Nuha is getting to the age where objects around her are no longer to be simply observed, but to be touched, tasted, and thrown around. This makes it entertaining to watch her explore everyday items, such as our TV remotes, because she treats them as if they were alien technology meant to perform unimaginable tasks. For example, she’ll pick up the remote gingerly with both hands, look at it wide-eyed, and start turning it in different directions. After several minutes of this examination, and when she realizes that simple observation will not be enough to understand the remote's purpose, she does the only thing left – stick it as far into her mouth as possible. A cute activity quickly turns not-so-cute when you have to wipe off kid-slobber from sticky buttons every time you go to change channels.
Her other favorite activity is playing with paper napkins, because of their texture and the sound they make when crinkled. I put this fascination to great use this past weekend, when Saeeda left me and Nuha alone to run some errands. Now that I was in charge of supervision, I faced a dilemma. I badly wanted to read the newspaper (something I hadn’t done in a really long time), but also had to watch the baby. So I solved both problems in one shot. I read the paper, and gave the back page of it to Nuha to play with, correctly assuming that she would treat it like one huge paper napkin.
It was great. I got to read the Financial Times while Nuha went to town on the paper, crunching it, ripping it, throwing it, and picking it back up again to repeat the cycle. A half hour flew by like it was nothing. I had just finished reading the last page when I looked down at my daughter, and realized the folly of what I had done. You see, the Financial Times is printed on orange paper, and its ink isn’t exactly permanent (you’d think that a paper like that would be of a little higher quality, no?). At my feet sat my daughter, with her hands and mouth turned black from the ink, and with little strips of newspaper hanging from her lips.
My first thought wasn’t, “I wonder if this ink is toxic” or “I wonder if she swallowed any paper,” but “Oh $#%!, Saeeda is going to kill me.” Now in all fairness, the next two thoughts were centered around the toxicity of the ink and the ingestion of paper. But initially all I knew was that Saeeda was coming home any minute, and my daughter looked like a crazy clown.
I sprung into action. All shreds of newspaper were immediately removed from within reach of my daughter and discarded. The baby was quickly spirited to the bathroom for a complete scrub down. While she squealed murder I attempted to wash her hands and face, and to make sure that there was nothing inside her mouth. In my enthusiasm, I managed to completely drench her clothes. So then it was off to the changing table to change her into a new outfit, and then finally back to her playmat in the living room. Knowing that she had just changed out of wet clothes I cranked up the heat in the room, because the last thing I needed was for her to catch a cold.
It was only five minutes later that Saeeda returned. She walked into the living room and paused, surveying everything. Ohmygod she knows, I thought to myself. I don’t know how but she knows!
“It’s really warm in here,” she said.
I struck a casual pose as I tried to wipe some dried slobber from the TV remote. “Oh yeah?” I asked nonchalantly. “Honey, I think it’s just you – you just came in from the outside.”
She waited, hesitating, processing what I was saying. Something didn’t feel right to her. She looked at Nuha, who by now was busy playing with her stuffed bunny rabbit. She looked at me. I felt a bead of sweat start to form. Could she tell that Nuha was in a new change of clothes? Could she spot that last smudge of ink on her pinky that I had been unable to remove? Was I in trouble?
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess so,” and headed to our bedroom to sort through her shopping.
I sighed in relief, as my daughter munched on her bunny, oblivious to what had just happened. Crisis averted.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Lady in Black
We all have a strange coworker. I know I’ve had my share. There was that guy in my first job who used a backscratcher at work (basically a two foot long pole with a hand attached to the end, used to reach hard to access places on your back). But rather than use it occasionally, this dude would permanently be scratching his back, and he would therefore just leave the backscratcher inside his shirt, sticking out his neck while he worked. Then there was the guy on a project in New York who flossed his teeth obsessively, but was also ridiculously absentminded, so he’d walk around the office with pieces of floss string still hanging from his mouth. You think I’m being absurd, but I swear I’m telling the truth.
And now there’s the Lady in Black. I take the train in to work every day, and that’s where I see her. Dressed all in black (or, at best, varying shades of gray), head to toe. I’ve been taking the train to Abbott since August, and not one day have I seen her wear something of color. It’s all high-end clothing too – a fashionable jacket, a smart dress, shiny shoes, and a designer handbag. But everything is always in gray/black. She has straight, jet black hair, and wears large sunglasses every day. We live in Chicago, where it seems that we're currently getting only 3 hours of daylight, but still she wears these shades. Even her “accidental accessories” are all black. These are the random items in her possession that she should have no chromatic control over. Items such as shopping bags or newspapers or snacks – but these too are always black. She sucks color from everything around her.
The kicker is that I’ve never seen her smile either. As if looking like a female agent from the Matrix weren't enough, she's stern-faced to boot. Once the train deposits us near Abbott, we board company shuttles that take us to the corporate campus. Countless times I’ve held doors open for her, and countless times I’ve seen others do the same. But she won’t smile. It’s gotten to the point where I just want to sidle up to her and tell her a really good, funny story. Everyone laughs at my funny stories. But will she? I don’t know that, and it’s killing me. I mean, wouldn’t she be the greatest test of my ability to amuse others? But what if I failed? What if I told her my funniest story, and she just stared at me, unsmiling, my face reflecting back at me off her sunglasses?
I can’t do it. But I need to make her smile. I have to.
And now there’s the Lady in Black. I take the train in to work every day, and that’s where I see her. Dressed all in black (or, at best, varying shades of gray), head to toe. I’ve been taking the train to Abbott since August, and not one day have I seen her wear something of color. It’s all high-end clothing too – a fashionable jacket, a smart dress, shiny shoes, and a designer handbag. But everything is always in gray/black. She has straight, jet black hair, and wears large sunglasses every day. We live in Chicago, where it seems that we're currently getting only 3 hours of daylight, but still she wears these shades. Even her “accidental accessories” are all black. These are the random items in her possession that she should have no chromatic control over. Items such as shopping bags or newspapers or snacks – but these too are always black. She sucks color from everything around her.
The kicker is that I’ve never seen her smile either. As if looking like a female agent from the Matrix weren't enough, she's stern-faced to boot. Once the train deposits us near Abbott, we board company shuttles that take us to the corporate campus. Countless times I’ve held doors open for her, and countless times I’ve seen others do the same. But she won’t smile. It’s gotten to the point where I just want to sidle up to her and tell her a really good, funny story. Everyone laughs at my funny stories. But will she? I don’t know that, and it’s killing me. I mean, wouldn’t she be the greatest test of my ability to amuse others? But what if I failed? What if I told her my funniest story, and she just stared at me, unsmiling, my face reflecting back at me off her sunglasses?
I can’t do it. But I need to make her smile. I have to.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
My French nephew
Last week was chaotic in the Khan household. Not only did my small two-bedroom Chicago apartment play host to my parents (visiting from Karachi), but it also tried to valiantly accommodate my sister, her husband, and 18 month old son (all visiting from London). The last time we had all been together was almost three years ago at my sister's wedding, and at the time there were no children in the mix. With new additions to the family for both my sister and I, it was wonderful (and crazy busy) to have everyone in one place last week.
My favorite moments, by far, revolved around interaction with my nephew. First of all, the litte dude is HUGE. Easily in the 99th percentile for his age group, his mother is forced to buy clothing meant for 3 year olds. Second, he is a typical little boy - virtually indestructable. And finally, he's endearingly weird.
While most children are happy giving parents fits about what they will and will not eat, my nephew will voraciously devour anything in sight (which may, now that I think about it, explain his size). While most children start getting sleepier as evening turns into night, my nephew acts as if he's just chugged a 16 oz. can of Red Bull. This is obviously quite the problem for us in my apartment, because there aren't very many clear pathways for a kid to zoom around in. We eventually resolved this by moving as much furniture as we could against the apartment walls, so that by 10:00pm, when my nephew first started to crave the need for speed, he was able to run full tilt from end to end in our apartment without injuring himself (given his size, this was probably a good thing for our furniture too, as I'm not sure what would have borne the brunt of the punishment). When tired from all the running, and in an attempt to catch his breath, my nephew would ocassionally go sit inside the refrigerator to cool off. Once recovered, the breakneck sprinting would resume, until finally about 11pm he would start to run out of gas, and would sputter to an abrupt stop.
My favorite memory of him from this trip, however, will be listening to him try to communicate with us. As would be expected of an 18 month old, he has a limited vocabulary. What would move me to fits of laughter would be his enunciation of this vocabulary, specifically because he would insist on pronouncing his words using a French accent. This imparted a bizarrely haughty demeanor to all his attempts at communicating with us.
"Shoes" became "shuss," "food" became "fewt," and my favorite, "potty" became "pottay." Actually, that last was pronounced as two words "po" and then "tay." Which is a great way to tell someone that you need to use the facilities. "Excusez-moi Monsieur? Ou est le po-ttay?" Gives the message such a sophisticated touch. Especially when we'd be getting ready to leave to see Chicago for the day, and he would cycle through all of his words with us. Even now, several days after my last interaction with him, I find myself pretending that he is speaking to me before I leave home for the day.
"Excuse me," he would say to me. "Are you sure you are ready to leave? Did you have your fewt? We will not be eating until lunchtime. Do you have your shuss on? Because it's going to be terribly inconvenient to walk around barefoot. Oh, and please make sure to void your bladder and bowel by using the po-ttay before we leave - there will be no clean facilities available for quite some time."
My favorite moments, by far, revolved around interaction with my nephew. First of all, the litte dude is HUGE. Easily in the 99th percentile for his age group, his mother is forced to buy clothing meant for 3 year olds. Second, he is a typical little boy - virtually indestructable. And finally, he's endearingly weird.
While most children are happy giving parents fits about what they will and will not eat, my nephew will voraciously devour anything in sight (which may, now that I think about it, explain his size). While most children start getting sleepier as evening turns into night, my nephew acts as if he's just chugged a 16 oz. can of Red Bull. This is obviously quite the problem for us in my apartment, because there aren't very many clear pathways for a kid to zoom around in. We eventually resolved this by moving as much furniture as we could against the apartment walls, so that by 10:00pm, when my nephew first started to crave the need for speed, he was able to run full tilt from end to end in our apartment without injuring himself (given his size, this was probably a good thing for our furniture too, as I'm not sure what would have borne the brunt of the punishment). When tired from all the running, and in an attempt to catch his breath, my nephew would ocassionally go sit inside the refrigerator to cool off. Once recovered, the breakneck sprinting would resume, until finally about 11pm he would start to run out of gas, and would sputter to an abrupt stop.
My favorite memory of him from this trip, however, will be listening to him try to communicate with us. As would be expected of an 18 month old, he has a limited vocabulary. What would move me to fits of laughter would be his enunciation of this vocabulary, specifically because he would insist on pronouncing his words using a French accent. This imparted a bizarrely haughty demeanor to all his attempts at communicating with us.
"Shoes" became "shuss," "food" became "fewt," and my favorite, "potty" became "pottay." Actually, that last was pronounced as two words "po" and then "tay." Which is a great way to tell someone that you need to use the facilities. "Excusez-moi Monsieur? Ou est le po-ttay?" Gives the message such a sophisticated touch. Especially when we'd be getting ready to leave to see Chicago for the day, and he would cycle through all of his words with us. Even now, several days after my last interaction with him, I find myself pretending that he is speaking to me before I leave home for the day.
"Excuse me," he would say to me. "Are you sure you are ready to leave? Did you have your fewt? We will not be eating until lunchtime. Do you have your shuss on? Because it's going to be terribly inconvenient to walk around barefoot. Oh, and please make sure to void your bladder and bowel by using the po-ttay before we leave - there will be no clean facilities available for quite some time."
Ah, to live in Europe. No wonder kids grow up multi-lingual there.
Monday, October 13, 2008
26.2!
On Sunday I ran the Chicago Marathon. I've detailed some of my running adventures before here , but by some miracle I was able to actually complete the training program and show up to toe the line with runners from all over the world. The start corral was crowded, and I was surrounded by athletes who were barely able to contain their nervous energy. Among them were people I knew - friends I had made during my many months of training runs. There was Aaron, the University of Chicago researcher with his trusty water bottle strapped to his hand; Seth, with the amazing midwestern ability to shrug off any amount of discomfort; and of course, Melissa, a constant source of energy and conversation for the group.
These were just three of the friends that I had made over ten months of running endless miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago. All of us - all 33,000 of us - were there for different reasons. Some wanted to set personal records, some wanted to run for a cause, and others wanted to run for the memory of a loved one. My reason for being there was admittedly selfish - a desire to "check the box" on that great list of Life's ToDo's, and to prove to myself that I could conquer my distaste for running.
The marathon did not disappoint. I was amazed by the sheer number of physically fit people around me - so many that it took over 15 minutes for me to cross the start line once the gun went off. All I saw ahead was a sea of bobbing heads and wondered who all these people were that were willing to endure such a gruelingly long distance. I don't know if I figured out the answer to that question in the five and a half hours it took me to complete the course. However, along the way I did manage to amass a set of memories that I will treasure for a long, long time:
- Hearing the national anthem play while thousands of people stood in hushed silence. There was something about the melodious strains, the early morning light, and the sheer silence of the crowd around me that made it a very special moment.
- Crossing the start line, and telling myself, "this is it - I'm not giving up until I'm done, come hell or high water." Crossing that line was my way of looking my age in the eye and saying "bring it on."
- Running into my friend Mansi the first ten minutes into the race. She was there snapping pictures, and I couldn't believe that we found each other between all those runnners.
- Experiencing Chicago's beautiful neighborhoods. As with any big city, one spends time confined to well worn locales. Running the Chicago marathon helped me experience this city's streets and avenues in a wonderfully intimate manner. I know that I'll quickly go back to walking the city briskly, head down, and looking up only to check street names, but for the duration of the run I was able to admire the texture and grit of Chicago like never before.
- Running with my training buddies. We lost Seth around mile 6, but Melissa and I managed to run together for 21 miles. I could never have run the race were it not for the constant partnership of someone running beside me. And God bless Melissa for her own non-marathon friends, who were waiting on the sidelines every 10 miles or so. We somehow managed to find them every time, and we would all run together as a big group until they would bow out and a new group of Melissa's friends would join us. The constant supply of fresh legs and energy kept our spirits up, especially when the temperature started rising and our legs started to weigh a hundred pounds each. One of these runners proved to be my angel, and ran the last quarter of the marathon with me, egging me on the whole way. And just as I crossed the finish line, he melted away anonymously.
- The hilarious signs. From the witty ("Marathon, a 10k with a 20 mile warmup" and "2.62? WTF?!") to the political ("Amy, you're a better running mate than Palin.") My favorite by far was one about two thirds of the way through - "Sure it hurts now, but keep pushing through. It'll feel a lot better in the end (that's what she said)."
- The adoring crowds. Bless their souls, every one of them. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of spectators cheering us on. In Lincoln park there were teens with their bands on the street, playing "Eye of the Tiger", in Boystown there were drag queens and men in cheerleader costume ready to make us laugh, in the West Loop there were homeowners with garden hoses to cool us down, in Chinatown there were dragon dancers distracting us, and near Bronzeville there were people with candy, snacks and treats for the starving runners. But most memorable of all were the cheering crowds for the last few miles of the race. It was as if each one of them had a stake in my completing the race.
By the time temperatures hit 84 degrees on mile 24, I hit the proverbial wall. There was no energy left in the tank and lead was coursing through my veins. I was tired, hungry, and just about ready to stagger to the sidelines when a lady saw me slowing down. She immediately started yelling at me. "Don't you dare quit now! Don't you dare!" she yelled. "I can see the determination in your eyes - dig deep and find that energy. You WILL finish this race, and you WILL finish it strong. Don't you dare quit!" I don't get emotional much, but I started sobbing like a baby - it could have been my depleted physical and emotional state, but I didn't care. She was saying things that I need to hear, and from that point on, I resolved to lumber on.
- Finishing the race. Arms raised, looking like a fool, relishing every second of the experience. Yes it took me 45 minutes longer than I had expected, but I didn't feel so bad. Experienced marathoners that were pace leaders had succumbed along the way because of the sweltering heat, so I didn't care that my pace had slowed down. Yes I hadn't set any records, but I had proven to myself that I could run this distance. And yes, in the grand scheme of things this will matter little, but knowing that I had the willpower to set a goal and see it to the end meant the world. My wife and daughter were there to greet me, and for the second time that day I broke down. I hugged Saeeda tight and just wouldn't let go. I'm sure she thought it wonderful that this immensely sweaty and stinky lunatic was hanging on to her, but I couldn't stop squeezing her. It took a couple of almost incrompensible "thank you for letting me do this" sobs, and a few kisses before I was ready to peel off. And my baby was a little annoyed at being woken from her nap, but I didn't care. Her father, a world-class athlete, was holding her in his arms, and that's what mattered.
So much in life is centered around making things easy, or finding shortcuts. Running a marathon is a way of returning to the basics. It provides no privileges to the wealthy, and no breaks for the accomplished. All, wealthy and poor, are treated alike because no amount of kicking and screaming is going to lessen the distance from start to finish. No matter your station in life, all you need is a good pair of shoes, a trusty friend, and a healthy dose of ignorance for what convention says is possible. Beyond that, it's just a walk in the park.
These were just three of the friends that I had made over ten months of running endless miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago. All of us - all 33,000 of us - were there for different reasons. Some wanted to set personal records, some wanted to run for a cause, and others wanted to run for the memory of a loved one. My reason for being there was admittedly selfish - a desire to "check the box" on that great list of Life's ToDo's, and to prove to myself that I could conquer my distaste for running.
The marathon did not disappoint. I was amazed by the sheer number of physically fit people around me - so many that it took over 15 minutes for me to cross the start line once the gun went off. All I saw ahead was a sea of bobbing heads and wondered who all these people were that were willing to endure such a gruelingly long distance. I don't know if I figured out the answer to that question in the five and a half hours it took me to complete the course. However, along the way I did manage to amass a set of memories that I will treasure for a long, long time:
- Hearing the national anthem play while thousands of people stood in hushed silence. There was something about the melodious strains, the early morning light, and the sheer silence of the crowd around me that made it a very special moment.
- Crossing the start line, and telling myself, "this is it - I'm not giving up until I'm done, come hell or high water." Crossing that line was my way of looking my age in the eye and saying "bring it on."
- Running into my friend Mansi the first ten minutes into the race. She was there snapping pictures, and I couldn't believe that we found each other between all those runnners.
- Experiencing Chicago's beautiful neighborhoods. As with any big city, one spends time confined to well worn locales. Running the Chicago marathon helped me experience this city's streets and avenues in a wonderfully intimate manner. I know that I'll quickly go back to walking the city briskly, head down, and looking up only to check street names, but for the duration of the run I was able to admire the texture and grit of Chicago like never before.
- Running with my training buddies. We lost Seth around mile 6, but Melissa and I managed to run together for 21 miles. I could never have run the race were it not for the constant partnership of someone running beside me. And God bless Melissa for her own non-marathon friends, who were waiting on the sidelines every 10 miles or so. We somehow managed to find them every time, and we would all run together as a big group until they would bow out and a new group of Melissa's friends would join us. The constant supply of fresh legs and energy kept our spirits up, especially when the temperature started rising and our legs started to weigh a hundred pounds each. One of these runners proved to be my angel, and ran the last quarter of the marathon with me, egging me on the whole way. And just as I crossed the finish line, he melted away anonymously.
- The hilarious signs. From the witty ("Marathon, a 10k with a 20 mile warmup" and "2.62? WTF?!") to the political ("Amy, you're a better running mate than Palin.") My favorite by far was one about two thirds of the way through - "Sure it hurts now, but keep pushing through. It'll feel a lot better in the end (that's what she said)."
- The adoring crowds. Bless their souls, every one of them. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of spectators cheering us on. In Lincoln park there were teens with their bands on the street, playing "Eye of the Tiger", in Boystown there were drag queens and men in cheerleader costume ready to make us laugh, in the West Loop there were homeowners with garden hoses to cool us down, in Chinatown there were dragon dancers distracting us, and near Bronzeville there were people with candy, snacks and treats for the starving runners. But most memorable of all were the cheering crowds for the last few miles of the race. It was as if each one of them had a stake in my completing the race.
By the time temperatures hit 84 degrees on mile 24, I hit the proverbial wall. There was no energy left in the tank and lead was coursing through my veins. I was tired, hungry, and just about ready to stagger to the sidelines when a lady saw me slowing down. She immediately started yelling at me. "Don't you dare quit now! Don't you dare!" she yelled. "I can see the determination in your eyes - dig deep and find that energy. You WILL finish this race, and you WILL finish it strong. Don't you dare quit!" I don't get emotional much, but I started sobbing like a baby - it could have been my depleted physical and emotional state, but I didn't care. She was saying things that I need to hear, and from that point on, I resolved to lumber on.
- Finishing the race. Arms raised, looking like a fool, relishing every second of the experience. Yes it took me 45 minutes longer than I had expected, but I didn't feel so bad. Experienced marathoners that were pace leaders had succumbed along the way because of the sweltering heat, so I didn't care that my pace had slowed down. Yes I hadn't set any records, but I had proven to myself that I could run this distance. And yes, in the grand scheme of things this will matter little, but knowing that I had the willpower to set a goal and see it to the end meant the world. My wife and daughter were there to greet me, and for the second time that day I broke down. I hugged Saeeda tight and just wouldn't let go. I'm sure she thought it wonderful that this immensely sweaty and stinky lunatic was hanging on to her, but I couldn't stop squeezing her. It took a couple of almost incrompensible "thank you for letting me do this" sobs, and a few kisses before I was ready to peel off. And my baby was a little annoyed at being woken from her nap, but I didn't care. Her father, a world-class athlete, was holding her in his arms, and that's what mattered.
So much in life is centered around making things easy, or finding shortcuts. Running a marathon is a way of returning to the basics. It provides no privileges to the wealthy, and no breaks for the accomplished. All, wealthy and poor, are treated alike because no amount of kicking and screaming is going to lessen the distance from start to finish. No matter your station in life, all you need is a good pair of shoes, a trusty friend, and a healthy dose of ignorance for what convention says is possible. Beyond that, it's just a walk in the park.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
We're "those" parents now
Having a baby keeps one busy. No matter how hard I plead with Nuha every evening that I need to update my blog, she simply wails until I relent and agree to change yet another poopy diaper. Not only does she require 100% of our time, she demands that we service her with a smile. One day I'll make her pay me back. Maybe by embarrassing her in front of all her high school friends by showing to pick her up in a spandex Spiderman costume. That'll show her.
Saeeda and I spent the last week on vacation in LA. Saeeda had left two weeks ago, with her mom helping with the baby on the flight over. I joined the family later, spent a week in LA, and then we all returned to Chicago together. So the return trip was the first time I had ever traveled with an infant. It also marked the first time I became "that parent" with the baby who slows everything down.
See, in my past life I was a high-powered tech consultant, flying from city to city on a weekly basis. I was cool. I was hip. I knew which belt buckle to wear so that it wouldn't set off the detectors. I knew exactly which order to place my belongings for screening at the security checkpoint. Laptop in a bin by itself, followed by laptop bag, followed by my carry-on luggage, and end with shoes and jacket in another bin. This way I retrieved my most valuable belonging first, placed it back in the laptop bag as that came through, then put on my shoes and jacket before heading on my way. Less than 3 minutes start to finish.
Here's how things play out now. Saeeda and I struggle to squeeze the baby stroller through the narrow Disney-land lanes at the security checkpoint. We get to the screening area, then need to spend ten minutes disassembling the Transformer-like contraption that is the stroller (see my post here on how long it took me to assemble the damn thing). We then struggle with the diaper bag, which we don't realize has bottles of water in it for Nuha's milk. The water bottles need to be tossed, which takes some more fumbling. Starting to get embarrassed at how long this is taking, I simply start flinging stuff onto the belt for screening. I almost toss the baby into the x-ray machine before my wife stops my arm in mid-swing. My daughter looks at me accusingly ("hey, free x-rays!" I think to myself). I walk through the detector, only for alarms to go off because I haven't emptied my pockets. Embarrassed and defeated at having made such a rookie mistake, I step back and run into the passenger behind me so that I can sheepishly empty my pockets into a tray.
With our security screening adventures over, Saeeda and I make it to our gate and start boarding the plane. Now we have to navigate the narrow plane aisle in search of our seats while carrying Nuha in a baby seat. Nuha, suddenly claustrophobic, decides its time she is taken out of the car seat and lets out a piercing cry. I look at her and plead with her to hang on, which does no good. Now the tears and the flailing start, while I try mightily to hold on to the car seat. I silently curse the passengers ahead of us blocking the aisle as they take their own sweet time trying to figure out why a gargantuan suitcase won't fit into the tiny overhead bin. When I see them try to shove the luggage in for the fourth time, I feel like yelling at them, but am saved by the flight attendant who gently admonishes them and tells them that they need to gate check their bag. In-flight Twister ensues as those passengers try to get by me while I hold a car seat with a squirming, squealing infant. As I maneuver the car seat, I clock a seated gentleman squarely on the head - afterwards I can't tell whether he is unconscious or simply resting his face on his copy of of the Wall St. Journal. I glance at my ticket, praying to God that our seat is coming up. No such luck - we're the absolute last aisle on the plane, just before the bathroom (I bet the airline does that on purpose - stick parents with stinky babies by the stinky bathroom and no one will notice).
Now attracting evil glares from every passenger, my wife and I (who have become "those parents" with the screaming baby) apologize our way through to the back of the plane and to our seats. We slowly shed all our gear - the diaper bag, our carry ons, my wife's purse, food for the flight, reading material for the flight, jackets, base for the car seat and then finally the car seat with Nuha still ensconced within. The moment we set her down, she stops crying, and looks up and gives us an angelic smile.
I'm so wearing that spandex Spidey costume in front of her friends.
Saeeda and I spent the last week on vacation in LA. Saeeda had left two weeks ago, with her mom helping with the baby on the flight over. I joined the family later, spent a week in LA, and then we all returned to Chicago together. So the return trip was the first time I had ever traveled with an infant. It also marked the first time I became "that parent" with the baby who slows everything down.
See, in my past life I was a high-powered tech consultant, flying from city to city on a weekly basis. I was cool. I was hip. I knew which belt buckle to wear so that it wouldn't set off the detectors. I knew exactly which order to place my belongings for screening at the security checkpoint. Laptop in a bin by itself, followed by laptop bag, followed by my carry-on luggage, and end with shoes and jacket in another bin. This way I retrieved my most valuable belonging first, placed it back in the laptop bag as that came through, then put on my shoes and jacket before heading on my way. Less than 3 minutes start to finish.
Here's how things play out now. Saeeda and I struggle to squeeze the baby stroller through the narrow Disney-land lanes at the security checkpoint. We get to the screening area, then need to spend ten minutes disassembling the Transformer-like contraption that is the stroller (see my post here on how long it took me to assemble the damn thing). We then struggle with the diaper bag, which we don't realize has bottles of water in it for Nuha's milk. The water bottles need to be tossed, which takes some more fumbling. Starting to get embarrassed at how long this is taking, I simply start flinging stuff onto the belt for screening. I almost toss the baby into the x-ray machine before my wife stops my arm in mid-swing. My daughter looks at me accusingly ("hey, free x-rays!" I think to myself). I walk through the detector, only for alarms to go off because I haven't emptied my pockets. Embarrassed and defeated at having made such a rookie mistake, I step back and run into the passenger behind me so that I can sheepishly empty my pockets into a tray.
With our security screening adventures over, Saeeda and I make it to our gate and start boarding the plane. Now we have to navigate the narrow plane aisle in search of our seats while carrying Nuha in a baby seat. Nuha, suddenly claustrophobic, decides its time she is taken out of the car seat and lets out a piercing cry. I look at her and plead with her to hang on, which does no good. Now the tears and the flailing start, while I try mightily to hold on to the car seat. I silently curse the passengers ahead of us blocking the aisle as they take their own sweet time trying to figure out why a gargantuan suitcase won't fit into the tiny overhead bin. When I see them try to shove the luggage in for the fourth time, I feel like yelling at them, but am saved by the flight attendant who gently admonishes them and tells them that they need to gate check their bag. In-flight Twister ensues as those passengers try to get by me while I hold a car seat with a squirming, squealing infant. As I maneuver the car seat, I clock a seated gentleman squarely on the head - afterwards I can't tell whether he is unconscious or simply resting his face on his copy of of the Wall St. Journal. I glance at my ticket, praying to God that our seat is coming up. No such luck - we're the absolute last aisle on the plane, just before the bathroom (I bet the airline does that on purpose - stick parents with stinky babies by the stinky bathroom and no one will notice).
Now attracting evil glares from every passenger, my wife and I (who have become "those parents" with the screaming baby) apologize our way through to the back of the plane and to our seats. We slowly shed all our gear - the diaper bag, our carry ons, my wife's purse, food for the flight, reading material for the flight, jackets, base for the car seat and then finally the car seat with Nuha still ensconced within. The moment we set her down, she stops crying, and looks up and gives us an angelic smile.
I'm so wearing that spandex Spidey costume in front of her friends.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The defining crisis of our times
If you haven’t been living under a rock, then you’ve heard of the financial world’s collapse over the last two weeks (if you have been living under a rock, then congratulations - as Jon Stewart said, yours is the only real estate that has appreciated in value). Starting with Bear Stearns, the list of firms where the destruction is absolute is mind-boggling. Merrill Lynch, AIG, Freddie Mac, Fannie Mae, Goldman, Washington Mutual. And who knows which firm is next? In essence, you have what I believe is the defining crisis of our times, and not the War on Terror, nor the Rise of China.
The reason is simple – the Subprime Crisis has affected every level of the economy, and will impact the lives of individuals in every wealth bracket. That can’t be said of the War on Terror, an event that is highly relevant for military families and the war industry, but almost irrelevant for the majority of Americans, who still struggle to locate Iraq and Afghanistan on a map, and wonder what we are doing so many, many miles away from home.
The Rise of China had had a more pervasive effect on the American people, no doubt. It is hard to go one day without purchasing something that is not either made in China, or relies on components that were made in China. But outside of the economy, what difference is China making? Are we experiencing a cultural impact? An intellectual impact? The Olympics were widely hailed as China’s coming out party – despite China’s decade-long stranglehold on cheap manufacturing, it took an event as grand as the Summer Olympics for China to make a public impression on the outside world. “Hey!” China was saying. “Look at us – we matter!” This despite its long pace of breakneck growth, and increasing influence in foreign affairs.
No, it is the Subprime Crisis that has fundamentally changed, or is about to fundamentally change the way we live our lives. Homes are no longer safe economic shelters, loans for everyday purchases are disappearing or becoming harder to obtain, jobs are vanishing en masse as firms collapse, and most importantly, the global ripple effects form this crisis continue to magnify the pain. And I don’t even want to begin talking about how our retirement wealth is evaporating before our eyes, or how the phrase “consumer confidence” has descended into irrelevance.
The Great Depression, the Cold War, and now the Subprime Meltdown. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this generation’s defining crisis.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Faisal's Miracle Hair Gro - only $29.99 if you call now!
Many of you have kindly informed me over the years that I am losing my hair. I don't know if you derive pleasure from pointing out the ever-increasing patch of empty real-estate atop my head, or if you are just concerned that I may actually enjoy sporting the Captain Picard look. Nevertheless, I have decided to do something about it. This weekend I spent countless hours in my lab, pulling together a chemical concoction destined to blow Rogaine clear out of the water. Like any good scientist, I needed a human subject for testing purposes. My 3 month old daughter was sitting at arm's length, and since I didn't need to worry about her signing any consent forms, I went to town on her scalp. You'll agree from the results below that I have a winner. Please feel free to submit your order requests in the comments section. Satisfaction guaranteed.
The unsuspecting victim, before Miracle Hair Gro:
The satisfied customer, after Miracle Hair Gro:
The unsuspecting victim, before Miracle Hair Gro:
The satisfied customer, after Miracle Hair Gro:
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