The Very Interesting Male Physique

In our family, since the begining, it hasn't been unusual that I would take a bath with Marta. About 80 percent of the time she takes one with her mother, but on occasion, I'll go in the tub and give Epp a break.

Marta and I have a lot of fun in the tub -- we tickle each other, splash each other, and spit water at each other. But recently she has begun noticing that my body is not exactly like hers -- that is where she has an "inny" I have an "outty." I understand that this is a very interesting development in her concept of what makes me a "boy" and what makes her a "girl," but because she is so young she doesn't realize that I don't particularly feel like getting touched there by her in our tickling wars.

I try different methods -- one is to say, "No, that tickles TOO much" or "Ouch! That hurts!," but that doesn't work. Then I try to tickle her elsewhere,like under her arms, to distract her, but that just makes her want to go for my most ticklish part. Finally, I usually invite her to tickle something else, like my face. That seems to do the trick. Altogether, it's a pretty embarrasing situation and I am starting to wonder if we should find ourselves a bigger tub, or if her interest in my unusual body will evaporate with a few more uncomfortable pokes!

I guess most Dads have to go through this, yet not so publicly. But perhaps these kinds of anatomical lessons are a fact of life.

My first attempt at a Christmas card ...

Faith and the Child

We live in a time of unprecedented human prosperity. There are no fields to plow, wells to dig, houses to build. Instead we sit around on our butts most of the time talking about politics and relationships and, sometimes, even God.

I've never really been "into" God or religion, but if you pay attention you'll learn there are all kinds of people out there that are thinking about Him or Her everyday. Catholics, Protestants, Evangelicals, Jews, Mormons, Muslims, Buddhists - they are all thinking about God and what He (or She) wants for their lives. To me those who talk about God are akin to those who talk about baseball. I mean I listen to them talk about this great exciting thing, but at the end it's just sitting on your ass watching a game on television, and, if you are a Mets fan, the game usually ends up in disappointment.

I can trace my lack of feelings for the higher power to two key sources.

1) a fear of Jesus.
People say they love Jesus, but as a child I had a very strong fear of him and his long, pointy nose, eerie beard, and "knowing' eyes. I was told that he saw everything I did, so I was afraid that one day I'd be taking a leak and look out the window, and there he'd be, creepy glare and all, watching me pee, making sure I did it properly.
The worst though were the images of Jesus in the church, of him nailed to the cross with blood gushing from his hands and feet. I felt no kinship with this man, but I learned words that were to follow me like "sin" and "we fear you and love you." It all seemed too bizarre for me to grasp. I still haven't gotten it yet. Bottom line, Jesus scares me. I feel awkward "accepting him as my personal Lord and Savior."

2) a fear of groups
In college, which I hoped would be a multicultural, freewheeling place, people quickly separated into their little groups. Oh, the Catholics talked about religion with the Jews and so on ... but who were they kidding? How do they know what God wants, let alone if He (or She) even exists? It seemed like some sort of perverse role playing game. "Well, my God says this about your God, so there." A true test of my strength came on Lent when all the Catholics were talking about what they gave up. Each year I told them I had given up smoking - as I have never smoked in my life. Then came Ash Wednesday, where all the believers made sure they knew who each other were by having some charcoal cross displayed on their forehead. I decided right then and there that no matter how cool it must feel to be amongst "the chosen" there was NO WAY that I was going to play this game of religious grouping with people.

From that point on I became a sort of benevolent nihilist. I didn't believe in anything, but at the same time, I wasn't very angry about it - like the Atheists who vehemently deny the existence of God. It's just that - I didn't and I don't care much either way. It's not that important to me, just like baseball isn't that important to me.

Enter into this the existence of my daughter, who so far has been brought up ostentatiously in the Protestant faith. She was baptized Episcopalian, but we never go to church. We do live across from a Catholic Church and I feel that of all religions, it is the Catholic religion with its reliance on guilt to motivate people that I have inherited. But what do I tell my daughter about God and the Hes and the Shes and the Theys.

Fortunately my wife is much more sympathetic to belief systems. But I think the best route to take is to allow Marta to have access to religion so she can determine for herself whether or not she believes in it. The last thing I would like to do is to push my beliefs or lack thereof on another person. But I am sort of at a loss as to what I can do to make it more of a choice for her. Should I take her to church sometimes, even if I have no interest in going? Should I push her through Communion and Confirmation, even if I found the events of little interest or usefulness later down the road? At what point does "playing along" become indoctrination, and is it really correct for me to suggest that Marta should do something, even while I don't believe that it's worth it?

Ugh. These are tough questions to answer. Can anybody help me out here?

Marta Needs a Sibling

I don't like accepting it, but the reality is that I am an adult. I can't jump up and down on the bed because I'll hit my head on the ceiling. I can't do a roll and tumble on the floor because I'll most likely sprain something or knock over some furniture. And my crayon abilities are limited to drawing exotic-looking fish. I can play "Old MacDonald" on guitar, and I'm a fairly good playmate - but I'm a substitute for a real playmate for my daughter. I can dance to "Zoe's Dance Moves" - but I have a hard time getting into it.

There's the big empty crater in our family life - where Epp wants to sort laundry and I have to work and Marta desperately wants a playmate, and I have been led to believe that somehow having two Martas, or rather a Marta and an Anna, or a Marta and a _______ ( a male name has not been agreed upon) could fill it.

I wonder if this thinking is flawed though. Will adding a family member naturally mean that my two children will cooperate? Perhaps they'll hate each other and each one will approach me individually and beg me to draw this or dance over there or catch the ball. Plus I like the really close relationship I have with Marta, and with my life as it is, it seems like it could be difficult to include a whole other human being's life and interests in my jam-packed lifestyle.

But I am sure many childless couples have had similar thoughts: "If we have a child, I won't be able to see Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan in the movie theater" they think. Silly barren adults - that's what Netflix is for!

And so the desire to expand the Petrone franchise also comes with it the requisite doubt about my abilities as a father to "rustle in the dough so the scenery is healthy where her eyes lay" - as Posdnuous, the De La Soul rapper puts it in their song "I am: I be." Good thing life has a way of making those decisions for us.

All hail biology!

marta goes to market

Today we tried to visit my brother - and Marta's uncle - Ian in Hoboken, New Jersey. The only problem was that we waited about 45 minutes trying to get into the Holland Tunnel before realizing that maybe it would be better to go another day.

Instead we went north, up Greenwich Street, deep into Greenwich Village where I actually parked my car for free and we went to the ubiquitous Greenwich Village supermarket, D'Agostino's, to get some pick-up food before we headed over to the Bleeker Street Playground.

Inside D'Agostino's they had little shopping carts for kids and Marta got to push her own. While Epp and I were busy debating on what kind of food we should get, Marta was busy loading up her cart. It is my pleasure to share with you Marta's shopping list.

1. Cupcakes
2. Dried Cranberries
3. Yogurt-Covered Raisins
4. Wasabi

and

5. Ginger-Flavored Salad Dressing

Buon Appetito!

Musical Blood

When I started being in bands as a teenager, I made a unique discovery - lots of other musicians came from musical families. My friend Jimmy's Dad played banjo in an Irish folk band. Our drummer Pete's father had also been a drummer. Doug, the guitarist, was playing his father's guitar. And my dear friend Dave came from a house where guitars were everywhere - his father was a collector.

But music was really *there* in my household growing up. I mean, my parents liked music, but they didn't play anything. Neither did most of my relatives. I think our musical background came down to Mom playing glockenspiel in grade school. Which made my interest in music, as opposed to graphic arts - where we do have a lot of family members involved, sort of different. My grandma does play the piano. So maybe she had a big influence on me, because as bad as I was, I still managed to play around with that thing. She also supported my interest in music while I was growing up.

The reason I am telling you this is because Epp told me that Marta has been playing the instruments at daycare - the synthesizer and the microphone. She is apparently pretty musical. This makes me happy. It makes me feel like the gift of a love of sound has been passed on. Music is a very rewarding thing, if it can even be called a thing. I don't know where I'd be without it. Life would be so gray and boring. Music is like sunshine. The people that make it are like little suns. They reflect off each other.

Eh, whatever. I hope you got my point.

Funny Nicknames

This is an appropriate time as any to discuss some of the funny names I call Marta. Marta doesn't have any permament nicknames, but a few have lasted longer than others.

One of the first was "Bear Butt" - this is because she had pajamas with a bear's face stitched into the backside of the pajama pants. Don't they make the cutest things for children? I extended this to the whimsical "Baronness Bambina Von Bear Butt" - but that's about it. I've also played with bambina, Italian for baby, and menina, Portuguese for little girl.

Most days, though, it's whatever comes to mind. At the beach she can become sandy or sandy beaches. Many combinations of butt and other words also apply, such as boogerbutt, boogerbear, boogiebear, and Martabear.

There are also the adjectives, such as stinky and tubby. If her stomach is sticking out of her shirt, then that warrants being called tub-tub just one time, and maybe patting her stomach. "How's it going tub-tub?" There are also the feminine nicknames, such as little miss.

I am unsure of what else I call her, but I am sure she has other nicknames. What do you call your children?

Vacation with Marta

Today was like the first day of school. Even with only five hours of sleep under my belt, as I picked out my clothes and prepared to walk to 12 blocks to the train station (to sleep for 50 minutes while it rolled me from Rockaway Beach to Manhattan) I felt like my summer was over and now I was rolling up my sleeves for a rainy autumn.

It's sort of sad in a way. That was my vacation. There it goes. But I didn't go anywhere. I stayed right here. Fortunately not just in Queens. But in New York state. Yes. It was a New York vacation.

Central to my vacation was my daughter Marta. We hang out often but not enough. I am very spent on evenings and on weekends. But these days I got - everyday - she was at the center of my life. In that way we got to bond. I got to clean every poop for a whole week. I got to plan her days and pick her clothes.

That week was spent at my parents house. It is out on Long Island and there are enough trees and beaches to keep a kid content. However, I soon ran out of options after taking her to the library two days in a row. I relied heavily on the TV, but even I got tired of watching her watching Finding Nemo for the 47th time.

So I used my head. One day - when it wasn't raining - we went to a nearby nature preserve. This was fun. When I was in high school I studied a pond in this preserve for my Environmental Science course. So I was very familiar with the area. Marta liked it too. We even had an emergency. Marta had to poop and we didn't know what to do. I decided that the trip home was too far. So we just ducked behind a bush and Marta did her business. I was so proud. We were real adventurers!

We also found our way to the nearby bay where Marta saw ducks and even a person in a passing sailboat who waved hello. It must have felt very cool for her to stand on that rock.

Addicted, I also took Marta to the beach the next day for another walk in a protected natural area. She was less interested this time. Instead of doing the hike to the end of the beach (it's on a peninsula) she just wanted to pick up rocks and get her feet wet. I obliged her.

Marta and I also went to the movies together. This was Marta's first movie in the movie theater. We saw a film called Barnyard. It was your pretty straightforward good guys versus bad guys film with talking animals. I think it was more for five year old boys than two year old girls. Still, Marta made it through the whole film. I felt our trust for one another grow.

Eventually Epp came back and we went back to our home in Queens. The final night was the Block Party. This consisted of me drinking many beers, and some wine, and Marta riding around in circles on a scooter. She loved it. She also did the obstacle course - which was a huge undertaking for such a small person. But she did it all - stuf that would give a six year old some pause. I was proud of her. I had a really good vacation.

Rulli Rulli Pomm Pomm

This is Marta and her friend Paul. Paul is just a few months younger than Marta but they communicate like they are twins. They are both energetic with a love for physical activity and pushing the limits of what they are allowed to do.

One nice thing about Paul is that he only speaks Estonian. This gives Marta the opportunity to play with another child in her mother language (as opposed to her father language). He also si willing to play along with Marta's need for non-stop action.

Sometimes though things get out of hand. Marta usually likes to tease Paul about his possessions and Paul gets very upset. He will then try to hit Marta, and the whole situation will end in a big puddle of tears and emotions. Their favorite word is "oma" which means "own" - so they'll go back and forth "Pauli oma" (Paul's own thing) "No, see on Marta oma" (no, this is Marta's own thing) until BOOM!

This last weekend they even got in a fight over some deer. We were at paul's grandmother and grandfather's house in upstate New York and saw some deer. "Vaata kitsad!" (look goats!) Paul said. "Ei ole kitsad, on põder" (they aren't goats, they're moose" Marta answered. "Kitsad" "Põdrad" "Kitsad" "Põdrad" "Kitsad" "Põdrad" - finally one of them started crying and the other started screaming. They were both wrong though. The right word for these kind of deer is "Hirve."

Watching them both is exhausting. First they are playing together - so you approach them like a referee, waiting for one of them to foul the other. Then they split up. One runs this way, the other runs that way.

Epp made up a song for Paul - who is a typical boy and loves cars. It goes "rulli rulli rulli pomm pomm." I am not sure exactly what it means. But both Paul and Marta
like to sing it together during thier adventures.

Spoiled Rotten

Every time Marta goes to Mimi and Papa's house, it's the same story. Marta gets taken out for pizza, and later, she is treated to some carvel ice cream. I wonder if it's because my folks think that if they can't get her to sleep the old fashioned way, they can feed her until she passes out.

Or maybe, it's just because my folks like to eat, and want to share their love of food with their only grandchild. Or maybe it's really because they are spoiling her rotten, and always have spoiled her, with gifts, clothes, and personal pizzas.

I think it might be all of the above, and I have to say, I'm a bit jealous. My grandparents were not the caricatured American grandparents (which are what my parents are becoming).

One grandfather was deceased. He indulged me with his genetics (of all my grandparents I look most like him).

The other grandfather - Jerry - well, he was a bit anxious. He indulged me with colorful vocabulary, like the word "floozy," or bags of coins he hid in his office and then told me to find.

Grandma Peg? She indulged me alright - in stories of southern poverty, wiping your rear with corncobs and the Sears catalog and, of course, stressing that I should get an education and drink a lot of water.

My Mom's mom? She made sure I ate fattening and good foods whenever I was at her house and made sure I drank a lot of sweet lemonade, but there were no personal pizzas or small buckets full of ice cream. She had eight other grandkids to worry about - and I was in the middle.

Marta is a lucky girl to be spoiled so rotten. :)

English Roots

Sometimes when I meet a person from the UK I tell them that I too have roots that extend back to their blessed isle. And the question that always follows is, "Oh yeah, from where?" - as if British people from Liverpool were any different from British people in Brighton. I try to explain to these poor chaps that our English roots came over long before limeys found a predilection for the exquisite green citrus fruit. But, being nosy by nature, I decided to think about it, and dig in, and try to find an answer to this question. Where oh where did my limey blood spring from? Are there actual places in England where long distant relatives of mine, and Marta's, live - watching East Enders and thinking Manchester U. It's possible. We're all relatives right?

But the history of our English roots is pretty fascinating. To set the stage let me take you back in time to the first half of the 17th Century. Better yet - go rent New World starring Colin Farrell and Christian Bale. You won't regret it. This was the world of our English roots - hacking their way into the wilderness south from Jamestown into what is now the indepent city of Suffolk, Virginia, Gates County, North Carolina, and Southampton County, Virginia. This area - part of what is called Tidewater Virginia - was settled during the 17th Century by English colonists.

These were an ambitious, deeply religious people - though not as religious as the Puritans of Massachusetts. Still - each family multiplied greatly with each generation. One man could have six or seven sons and five daughters and so on and so on. It is for this reason that Marta and I are related to our fair share of famous southerners - George Durant the "father of North Carolina" is among our forebears. We're related to - as far as I know - two sons of the south that became presidents, too. Both Jimmy Carter and Lyndon Baines Johnson are distant cousins of ours.

When it comes to chopping this ancient lineage up, it really comes down to a cast of hundreds of settlers, although in-breeding definitely makes the family tree smaller than it would appear. But among the settlers I can say for a fact that most came from three places in England - starting with the West Country - Sommerset, Devon, and Cornwall.

The second area where many settlers in our family came from was Yorkshire and Northumbria in England. While Yorkshire has had immense Scandinavian influence throughout the years, the West Country was the last stronghold of the Celtic Britons following the Anglo-Saxon invasion. Finally, a place that many came from wasn't even English. It was Wales. Most of our relatives come from these three places.

The Pittmans and Howells (two of the closest names in our English side) came originally from Wales. The first Howell in our part of Virginia was named Etheldred Howell. He was from what is now Flintshire in northern Wales. The first Pittman was Captain Thomas Pittman - and he is probably the most symbolic of the settlers.

Thomas Pittman was born in Monmouthshire, Wales in 1614. He was in Virginia by 1650 and was a captain in the militia there. Living on the Virginian frontier at a time of great instability he - and most of the men that we claim as English forebears - were involved in a very famous rebellion - Bacon's Rebellion a colonial uprising by the back country farmers against the wealthier farmers of Virginia, a full-scale class rebellion.

The rebellion was put down and Thomas Pittman was pardoned for his actions, as were many of our English forefathers. I have to say that - as of that moment - it seems like they stopped being English though, and started being fully American.

After that there were revolutions and civil wars and ... by the time I came around any connection to the land of Monty Python was long forgotten. About a fifth to a quarter of my ancestors are limeys though - making the influence in Marta even less. But we speak their language don't we? That perhaps is their greatest legacy of all.

Mine!

So my daughter is two and a half years old. She has done most of the amazing things I originally had hoped she'd eventually be capable of doing. She can communicate - in two languages, she has long hair - it all grew in. She can walk, run, even peddle a small bicycle. And she doesn't even need breast milk to do these things! In short - she's a small wonder.

Recently, she's been capping off her string of achievements by learning to potty herself. And for Marta, by herself means ALL by herself. She will take off her own diaper and climb atop the potty - without that childish training potty seat, thank you very much - and pee. That's good. I am very proud of her.

The only trouble is when she finished and I approach said potty for use. Then she stands between me and my destination like she was guarding the sole toilet in the house. "No, issi papa! My toilet," she barks at me. I'll attempt another mounting of the toilet, only to be held back by her persistence. "Mine. My toilet. Mine."

That's an extreme example of the terrible twos quandry I've found myself in recently. There is also possessiveness going on about my wife. Often Marta and I find ourselves competing for her attention. We've even gagged on fighting over Epp. It's funny.

Despite Marta's possessiveness and "me me me" I think we've been getting on swell these days. Just yesterday I took her for a really pleasant walk, without the stroller, and we happened upon a basketball game. We went in and watched it together, like she wasn't two - maybe like she was much older. She seemed fascinated by the game. Maybe when she gets older I'll get her tickets to go see the professionals play. Or maybe the New York Liberty. I bet she'd like that.

Marda versus Marta versus Martha

Two times this past weekend I had to tell people what my child was named - Marta - but both times they heard "Martha" instead.

That's ok. "Martha" is the more prevalent version of this name in English. I can stand that. Plus it's closer to "Marta" than the way many friends and relatives pronounce it - "Marda." This drives me nuts. My kid's name isn't "Marda" - the letter 't' is the letter 't,' not 'd' you lazy sods.

To put this in perspective, we have to understand that English is one of the few languages in Europe where the lisping "th" sound is part of the language. And there are actually two different "th" sounds - the roof-of-the-mouth "th" (like this, that, there, then) and the soft between-the-teeth "th" (smith, thin, thimble, heath).

While we all learn to use "th" the truth is that up until the 17th century the letter thorn or Þ was used for both sounds with an emphasis on the "th" in "thin", although the letter ð was used for the "th" in "then." These letters are still in use in Icelandic and were once used all over Scandinavia. For example, the Icelandic word for "house" is "huseð," while the parliament is called the "alÞing."

In the Old English alphabet, Marta would be spelled MarÞa, not Marða. Dig?

People that call Marta "Marda" should be advised to try saying Martha with the "th" in "that." See how unusual it sounds? That is what you are doing to my daughter's name.

Imagine, for example, that we used "Ch" in "Christopher" like the "Ch" in "church." "Tchristopher" doesn't sound right, does it?

Anyway - Mary's sister wasn't named Martha anyway. The Judeans, like most countries, didn't use a "th" sound either. :)

Fatherhood Daze

It's been raining a lot in New York recently. The other day i could have sworn I was in Malaysia - where I have never been - stuck in some sort of monsoon. It happened as it always does. I leave Queens County dry as a bone, but then as soon as I get out of the subway the heavens open up and let the good commuters of the city have it.

The other day - stuck outside Zeytuna which has an outdoor cafe with a roof - I ran into an old friend from school, an architect named Jeff who inquired about my daughter.

"I think she loves me and hates me," I said. "I have a feeling this is how our relationship is going to work out." And that's true. Sometimes Marta seems to find me as odious as a stinky fart. I'll walk into the kitchen and she'll be eating. "No Justin, stop!" she'll yell. "Go away." Or I'll put my face close to hers and she'll just hit me. She doesn't hit others thankfully. My brother's cousin (it's a complex post-modern story of divorces and remarriages) just had a baby and when they met at a birthday party, I was mortified that my daughter would hit the little one and a half month old boy when she got close to his face. Fortunately though, she was as sweet as could be. She gave him a smooch and batted her eyes. It seems that I am the one that safe to abuse.

I don't know what to do about this problem. At first I hit back. That didn't work. Then I feigned deep sadness. That didn't work either. Now I have taken to grabbing her by the wrist and yelling at her. None of it seems to quell this problem. In the tub tonight, as Marta was dumping water on my head - similar to what I do when I wash her head - I asked her if it was revenge. "Yes," she said back, confidently.

Things aren't always so bratty between the two of us. There are times when I feel that beneath her bossy exterior she appreciates it when I go out with her. I have been trying to give my wife - the Tove Janssen/Astrid Lindgren of our family - time to write and I will take Marta to the beach or to the park nextdoor. I prefer the park because Marta always gets sandy at the beach. She just loves to roll around in that stuff. At the park there's a lot of hopping and jumping and smelling of flowers and viewing of ladybugs (she calls all insects ladybugs). I can sense that I am a bit of a rigid father. When we are near traffic I am in double alert/zero tolerance mode. The only problem is that being rigid only makes her defy me more. So I have to be both relaxed, honest (she can sense dishonesty from a mile away), and protecting. It's an interesting challenge.

Overall, Marta's language is growing in leaps and bounds. I was worried when we started this bilingual experiment that she would favor one language. I think that Marta's mother tonguw, literally, is Estonian. "Piim" to her means so much more than "milk." But she is a social creature and she is not afraid to use English. Her Estonian is already better than mine. But she is totally bilingual - she rarely mixes words. This is a great success for us. It would be a shame if 5,000 years of Estonian language speaking ended with her. I am also worried about her academic ability in the linguistic arena. I guess as she gets older we should make sure there are plenty of Estonian language books, etc., for her to read.

Marta is really creative. She LOVES to draw. LOVES it. She could sit for an hour in her room drawing suns and circles and bugs and flowers. I have been encouraging he to diversify her colors to make her drawings more beautiful. Usually she favors a color - orange or blue - but I think the drawings look better when they are very colorful. She also draws all over the apartment. She has autographed a few doors, a few walls, and likes to draw on her arms and even her face. She also likes to decorate her face with stickers.

Marta is also sort of musical. She likes to puff away on the recorder and play the piano. She really likes to get her alligator-shaped electric piano to play automatically so she can dance to it. That's one thing she really likes, dancing. At a party at Vinny's about a month ago, she was moving to Donna Summer and even doing some breakdancing (it's amazing). I have a video of her dancing from when she was less than a year old. I used to dance with her as a baby - maybe that's where she learned to feel the rhythm. I would put on pretty complicated music - like Fela Kuti (afrobeat) or Paris Combo (gypsy jazz) and strut around the room with her. I don't think most babies are exposed to that kind of stuff (I wasn't exposed to it, that I much I can tell you). So we'll see where this leads.

I have a song I wrote for Marta called "Marta Maria" which she absolutely adores. She rocks her head back and forth and smiles. She knows it's about her. At those times, I feel like I am getting through to her and that we have a good relationship.

Nukitsatüdruk

Recently some of Epp's friends from Eestimaa showed up seeking shelter in our Big Apple and bearing gifts for one little toddler who knows how to say most anything in two languages.

One of those gifts was a DVD of Nukitsamees. This is an Estonian childrens' film from 1981 and it was filmed near where Epp is from, Karksi-Nuia in South Estonia.

It's a very northern European children's film - filled with witches, trolls, and one baby troll that two Estonian children adopt. The baby troll - Nukitsamees - literally 'horn/goat man' is just this little bad ass that wrecks the quiet order of country life. Marta LOVES Nukitsamees. Maybe she sees a little bit of herself in the little boy that causes constant chaos.

It is Marta's habit to fall in love with a movie and demand it over and over again until a new film comes along. For awhile she really liked the movie Polar Express starring Tom Hanks. More recently she's been watching Kõige Suuremad Sõbrad, another gift from the land over the sea.

When your daughter looks like your mom...

"Oh my God, she looks just like your Mom!" If I had a quarter for everytime I heard somebody say this (including my mother) I might have about $10.00 US in my pocket by now. But the truth is that, yes, my daughter Marta does resemble my mother. The catch though is that she must also resemble me, because it was my genes that assembled 50 percent of Marta's genetic makeup. Mom's only account for 25 percent of that. So yeah, she looks like my Mom...and me.

That being said, it's weird to have a small woman who lives in your house that looks like your mom, especially when the little woman is as stubborn, persistant, and bossy as your mother is. When a small 2-year-old girl points at you at yells, "No, Justin! Stop!" with a familiar tone of arrogance - yeah, it's a bit strange.




But the other half of the matter is that my mom and my wife both have light complexions and blue eyes, as opposed to my swarthier tone, and so it's easy to link Marta to the blondest, blue-eyedest person she's related to - my mom, or my wife (who is less familiar with some individuals in the 'She Looks Just Like Your Mom' community).



And because I bear some resemblence to my maternal grandfather (above), I have to wonder if there is some sort of cyclical shadow theater going on. Was he chasing my mother like I chase my daughter around the backyard, around the house, on his toes at all times lest his baby daughter run into the street in a moment of head strongness?

He was the same age I was when I became a father for the first time. So I do feel a certain kinship with the man. I also wonder about number 2, if and when he or she pops out. Will number 2 look "just like my Mom" or will the Gods bless her with a different but familiar face? If my daughter looks like my Mom, could I have a son that looks just like my Dad?!?!?!?!?

My Child...

That's her...

Weekend with Marta

Yes, that's me in my underwear and Marta in her underwear too. That photo was taken on Sunday morning after somebody opened the backdoor and let Marta outside so she could roam. I didn't have time to dress Marta (nor myself) before she got on both feet and had me chasing her. And in case you are wondering, that line in the front of my underpants is not my vagina.

Anyway, it being Memorial Day weekend, it was decided to give naine a break and for me to drive to Setauket to spend Saturday, Sunday, and half of Monday with my offspring. Naine looked very nice as we drove away, and I was very afraid Marta would cry because she was no longer near her emme's bosom. Yet, because she no longer nurses perhaps, Marta was interested in the journey and was very interested after her Uncle Ian got in the car.

Once at my folk's place I spent most of Saturday and Sunday alternating between chasing Marta around the backyard and doing manual chores like spreading mulch near my parents small fish pond. I was afraid Marta would have a hard time going to sleep with me - without her mother there - but both nights we shared the big bed in my old room and did fine. I also got to sharpen up my diaper changing skills.

My mom - Marta's mimi, was very good and hands off, letting me chase her most of the time. Mimi did take Marta out to the store I think, I can't remember. I was a bit tired.

One way I got to rest was to plop Marta in front of the TV set so she could watch Finding Nemo, which she really likes. It actually is pretty entertaining - even for a *sigh* adult like me. Ian also did a good job babysitting - he liked to tease Marta. They spent periods of time saying "You stop! No, you stop!" to one another.

Marta ate well both nights. She had a lot of corn and ate a lot of ice cream. My Mom tried to get her to eat her dinner by saying she would get ice cream in the end, but Marta persisted and got ice cream anyway, without eating that much dinner.

On Sunday afternoon I took Marta to the beach. The first place we went to was the playground at the beach, but Marta had already started developing a cold and snotting all over herself. I also didn't like being in the playground with the older boys (5, 6 years old) who were throwing rocks at each other.

We then played by the beach. I gave Marta an hour and a half and she used every minute of it. Again I spent most of the time chasing her and picking her up out of the water when she realized it was too cold. On Sunday night, Marta was pretty sick. She wheezed all through the night and I did my best to make sure her head was propped up.

Monday was the parade. I think she was mostly bored by it. I was a little tired too. Mimi dressed Marta up in a patriotic hat and we went to the parade with Marta in a red wagon.

At the parade we met up with Virginia, an old friend from high school who has a daughter about six months younger than Marta named Elizabeth. There was another person I went to high school with there who also had two kids. I guess I'm falling behind in the competition to populate the Earth!

We left my parent's house at about 2 and dropped Ian off at Jamaica station in Queens. Then it was just me and Marta on the Van Wyck Expressway home to our digs on Rockaway Beach. Marta was sick and it was a warm day. I made sure to check she was still alive, and, yep, she was.

Finally at about 4 pm yesterday, I got to hand the keys to Marta back over to her Emme, with a little bit more respect for what Epp goes through every day of her life :)

Marta language

Marta likes to use the second syllable of a word for the whole word. She does this especially in English.

For example:

Yogurt = 'Gurt in Marta language. As in "Issi, I want 'gurt. I want 'gurt."

Guitar = 'Tar in Marta language. As in "Issi, I want you to play 'tar. Let's play 'tar."

And finally,

Massage = 'Ssage in Marta language. As in "Marta wants 'Ssage."

Just Marta

I recently found this in the dark corners of the Internet. It's a page devoted to Martas from all over the world.

I would say that the majority of Martas come from Spain and Poland, judging from the submissions to www.marta.com, which actually belongs to a woman from Spain.

Other Martas are from all over the world including the Canada, US, Sweden, Denmark, Switzerland, Estonia, and Latvia.

Anyway, maybe we'll register Marta there. One of these days...

Santa Marta, Columbia

Did you know that Martas all over the world have their own city? That's right - Santa Marta is a seaside resort on the Caribbean Sea on the coast of Columbia.

From Wikipedia:

Santa Marta was the first city to be founded in Colombia and second in South America after Cumaná (1521) in Venezuela. It was founded in July 29, 1525 by Spanish conqueror Rodrigo de Bastidas. It is located on the country's Caribbean coast, and was often raided by pirates throughout its early history. El Libertador Simon Bolivar, died in a ranch named Quinta de San Pedro Alejandrino on the outskirts of Santa Marta in 17 December 1830.

It had a population of 521,482 in 2000 and is, today, an important port city. It serves as the departmental capital of Magdalena department.

Set against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, this city is one of great contrast. From the Spanish colonial buildings of the old city to the modern luxury beach front apartments of Rodadero.

In recent years, Santa Marta has attracted large numbers of people displaced by the paramilitary groups operating throughout the interior of the country. The warm climate and the possibility of occasional work serving the tourist industry increasing the cities popularity. Santa Marta is also one of Colombia's major maritime commercial ports.

Santa Marta was also the site of the 1928 Santa Marta Massacre:

The Santa Marta Massacre, in Spanish, matanza de las bananeras, was a massacre of workers for the United Fruit Company that occurred on December 6, 1928 in the town of Cienaga near Santa Marta, Colombia. An unknown number of workers died after the government decided to send the military forces to end a month long strike organized by the workers' union in order to demand better working conditions.

I'm Glad We Got a Goat

Marta's original due date was around January 4. Later they moved it up to January 8 or so. So we were thinking that if Marta was on time, she would be a Capricorn - you know a sturdy, business savvy, social climber, but if Marta was a little bit late, then we would be stuck with a nutty, close=to-extraterrestrial-as-humanly-possible Aquarian.

I consulted an online astrologer at the time, who informed me that, it would be best if we had a ambitious goat rather than an aquatic philosopher in a house that already contained a brooding, pissy Scorpion and a crabby, homey Cancer the Crab. He also told me that he doesn't normally give away such advice for free.

But in the end, we got our goat. She likes simple stuff. Climbing up bookshelves to get a book. Climbing in and out of the bathtub. Watching TV. Drawing pictures of balloons. Feeding sheep. She is down to Earth. In fact so Earthy that she - as of now - thinks astrology is just crap. The other day she was looking at an astrology book I bought - called Nasty Astrology - and flipped through the book going "Oh look, a lion. Oh look, a goat." When I tried to explain to her that she was a goat, she looked thoroughly perplexed.

New Amsterdam and Marta the Movie

When I first met Epp, I was a recently-graduated journalism major in the very far away city of Helsinki in Finland in the summer of 2002. I was in a group of about 15-20 fellow journalists and I had imagined that the Estonians, Austrians, Bulgarians, and Russians would all be wearing their national costumes.

We all had to introduce ourselves and identify our place of origin. But when I went to say my country's name, I said "New York" instead. Oops. I should have said the lengthy and bland sounding "United States of America." But I said New York, and, I have to say, it seemed more appropriate. The world has its international cities. In New York we wave our American flags and (most of us) speak English - but often it seems we are to the US what Hong Kong is to China. Part of the map, yet spiritually distinct.

I lead you into this maze of words because in digging up my dead ancestors I have found that many of them lived in this city from its founding. Some of mine, and Marta's ancestors were the earliest Dutch colonists to arrive in New York. If you ask my Irish grandmother if she's Dutch - she'll say no, and she'll be mostly right. The Dutch in our family line occured so far back - 17th century - that if you were to do the math, you'd find someone like my grandmother to be less than 1 percent of Dutch origin.

My grandmother's grandmother's name was Annabelle Jaynes. Her great-grandfather's name was John McEvers, born in 1766 in the City of New York. McEvers was of Irish descent, but his grandmother was named Katerina Van Horne, a Dutch woman. She was born a few blocks from here in lower Manhattan in 1702. The McEvers relocated to Ontario, Canada in the 1780s following the establishment of the American republic with good reason. John McEvers' father - Jacobus McEvers - also called James McEvers - was the stamp distributor in the Royal Colony of New York. He's actually a historical figure. As you can read here:

Cadwallader Colden, a venerable Scotchman, then eighty years of age, was acting-governor of New York. He was a liberal-minded man, but duty to his sovereign and his own political convictions compelled him to oppose the popular movements. James McEvers was appointed stamp-distributor for New York. The Sons of Liberty demanded his resignation. The governor protected him. When, late in October, stamps arrived, McEvers, alarmed, refused to receive them, and they were taken to the fort at the foot of Broadway for safety.

It's kind of interesting to find yourself living in a place that really has been home to your family for - in one way or another - 300+ years. So that makes us true New Yorkers.

MARTA THE MOVIE

So yesterday in the office, we were trying to determine who would play us (and our spouses) in a movie. It has been long established that the famous Hollywood actor to portray me would be a long-haired, unshaven, gangly, awkward, and goofy Keanu Reeves.

But who would play Epp? At first I recommended Tereza Heinz Kerry as a joke, but later sank deep into thought. Who would play my wife? My colleagues suggested an East European (how original!) but most of them are models, not actresses. So I kept thinking and thinking. And I eventually decided that I would choose the super-hot French actress Juliette Binoche to play the Estonian journalist Epp in the Petrone movie.

There aren't enough child actresses out there to consider for he role of Marta. However, I might suggest one in the mold of the famous 1930s actress, Shirley Temple. You know, a little cute white girl with puckish charm. Shouldn't be that hard to find. Then again, Marta could just play herself!

A Day in Prospect Park

Today we had the kind of day all Sundays should be. Instead of holing up on the beach we braved the traffic of Brooklyn to visit Prospect Park.

Brroklyn traffic is perhaps notorious. It's a congested borough. But it wasn't TOO bad considering I had driven in Jersey the day before, because New Jersey drivers are the worst drivers on Earth. Brooklyn has little quaint and confusing traffic circles, that screw things up.

We had a hard time finding a parking space.

Anyway, the park is beautiful. Marta took off, she hopped and ran and walked much of the park. She went to the zoo, where we saw prairie dogs, kangaroos, snakes, fish - which Marta calls "Nemo" after the movie, and gross bugs. There was also a sheep shearing festival, and Marta confidently took feed and fed the sheep. She liked it. She is like her mother - completely at ease with animals.

Later we went to the playground, where Marta had fun and met more kids. She seems do be doing well with socializing with others.

One thing I have learned about being father recently is to always have a hand ready for your child to hold. Be there so that she doesn't fall. But the second you grip the hand too tightly, the child will pull away, sometimes aggressively - and that's even more dangerous. So when I spot Marta at the playground, I lurk, but I make sure to make her feel confident and not like her father is controlling the situation too much.

Of course, Marta also went on the carousel with Epp. I think we all had a perfect day.

Shoe Girl

We didn't find out what gender our baby would be until about two weeks before she was born. Before that her long legs were obscuring any view of the crucial area in making such decisions, and so we were waiting either on a Marta or a Paul (that was to be the boy's name, although I wouldn't pick it again).

When I found out it was a girl, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to react. I guess it didn't really matter to me, though I had bet on a girl. I perhaps was relieved that I wouldn't have to teach a son anything about sports or cars, as I am deficient in those areas. I think that if a son comes I will have to send him to his grandfather for automotive courses, and to his uncle for athletic training.

But anyway - what is the difference between genders anyway? Oh, plenty. When we were in Finland I had a home stay with a family that included a litte boy named Veeti. Veeti was as boyish as boys get. I watched him literally drop his trousers in public and begin peeing, completely unashamed. Then there was the time we went to his uncle's house and he found a plugged in power drill and began squeezing the trigger. Yep, he was a boy alright.

And so Marta is a girl, as attested by our trip to the shoe store today. While I was trying to find a running shoe that fit my oversized foot, the little girl was off picking out a rubbery pair of pink shoes with a rainbow motif. I saw her excited little face from down the aisle. She had fallen in love. So we bought her little sandles. When we took them off her feet to hand them to the cashier, she threw a fit.
"Marta's shoes! Marta's shoes! Marta's shoes!" she yelled in faux hysteria.

She got her little pink shoes back and was quiet and content as could be. At home, while her boorish father was doing something so silly as writing a blog about his daughter, she found the shoe drawer. And I knew then that she wouldn't be bothering me for at least 15 minutes as she explored the different pairs of shoes and tried them on. In some ways, it's a bit of a weird obsession to have. But something tells me she isn't the first female to fall madly in love with footwear.

***Asshole Dad***

This second part of my post is unrelated to shoes. Today at the same mall where the pink shoes were bought, I had to use the restroom. There was a line at the main public restroom, so I went into the movie theater in the mall and gained access to their toilet. I was the only guy in there. There's nothing better than relieving yourself in peace when it must be done in public.

But then as I was washing my hands a Dad and his two sons came in. The father unzipped his boy's trousers and pushed him in front of the small, childsized urinal. Alas, no pee. "I thought you said you had to pee!" the father grunted impatiently. The boy appeared (I didn't look directly at them for fear of being accused of being a pervert) to try harder and then give in. It was a false alarm. Then the anxious father said something that made my skin crawl as his other son pulled away from his grip. "If you do that again, we're going home."

Why is it that so many of us Dads are just rigid assholes when it comes to disciplining our children? This guy's kids looked sort of unhappy and sort of anxious to be around their impatient father. Will they grow up to be Asshole Dads too? Will they too threaten to "go home" if someone misbehaves.

I don't know. When I try to discipline Marta (a comedy to be seen) I think I just tell her to stop doing stuff I don't like. Like "Don't do that!" I don't use weird psychological tricks like, "If you do that again, we're going home." When she is in the bath dumping water on the floor with her plastic toys, I just take the toy away. I don't engage in Jedi mind tricks. And why are we dads so uptight anyway? Is it work? Family stress? Rising gas prices? The deplorable tri-state infrastructure (third world-style roads, swamp-like subways)?

Why are we so willing to be assholes to the very kids that we do most things for? That imbue our puny lives with meaning? I am not sure I know the answer to that question. I've been bad too and I know I am guilty as the rest of 'em, but at least I see it. And it's something I really don't want to be.

Are you tired?

God, that photo really does seem two years old, at least. But it sort of captures how I feel most nights, especially Monday nights: tired.

Yesterday one of my big stories fell through and I had to work late and start again early to meet my deadline. It took my about two hours to get home, instead of the usual 1.25 hours, because there were big rallies here in New York yesterday and all the trains were full.

So I was pretty irritated by the time I got home. And my daughter wanted to play. She was excited to see me. She wanted to take a bath and jump on my chest. And I could barely function I was so exhausted. Epp wanted to talk to me and I couldn't really react or respond. All I did was lie on the bed and wish I could somehow withdraw from all of these different demands and relax. Not do anything else - no other priorities here - just to breathe without thought for a few precious moments.

Even through the night I woke up every hour, knowing I had to rise at 4 am to write more for my issue. Work, you see, is often more important than family.

I wonder, will this be my child's impression of her father as she grows up. Of a guy that was fun on weekends but shuffled home every evening to pass out and groan on the couch? Yeah, everybody works hard I guess. And I work near a lot of hard workers in lower Manhattan that don't look so hot.

In some ways I feel I am denying her something. It doesn't feel good.

Miss Petrone goes to Washington

What is there for a 2-year-old to enjoy in Washington, DC, a city known for its museums and antiquities and khaki pants? Plenty it seems. My child, for example, enjoyed running this way, then that way, then back this way, then towards emme, then away from emme, and then into some strangers leg.

Then when I grabbed her arm forcefully - with only good intentions - Miss Marta decided to tell Washington in a language it doesn't understand that I was bothering her. "Ära Kiusa!" she cried. "Emme, Isse kiusab!" which means "Don't bother me - Mommy, Dad is bothering me!" And I was just trying to keep her out of traffic.

DC offered Marta lots of things to learn though, and no, how a bill becomes a law wasn't one of them. Instead it was the small things. Like discovering a ladybug outside Au Bon Pain, a breakfast cafe near my old university. It's so rare that I can point out an actual character from many of her children's books in real life and say "This is a ladybug, emme says lepatriinu, issi says ladybug." Without these real life introductions, the ladybug would be just another funny character with a smile. Pure fiction.

Patrolling my old school stomping grounds with Marta Maria felt good though. It felt good to return to the streets which I had stumbled home upon with a small child holding my hand as if to say, "I've really made it! I am totally NOT stuck in college." It also reminded me of the things I need to do in life, that life is precious, et cetera, et cetera.

Marta had a lot of fun at the Cherry Blossom Festival. She thoroughly enjoyed making me chase her while she ambled along, only yards from busy DC traffic. She also liked the Museum of the American Indian, where we atched Cheyenne, Ojibwa, Paiute, Blackfoot, and other creation stories that were illustrated in ways that only Native Americans can illustrate cartoons. They were breathing with life and creativity, and I felt glad I brought Marta there.

In the hotel Marta locked herself in two of our rooms twice, shutting the door behind her and causing my parents to majorly freak out. For some reason I didn't panic though. I know my daughter - she's usually the one in control of a situation. Anyway, we had a good time. Many thanks to all who were involved.

We're Welsh?!?

If you haven't figured it out by now, genealogy is a major hobby of mine. That's because I naturally distrust what people tell me and have a very real desire to find out the "truth." I guess that's why I am a reporter.

Doing genealogy is not a sort of "all fun" business. It's actually pretty interesting, but also intimidating. You don't want to tell your Irish grandmother that she's actually a little bit English (!) or tell your Dad that, yes, his grandma was Greek, but her family had been probably living in Italy for at least 100 years before she was born. People don't like to hear that stuff. Americans want to wear national flags on their coats the same way people have the patches of sports teams on their jackets in the subways.

So, then it shouldn't surprise us that two of Marta's ancient ancestors hailed not from England, as I was told, but actually from Wales. You know, Wales - that sort of lumpy bit on the west side of Great Britain where Tom Jones is from? Where they speak that weird Celtic language with all the "l"s and "g"s and "w"s. Where "Welsh" in Welsh is "Cymru."

My grandmother's maiden name was Margaret Elizabeth Howell Pittman - and she comes from a long line of Virginian and North Carolinian cousin-marrying farmers. But the root ancestor of Pittmans in Virginia is actually a man named Thomas Pittman - who was born in Monmouthshire, Wales, in 1614 and came to Virginia in about 1650. The common ancestor of Howells in the area is a man named Etheldred Howell, who was born in Flintshire, Wales, in 1668. In fact, many of his descendents also bore the name "Etheldred" - shortened just to "Dred."

So, like, we're a bit Welsh too. It gets so messy when you deal with the UK and Ireland. It seems like everybody's a bit of everything.

The parental instinct

I could be wrong, but I have the suspicion that a lot of people don't like children. They are often sick and jump on you when you want to sleep, and just rob you of energy.

I have to say that when I was in Vancouver last week, though I still had to get up pretty early, it was sort of nice to go to sleep when I felt like it and watch TV when I felt like it and basically live my pre-relationship, pre-fatherhood life.

But it got old rather quick. By my third day I was passing playgrounds thinking, "If my daughter was here, she'd have a really good time," and eating good Asian food thinking, "If my wife was here, she'd really like this restaurant."

Walking over the Lion's Gate Bridge (see above) I threw off a quarter to make a wish on keeping my family safe. I always am afraid when I am on the West Coast that something bad may separate us like an earthquake or epidemic.

On the other side of the bridge I met an indian (native) family - mother and two sons. One of the boys seemed sick and frail and I felt this sort of gravitational pull to help them figure out when the next bus was coming. I felt like this family was missing a father and that I had to substitute for one for at least the next 15 minutes. Maybe they did have a father. I don't know.

But it underscored that something big has changed in me. I like these trips though. I like being spit out on the otherside of the continent and being isolated. But I also liked it a lot when I came home and I got to see my little gnome nestled in her bed fast asleep. Having a family is a good thing. I don't see why anybody should be afraid of it.

The Irish in Marta

Yesterday I was approached by a reporter on the street. "Will you drink any green beer tomorrow for St. Patrick's Day?" It took me a second to realize she meant beer that was dyed green. I answered no, that I would probably drink regular beer, as I am too lazy to actually dye my beer a particular color. And it got me thinking, what does green beer have to do with Saint Patrick or the Irish? Lot's of European countries are home to rolling green hills - it's not a unique color. And the Irish flag is green, white, and orange. That's two other colors you have to drink with your green beer. And how did beer and whiskey come to symbolize the Irish people (along with boiled food)? Is that all the great Republic of Ireland can be epitomized by? Getting wasted and wearing green (so your vomit doesn't stain your shirt)?

I am one-quarter Irish, whatever way you slice it, and my daughter is a measly one-eighth. I am reminded of my Irish heritage anytime I fill out a form because my middle name - Carroll - come from that segment of my family. But my Irish forebears didn't come over the Atlantic Ocean blasting Pogues songs, getting wasted, eating Lucky Charms, and wearing green shamrocks on their cheeks.

Most of them showed up in North America between 1850 and 1860, during and after the great potato famine that turned the Irish foodstock into a black, inedible, toxic goo. In about 1850, Marta's great-great-great grandmother, Hannah Byrnes arrived in New York. She married Roger Carroll, from a an older Irish-American family. In 1860, her great-great-great grandfather Michael Murray arrived, from County Galway, and around that time her great-great-great-great grandparents, Patrick Collier and Margaret Delaney Collier, along with their daughter Catherine Elizabeth Collier, founded a new family in New York.

Meanwhile, Marta's great-great-great-great grandfather, John Menagh, of County Down, Ireland arrived in Ontario with his parents, John Menagh and Jane Gilmour Menagh.
These people were most likely not green-wearing alcoholics. They built something from nothing. The Murrays and Colliers founded a cotton brokerage in Manhattan. Hannah Byrnes' son Michael became a physician. And John Menagh's son Frank operated his own foundry in Canada. They epitomized the work ethic of the immigrant class. You can see immigrants today doing the same thing - working for less to get ahead.

They are all dead now. And their children too. The connection to Ireland has been diluted significantly, suffice to say nobody has every assumed that I was Irish based on my looks. They deserve to be remembered, and I am not sure how. St. Patrick's Day is as good as any.

Tonight we will eat boiled food and drink beer. It won't be green, and I am not wearing green today. But I will try to do my own small part to remember the ruddy, round people of the Emerald Isle that are still here, in some ways, even in me and Marta.

Weekend with Marta

On Friday night, at about 11 pm, two Estonian ladies arrived at our door. Let's call them Pirja and Sirja. Pirja and Sirja were supposed to arrive at about 5 pm from JFK airport via subway, but somehow they wound up at the Estonian House, and so they got here pretty late. Anyway - as soon as they got in the house theer was something of a whirlwind of energy. I was exhausted and went to sleep, but I could hear them and Epp chattering into the night, making tea, drinking beer, drinking tea, drinking champagne, talking some more.

On Saturday we went out in our neighborhood to walk around. I let Epp go ahead and talk with Sirja and Pirja, and Marta and I hung back on the beach. The beach was really nice, as the sand isn't frozen anymore, and Marta had to be picked up several times because she wanted to lie face down in the sand, picking up handfuls of sand to hand to me. We also walked around and saw the first buds of spring on the trees and some branches that Marta mistook for flowers.

Eventually Pirja, Sirja, and Epp went out to New York City, maybe around 3 pm. And then it was just me and Martakene. This was good for me because I don't get to spend that much day time with my child. I am usually at work during the day and tired at night. So Marta and I went to the beach. And she plopped down in the sand, and I decided to put her up on my shoulders. We met a white dog and continued down the beach. There were so many kids out that day. There were also the usual seagulls hanging around. I don't know why but I don't trust them. I am afraid they will try and carry off my daughter!

So we walked around, but it was getting a bit chilly and so we went inside. I first put on the Jungle Book for her, but she didn't watch it, then some other movies, and, no success. She kept standing on Pirja's suitcase trying to pull more movies down, saying "wanna watch." I, meanwhile worked on my music website for about two hours. There was a short lived attempt to give her a bath, but she got bored and so I took her out. Then I decided that I would have to take Marta outside again. Maybe she would even go to sleep!

We went out and I took her to see the flowers outside the deli on 129th Street. I decided that I would buy two chicken cutlets from the gourmet deli and make pasta with green beans and alfredo sauce for us for dinner. But Marta passed out by the time we got in the gourmet deli. A woman commented that she wished she was Marta, and I told her that it was my plan all along to get her to go to sleep. She slept all the way home and I carried her upstairs to our bed and tucked her in, but then she woke up and started crying. I plopped her down in front of the TV and made us dinner.

Usually when we eat, Marta sits in her high chair. However, when I served dinner, I just fed Marta off my plate. Every time she wanted more she would come and beg at my leg like a dog and I would feed her. I wondered if I was raising Marta as a single parent, if it would always be this way - that I would feed her from my plate like a hungry pet.

At night we settled down to some SpongeBob SquarePants and snuggled. Marta started to get sleepy and eventually, in the dark, fell asleep. By this time it was getting pretty late and I was worried about the whereabouts of Pirja, Sirja, and Epp. Epp called once but I was on the phone with my mom and I couldn't reach Epp again. I called at 11 pm - no answer. Then at 12 am - still no answer. I was really worried about them. But I knew that my wife deserved a night out without worry. Eventually I went to sleep. At about 1 am Marta woke up and came to me crying asking for Epp. She crawled into bed with me and we slept there, me with the phone waiting to hear from the girls. I woke up at 2 am REALLY worried. Where were they? I called Epp and finally I got through. It turns out they were standing at the door at that very moment looking for the key and trying to figure out if they should ring the bell.

I stumbled downstairs and let them in. And that was the real end of my day of babysitting.

Cartoons!

Those are the Japanese rock stars that are featured in the TV show Puffy Amiyumi. Last week, when we were all gathered together sick at home, I started taking advantage of our TV set and watching shows with Marta. And there's some cool programming on. In fact, most of the shows seemed to appeal more to the little kid in me, rather than Marta.

Take Spongebob Squarepants - the little yellow sponge who lives under the sea in a pineapple. In the episode I saw there was some ort of situation going on where the sea creatures were teasing a squirrel that lived underwater (with a glass helmet) that the squirrel couldn't breath water without an aid. And the squirrel fired back that Spongebob couldn't survive five minutes on dry land. And I was really enjoying it. But I am not sure Marta understood a single word.

With Puffy Ami Yumi, the rockstar girls were at some event where they were to meet their "biggest fan" and the biggest fan turned out to be a psycho stalker that wouldn't leave them alone. And they spent the rest of their episode trying to escape from their "niggest fan." I loved it. In fact, I checked to see when the next episode was on so I could watch more. But did Marta, the intended recipient, really care?

I don't recall either of my parents being into any shows I liked. I think my Dad was entertained by He-Man. But not to the point they'd actually check to see when the next one was on. And it got me wondering, who is the intended audience. Are marketers really aware that parents are so self centered today, that they should market shows to the parents rather than kids, because the parents are the ones who decide who's on? Could be. Anyway, Puffy is on this Friday night. And if I am in our living room, with the TV in it, at that time, I just might sequester myself and Marta to the couch.

Being a Dad Rules!

This photo was taken last week before I left for San Francisco. Marta knew I was leaving and she held on tight to me. I was afraid it was a bad sign, that because she didn't want me to go, my plane might plummet into the Atlantic Ocean. I had a fantasy that we landed on the water and I swam to sure and walked back in our front door, soaking wet. "Hi honey, I'm home."

I could literally see our block as my plane flew over the peninsula headed far West. It's so weird to be lifted off the ground and put down in a far away place, far far away from one life, where you have a new home for a few days. This is my life. I do it every month.

But I have a confession to make. I almost cried as I saw our house go by. I don't necessarily like being far away from my family. I like it for a little while, but then I miss them. We are supposed to be a unit. I was trying to find Marta something cool in San Francisco, but I decided the coolest thing I can do is take her there one day and show her the seals. We should spend maybe two weeks out there exploring California, especially the parks, and the counties north of the city. It could be a fun trip.

Attitude

When Marta was born, she really was something of an empty slate. She looked up at me with the most innocent, awestruck eyes. The first glimpse of her new world. But her term of unworldlyness vanished fast. She's just as likely as me to crawl up on the couch these days, settle down with a piece of bread and some milk and yell "please" at me every time I might distract her from watching the 'train movie' or the 'monkey movie.'

How did my daughter get such an attitude? I think she may have learned it from me. I may be responsible. Because I don't know how to handle a temper tantrum other than making a joke out of it. And because I don't know how to 'discipline' her. There have been a few times that she has slapped me in the face and it has hurt, but I don't know how to make her understand that I am not kidding. She thinks her issi is just one big jokester. I could try and physically tell her no, but I can't hurt her. So it seems like I am playing. And because I am a pretty sarcastic dad, even my serious tones seem like a joke.

And I am the one that has taught her all of her English swear words, including the 's' word and the 'f' word. I never thought I'd be such a bad influence. She is also pretty bossy. She doesn't ask for milk. She demands it. 'I want milk. I want it.' And she won't give up until she gets it. She is the boss. And if she doesn't want to take a bath or go to sleep. Well, she doesn't take a bath or go to sleep. This can't all be my influence. Marta is also the eldest sibling and I think in this manner she has one other big influence. Her mother (she's the boss in the center).

Yes, Veruca

"Schnozberry? Who's ever heard of a schnozberry?"

Work has been demanding lately. For those of you unaware I am a journalist who writes about biotechnology, yet knows little about business and even less about biology. It's a challenging role. So I was a bit cranky when I staggered home last night (and it's cold out there on our little strip of land).

One of Marta's favorite things to do is feed the DVD/VCR player. Because I am on occasion a dull and remote father (see previous paragraph), she likes to do this more when I have parked my caboose on the couch. Yesterday the question came, "where the train movie?" The train movie is Polar Express starring Tom Hanks. She watches it everyday. It's a good film in that it is never abrasive or annoying. You really can watch it over and over again and not mind it. Marta certainly can. But we couldn't find it. Then I saw the video cassette sticking out of the VCR slot and realized that she had put the train movie in the wrong whole then put the tape in on top of it.

When I finally got it out it was scratched up pretty bad. I thought it was another DVD that Marta loves that she had ruined (she broke her copy of Kiki's Delivery Service too). Thankfully, the train movie still worked when we put it in. But little Veruca then decided it would be fun to bang the recorder we have (the instrument) against the wall for awhile. Then she demanded that I get her more bread and butter and milk. And everything else. And I complied.

They're Here

One of the funny adventures we had since we moved in came the first night. I have always been a bit paranoid about moving into a possessed house. I've never actually seen a ghost, although I've had some weird experiences. One time in Grenoble, France Epp and I both felt a presence in our room and sort of got these impressions of a tortured woman who had died there. When we moved to Hoboken I saw that there was a picture of a hand and a cross on our door that had been painted over with some Latin mumbojumbo. That sort of freaked me out. (Religion scares me).

So on our first night here, two weeks ago, in the middle of the night I woke up and heard the distinct sound of television static. I went into the living room down the hall and the TV was on - obviously turned on by our munchkin. So I went to see where she was because she wasn't in the TV room. But she wasn't in her bed either. Now I got really scared and awoke my wife who also came hunting for her. I thought that maybe she had been sucked into the television like Carol Anne in Poltergeist, but no. We found her on the couch. I thought she was asleep, but Epp says she was whispering "Marta's House."

Having a Rave-Up

The other day I came home and I was in a good mood. So I put on some music to continue that mood. I chose the Yardbirds BBC sessions, which is a compilation of about 27 sessions they did between 1965 and 1968 for the BBC. The earlier stuff is by far better and less serious, and that's what it started with.

As soon as the Yardbirds began playing their tinny Brit-boy blues, Marta started dancing around in circles. Usually I have to encourage people to dance to the Yardbirds. In this era of booty-shaking, bass-driven anthems, they just don't "get" how to dance to old R&B music. It's sort of like the twist - that's how you do it. Marta likes to run around in circles. I have a video of her dancing to the Beastie Boys from when she was less than a year old. And at my friend Becky's wedding she was just aggressive as hell on the dance floor. She knows how to dance.

Anyway I love her for that. Thanks, Marta.

Marta Maria
Speaking of music, I have written a very lovely bossanova song about Marta called "Marta Maria." I am not sure how to feel about writing a sort of romantic-sounding song about my daughter, but lot's of artists have written songs about their offspring: see John Lennon's "Beautiful Boy", Madonna's "Little Star", etc. There's a great article about rock stars having kids published just this month. Some choice moments from the female writer:

But then, fatherhood is so much less intense than motherhood. Fathers don’t carry their children. They don’t provide their babies’ sole source of food in the first few months. They can wander in to the nursery, administer a few coochy-coos and amble off again, perhaps to write a song about it. Had Ian Broudie from The Lightning Seeds been wallowing in the depths of sleep deprivation, would he have written a song as exuberantly carefree as The Life Of Riley? Has there ever been a more rose-tinted view of parenthood than Simply Red’s For Your Babies? Can you imagine two more mutually exclusive terms than ‘Mick Hucknall’ and ‘devoted father’?

Ha ha. That's why I don't write rock songs nor aspire to being someone in that idiom. The bossa nova singer can father many children with little conflict. Because it's not about angst or conflict, it thrives on sappy emotions ;) But it's true that it changes your creative outlook. I guess. Different people use different metaphors. Have you noticed how Paul McCartney uses flying metaphors all the time. "Wings", "Blackbird", "Bluebird", "Jet", "Jenny Wren"? I like to talk about cities and locations and, of course, food. But "Marta Maria"'s second line is "Porto Alegria" - which roughly translates to "harbor of joy" or "door to happiness." I have a friend in Brazil working with me on the lyrics, but they will mostly be about different cities and feelings and using the idea of a harbor city as a metaphor for Marta's young life. Anyway. Those are my thoughts. See you soon.

Brown-Haired Girl

From most of the photos you have probably seen of Marta, you\d think her to be a dirty blonde kind of kid with big blue eyes. You know, your archetypal Northern European. And I have to say it makes me feel kind of weird knowing that all of my children will probably have blue eyes. My mom has blue eyes, my father's mom has them, and I think nearly every person Epp is related to has them. It's not that all of you blue-eyed people aren't very beautiful, but I just feel like you are in a different club. The blue/eyed club. The "I need my sunglasses whenever I am outside" club. To me, blue/eyed people are just different. They are the type of people who think Peter Gabriel is a good dancer. Catch my drift?

So I was a little worried that I would be the odd man out in a family of kids that look like the children from The Sound of Music. But I am having my genetic revenge. I noticed this morning that Marta's hair that is growing in is darker brown, and perhaps this is a symbol that in future family portraits I won't be the outstanding gorilla with the five o'clock shadow and dark brown hair.

By the way you can do your own genetic calculations at this nifty website.

An Hour at Symposia

Today I woke up thoroughly exhausted from the day before. I must have slept 18 hours out of the past 24, because little miss Marta brought home a pukey virus which was then distributed to Epp and I. But I felt much better after a day of throwing up every last morsel of food in my digestive track, and it was agreed upon that I would take Marta to her "class" at Symposia Books on Washington Street.

And so we went. When I went in there were a ton of little kids coming out of the bookshop, so I figured that class was ending and we were the first ones in for the new class. I was right. I went in and a woman with a foreign accent (Spanish?) asked me my child's name. "Marta" I said. I saw Marta's name was on the list and I proceded to get Marta's jacket off and get her ready for whatever would happen at the show.

One by one our playgroup arrived. Some arrived with their biological mothers, others with babysitters. You can usually tell the real moms from the babysitters because teh real moms a) look more tired and b) connect with their children.

At the front of the room, seated was our host "Kipley." He just sort of sat there and he seemed deeply contemplative, staring at the floor until he brought out a box filled with toys and let the kids play with them. Marta brought me a big red truck, a bus, and more stuff. I was intimidated about playing because I realized that when I stood up and came into the "play area" I was huge. 6 feet 3 inches. Much taller than anyone else there, let alone the 2 year olds running around my knees. So I felt awkward about playing there. Kipley was very quiet and calm - and I think this was good because it rubbed off on the children. Even Marta was semi-well-behaved.

I was the only father there and it felt kind of good. But Marta wasn't that interested in me. She ran from lap to lap. In fact there was another woman there with a daughter and Marta went and sat in her lap and her daughter started freaking out because this strange girl was sitting in her mama's lap and I went over to straighten things out, but the woman just told me that it was ok and Marta could sit in her lap - it was a strange situation. So Marta played this game of musical laps throughout the show.

Marta sort of made friends with one other little blonde girl and even gave her a big kiss during the show, which was composed of puppets and singing. Marta kept saying "hi" to her and she answered "hi" back, albeit more sheepishly. The highlight of the show was the underwater segment which featured this bubble machine blowing soap bubbles all over the place with "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" from the Wizard of Oz playing. The kids just went crazy when this happened - they stood around waving their arms in the air mesmerized by the spectacle of bubbles floating everywhere. Marta too.

We finished up the show with some drawing - and later I was told by the guys running the puppet show that Marta was a great kid etc. You know, things I already know. But it still feels good to hear them again ;) I was asked "Are you Marta's father?" - I thought it would be kind of obvious. I wonder who else I could be? But I answered "Yes."

My Daughter is an Estonian

This is sort of my response to the post Epp has up at www.martaest.blogspot.com. I saw that one and was inspired. When we were sitting in a cafe when Marta was less than one, Epp's friend said that Marta "didn't look like an Estonian" (Epp was in the WC at the time). But if there's one thing I remember from that trip, it's feeling that if there was one person that stuck out like a sore thumb in Tallinn, it was me.

I remember we had to meet Epp at her hairdresser in Tallinn and I had to drag baby Marta with me in a cab from where Reeli & Tiit live near Pirita, to the center of town. It was gray and I was lost when we got there. And cold. And I remember Marta looking at me with these little slanty blue eyes with a bemused look of "What, you don't know where you are going? Nobody can understand what you are saying? Ha!" I knew then and there that when we were among Estonians, Marta was one of them, and I wasn't.

And then there was last summer when I brought back some sült (jellied meat) and gave it to Epp who shared it with Marta. And Marta liked it. They ate the whole dish together. I couldn't believe a child with half my genetic heritage was eating sült. But they ate it all. Again, my daughter was different; she was one of them.

Then there's little photos like the one up above, because when the Estonians congregate in the woods they like to pick berries. And Marta loves "mammu mammu"s, her favorite. A nifty trick to get Marta to stop complaining about something is to buy some berries and keep shoving them in her mouth. And she'll keep asking for more. "Veel mammud. Veel."

And there it is. The language. Thanks to Marta I have learned the word "kõndima" (to walk), mullid (bubbles), and some songs like our theme song to Mõmmi Aabits "mina olen väike, olen alas väike..." Any way, she has taught me a lot.

The Performance Gene

According to family lore, my great uncle John Petrone was an actor. Somehow his "performance gene" was passed on to my father, who at one time had seriously considered becoming an actor before he decided he preferred selling computer hardware. He still uses his "skill" to chat people up and *maybe* buy a lot of stuff they don't really need. It also rooted in me, the singer, who the other night sang a song about "Central Park Reservoir" to a room full of New Jersey hipsters (if you can be hip and live in New Jersey) at the Goldhawk Lounge.

Now apparently Great Uncle John's performance gene has manifested itself in, of all people, my daughter. Marta is the type of person who must *must* have all eyes on her in public. It happened today as we rode the A Train back from Rockaway Park. She worked the crowd, moving from person to person, waving, blowing kisses, saying "hi" and, when all else failed, screaming at the top of her lungs. And at that point, when she starts screaming, you just can't control her anymore. I tried putting my hand over her mouth, but it just egged her on more. What is the father of a little clown to do? Luckily, nobody got mad. Her fans were pleased.

A Raspy Marta

So Marta is a little sick (haige haige). I think we over did it on New Years'. We were all feeling lethargic and old and clan-like and were seriously doubting our plan to go down to the Hoboken waterfront and watch foreworks with all the other schnooks and crooks in this Mozzerell' loving town, Marta included.

We were going to give in and be lazy and dull but we dragged out butts down there. It was kind of cold, and there were Germans taking photos of each other in a big crowd on the peer. Germans are ok people. I really think that the music of Kraftwerk has redeemed the nation for that whole WWII thing.

Anyway I have a feeling it was then and there in the codl watching 2005 fade away that Marta git the sniffles. We then walked back through Hoboken where totally crazy individuals were launching fireworks into the air. Epp was kind of transfixed by these scene. She wanted to walk near the artillery unit, but I was a little skittish about the scenario. I, never having seen something like this, immediately wondered if it was a "Jersey" thing.

Washington Street was totally empty and smoky, and then we walked onto Bloomfield shere the street was filled with what can be best described as the "butts" of all the firecrackers they had launched. The streets were filled with good looking and happy people toasting the air, most a bit sloshed. And there were babies there too, like Marta. It was one of those moments that made me happy to have experienced a New Years in Hoboken.

The next day marta was snotty and then she was warm. I recall coming in the house and feeling her head and it was warm. She also looked a bit delerious. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Yes..." she responded. God, I can't remember the last time I said "yes." As Epp can attest, I'm more of a "yeah" kind of guy. In fact, I pronounce all 'O's with a a bit of an 'ä' - Blahg (blog), Arnge (orange), etc. And here's my daughter speaking to me in perfect English. It was a weird feeling. Where did she learn that word?

Now Marta has a raspy voice from being sick. It's funny to hear her say all of her common phrases (she starts and ends sentences with verbs in Estonian - like "tahad vanni - vanni tahad" or literally "you want a bath, a bath you want" - she hasn't gotten her tenses right just yet) in this raspy older sounding voice. I wonder, is this really my child?

****

Today I related my story of the trip to the Children's Museum last week to my colleague Ed at work. Ed is 36 and unmarried with no descendents. He looked at me with a superior raised eyebrow as I told of the screaming children running everywhere in the museum and how I regretted fatherhood (or possibly being alive?) for a few moments in there. Ed looks at me and says dryly "What did you think parenthood was going to be like? There's a reason why I am 36-years-old and don't have children." Thanks Ed.

****

Sometimes I feel like we are depriving Marta by not having a similarly aged related playmate around her to keep her company. At the same time I like that it's just us altogether. I feel bad for kids from huge families that are wedged in between siblings all the time fighting for the attention they need. One thing I have learned is that attention is really important. Marta does bad stuff sometimes (like trying to eat chalk) but all you have to do is refocus her energies and she responds. I wonder how many bad kids there are out there that are just bad because they didn't have their "energies refocused."

****

Name, name, know your name. Oh yeah, while I was reporting my tale to Ed we started doing imitations of annoying mothers scolding their children and used the ridiculous names that some kids have these days. I will try REALLY hard not to offend anybody who reads this, but when did two of America's lousiest presidents wind up carrying away with so many names? According to the White House, John Tyler, the 10th president, was called "his accidency" because he was the first VP to assume office after the death of a president. He tried to broker a compromise when the Civil War took off, but died 1862, a member of the Confederate House of Representatives. The parents of children named after Zachary Taylor have it better off. "Old Rough and Ready" died a war hero determined to hold the union together. But still? Zachary Taylor? Why not name your kid after a real president, like Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, or Roosevelt? Well I guess that's why there are so many Madisons. :)

Eh whatever. If we have another daughter we'll probably call her Anna, after the grandmother of Jesus. Or after the Roman goddess of the year, Anna Perenna. Or after Leo Tolstoy's main character (see how easy this is?).

If it's a boy maybe it will be Sam, after Sam Spade, the "I'm in it for me" detective in the Maltese Falcon. Or maybe after my great grandfather. If I had to name him after a president, he'd have to be Van Buren Petrone. I think Epp could agree to that. ;)