Thanksgiving

Bobbins. That’s what Thanksgiving is. And what’s more, I don’t understand the purpose of it; it’s a second rate Christmas 4 weeks before Christmas. No angels, no prezzies, no trees, no lights, no baubles, no bloody point!

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Getting Billy ready before we set off.

We went to the Fischer family home in New Jersey and we ate and ate, as people do. It was nice. Though I suspect it wasn’t the most traditional itinerary. We spent almost every waking moment sorting through boxes. Heidi’s mum is trying to rid the house of all the kid’s junk. Heidi’s family home is full to bursting with all manner of stuff. I once found 5 dusty laptops in a pile on a bedroom floor. There are printers, scanners, photocopiers, fax machines, books, glasses, textiles, and many, many other types of matter everywhere you set foot. There are more light bulbs and wires than they have at peak season in Blackpool. Max and Albert’s (H’s brothers) bedrooms were equipped with these ultra-warm cheery fluorescents:

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Due to limited floor space Max and I were forced upwards to read.

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Billy utterly bewildered in an all new cot.

Heidi and I continued our search for missing photographs. All our photos from our first year together disappeared in Heidi’s bedroom. This isn’t too surprising as her bedroom is just hundreds of boxes of papers all in a big pile. Every time we visit we look for them, this time, after 2 years, we were successful. Here are the pictures we were most upset at having lost, passport photos from our kerazy courtship years back in the sixties:

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Now we just have to find Heidi’s entire CD collection. This has been missing for 3 years.

Finally here’s a video of Max and Billy taken this morning:

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Skeevy Streets

A stroll through the Gowanus area of Brooklyn, a deserted industrial nightmarescape that divides two yuppie paradises.

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Heidi said this place gave her the creeps when she walked through the neighborhood alone one evening.

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And the purpose of this trip: Jerk Chicken in Carroll Gardens. I’ve decided female Caribbean restauranteurs are a very pleasant kind of people. Having met 2 such ladies I feel I am in position to make this generalization. I’m not sure what I have in common with them but we seem to get on famously.

Chicken Billy?

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Billy’s newest toy, the jumperoo. He can now hold his head up so I put this thing up yesterday afternoon.

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Saturday Morning

The rules of the game keep changing. Every weekend I have a new set of instructions from the latest book Heidi’s been reading. Often the instructions one weekend entirely contradict the instructions I was given just 7 days earlier. How we manage to do things so wrong is a mystery to me, I mean how hard can it be? He eats, sleeps and poops and it’s taken this long and we’re still learning how to smoothly facilitate these 3 very simple processes.

The rules today are: give him his bath at 8:45am to relax him. Put him to bed at 9:00am and with any luck he’ll sleep till 11. It is 9:30am now and he’s still wide-awake in his cot goobling to himself. When he wakes up give him milk from his new Playtex bottle. This should trick him into thinking he’s drinking from a breast. The instructions for the bottle are in the trash so extrapolate what information you can from the promotional literature on the website and give it a shot. The bottle has a plastic liner inside that deflates like a breast (yuck). You can then take him for a walk if I so desire, he’ll be well rested and he’ll enjoy the scenery. At 1pm feed him again then put him down for another 2-hour nap and that’s it.

As if that’s going to be it.

Last weekend she put him down at 8:45am before leaving for work and said: “under no circumstances go to him! He has to learn to self-soothe.” At 10:30am, ears ringing and brain tingling, I texted her at work to let her know I couldn’t take the screaming any more, I was literally going mental. She immediately called back to let me know that: “go to him under no circumstances,” didn’t actually mean ‘no circumstances’. For example, she said, I should never leave him for more than an hour. Well, duh! After that traumatic experience he was listless for the remainder of the weekend. See his expression on last weekend’s photos.

A problem with these naps and this tiny flat is that I can’t eat, pee, dress or move whilst he gets his beauty sleep. My mum keeps telling me that babies get used to whatever noise levels are around them. If I were constantly moving, eating, peeing and dressing this may well be true, but as these processes naturally occur just a few times a day he’s not going to get used to them. One creak of the floorboards and his little ears prick up and the screaming begins. So I sit in the living room, semi-naked, legs crossed, bladder pulsing, my whole body withering as I imagine all the tasty snacks less then 15 feet from where I’m sat. At least it’s quiet now, he’s just dropped off and in my sleep-deprived parched, starved, prostrate state I am free to bitch about him on my blog. I should be thankful for these small mercies.

Enjoy your sleep you little devil!

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