Our third child, Connor, was born on February 9th. We still cannot entirely fathom the enormity of raising three, but our joy grows and, despite near hallucinogenic fatigue, we would not change a thing.
The blog. What can I say? I posted in sadness last May after Sharon and the (only two!) children departed for a summer on Taiwan. I returned to this page periodically hoping to capture some sort of magic, a small window into the myriad experiences of life. Each time I failed, departing even more cynical. Why am I writing this? Why does anyone write a blog? Why do we have this need to air the banal intricacies of our existence for all to see? It all seemed so contrived and utterly self-aggrandizing.
I grew up in the 1970s, a long time before the blogosphere took shape. Personal diaries and handwritten (ok, typewritten) letters remained the primary means of documenting ones life and sharing it with others. Most people would not have dreamed of opening up their diaries for public scrutiny. They were meant to be private, often kept in leather-bound books, with locked front flaps, hidden in the sock drawer, or behind miscellanea on the top shelf of a seldom-explored closet. Secret explorations of emotions not wholly understood. An airing of grievances and heartbreak too painful to share with classmates, friends, or even closest relatives.
Beyond that, why should I care if you farted in bed the other morning? Who really wants to know that you passed a quirky restaurant on the side of Route 29 just south of Charlottesville, Virginia? The hamburger joint with a skunk in its road sign. Is it necessary to tell the world you went bungee jumping in Thailand when it was 90° at 8am? Should I like that or re-tweet it?
It dawned on me I had become a crotchety old man, likely someone with whom few would want to associate. Charlie? Oh, he's that angry fellow who shakes his fist at the sky and listens to The Smiths. Nevermind him. He's probably got gas.
Older? Yes, and worse for the wear with balding tires on three corners. But, why is this causing me to cast such a disparaging eye on modern expression and youthful innovation? How can that be? Didn't I, in college, experiment with colloquialisms, altered voice, meter and rhythm, among other things? The Red Hot Chili Peppers played in front of our dormitory window sophomore year, virtually unheard of and terribly under-appreciated. But I loved them for their quirky mixture of funk and punk, and laughed derisively at the old guard's displeasure over their strategically placed tube socks. What would that Charlie have said to this bitter, resentful man raging against the digital machine? I suspect he would smirk a bit and send a cheeky friend request.
So, let's get back to blogging and sharing. A much better course than that set by morose self-pity.
It feels as though a generation has passed since my last post here. Our daughter, Reya, began walking last fall.
We took an all too short holiday in Playa Del Carmen, the Mayan Riviera. It was there I reaffirmed my love of the mojito.
We discovered Metepec, Toluca, just over the mountains, and its splendid arts & crafts. We like this place so much we've returned four or five times with different friends and relatives.
And we continued to explore more of this vibrant city.
Somehow I let eleven months slip by without showing proper respect to the good fortune with which my family and I are blessed. It became all about me and how coolly unresponsive I could be to the beauty which surrounds us even amidst the grime of urban sprawl. Or maybe it really was just gas.
You farted in bed? Tell us more.
ReplyDeleteIt's been a while but it's good to hear from you guys!
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