iPod and went in your shoe and, oh yeah, you had to buy a pair of Nike shoes to hold one half of said gizmo. I’ll reserve the remainder of my Nike+iPod diatribe for a future post, but, really, marketing hype aside, this is one very cool system and it actually works … provided you meet the minimum equipment requirements.

Once I finally got my hands on the iPod Nano, I could immediately tell the difference between it and the other excuses for digital music players I had owned. It is far superior. Now I finally understand what all the rage is about. My only complaint is that two weeks after I bought my black 4GB Nano, Apple launched the “new” Nano. I could care less about the color choices with the new Nano, but I could have had 8GB for what I paid for 4GB or still bought 4GB for a heck of a lot cheaper which would have left me more money to blow on the all that iPod or Nike+ hype … or rather accessories … that are now must haves.

“That’s nice Max. You will remember to tell your Daddy I said ‘Hello,’ right?”

“Yeah! — I won’t forget already!”

Max’s step-father had taught him him how to tell the difference between airplanes by the placement and number of engines on the plane. He thought it was neat to be able to tell people what the different planes were. With his preoccupation of identifying the huge jets outside the airport terminal, Max had almost forgotten why he was leaving home for a month.

“Flight 213 to New Orleans with continuing service to Dallas/Fort Worth now boarding,” said the voice from the ceiling.

“That’s me Mom. I’ll see you in four weeks.”

“OK, I love you — now, you be careful and make sure you call me when you get there. If you get a chance, write me — and give your Daddy a hug from me.”

“Yes Mom! OK! I love you, too. See ya.”

After Max gave his Mom a hug and a kiss, he boarded the airplane — off to see his father. This would be the first time he had actually seen his father in at least five or six years. He was excited, yet nervous, as he realized that he was actually on his way to see his father.

“Hi there!” the pretty flight attendant said greeting him at the door. “Are you flying alone today?”

Max hated it when flight attendants treated him like a kid — after all, he was twelve years old and perfectly capable of finding his own seat.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

After the flight attendant safely tucked him into his seat and the plane was airborne, Max asked for some peanuts and a Coke and stared out over the city that he called home. He began to wonder, as he often did from time to time, why his parents got divorced. When he was younger, he had always thought of divorce as something that would never happen to his parents. When it did, he was very shocked. He had to admit that it seemed strange when Mommy and Daddy told him that Daddy was going to move out for a little while, but it never got even a second thought then — especially when they reassured him that it was only temporary. When they both told him that it would be permanent, all Max could do was cry and wonder why something as painful as divorce exists. What could possible be a reason to get divorced? Max just couldn’t understand. Ironically, he thought himself lucky in a way, since his parents were never bitter with one another over the years — not like the stories he had heard of parents using their kids to get back at each other. But he still didn’t like his parents so far apart; it was better before. Aw, what the heck, he was just a kid then.

“Here you go, sugar,” said the flight attendant, bubbly, as she handed Max his peanuts and Coke. “Who are you going to see today?”

He hated it when they talked like that to him. “My Da–,” he stopped. “… um … father,” he finished.

“Oh! Well isn’t that nice,” she said sounding surprisingly genuine. “Well if you need anything, sweetie, just push that button.”

“I will, thanks,” he said.

Max suddenly felt uneasy about seeing his father. It had been a long time, of course, but his father seemed almost like a stranger to Max — especially now that he realized he didn’t know what to call him. He couldn’t call him “Daddy.” It sounded too young for him, but that’s how he knew his father — only as “Daddy.” It seemed awfully strange to Max, all of a sudden worrying about what to call his father. “Mommy” had just naturally, gradually become “Mom,” but “Daddy” to “Dad” had never happened.

At this point he hated divorce more than ever. Big deal, they get divorced, married again, and everything is fine. “But I loose out on Daddy — I don’t get a new one,” he quietly said.

“Please close all tray tables, fasten seat belts, and return seats to their up-right position for landing,” said the flight attendant.

“Well, this is it,” Max muttered nervously.

Suddenly Max was scared of seeing his father: What do we talk about? Will he notice that I’ve changed? What do I call him?

“Guess I won’t call him anything,” he said to himself. It was the only solution he could think of.

As Max left the protective custody of his flight attendant, she said, “Have fun with your Daddy,” and many years later when he remembered the incident, he would wonder how she knew.