when we were young

Dear Chicken Nugget,

I spent most of the day thinking about my elementary school friends.  One of my oldest buddies, a guy I've been friends with since kindergarten, sent an email highlighting a piece another friend wrote and his own subsequent reflection.

Carly wrote a piece about our first grade class and where some of us are now. She called you "praiseworthy."   She used the word "lauded" in describing me as a science teacher.  God bless her and her words.

Your good-looking papi is in the second row, third from the left

My friend Rolando told the story of how Carly went from being his nemesis to becoming a friend.

I have great memories of both.  And today I spent a good deal of time lost in those memories.

I remember going to Carly's house to play and thinking how nice she was.  Super nice.  Her mom too.  Her mom once asked my mom for a recipe for Spanish rice.  Not sure why I remember that.  I also remember hiding a pair of earrings I got from a toy vending machine in her desk in the third grade.  I wasn't going for the earrings, that's just my luck.

Rolando is permanently etched in my mind since he was a constant presence.  Not only was he a good friend, his family was wonderful to me. He was the bold one and I was shy one and I was glad to play sidekick. I spent a lot of time at his apartment, playing video games, talking movies, discussing time travel, and going places. 

For that matter, the parents of my friends were responsible for me getting out of our cramped apartment often.  My friend Vanessa's dad took us to an antique car shows and to NYPD family events (he was a detective).  My friend Andres' parents took us to Mets games and on trips to Bear Mountain.

My mom, too, took the kids who lived on my block on trips to the Bronx Zoo and to weekly Junior Park Ranger meetings.

These memories led me to the already known conclusion that the reason my childhood is full of great memories with these kids was that our parents were incredible.  It's with their active influence that we experienced what we did and had the fun we had.

As a parent, I hope that I can do for you what they did for us.

And, I hope that you end up meeting a bunch as awesome as ours when you get to school.


Eternally yours,

Tu papa

oh the way we fly

Dear Chicken Nugget,

Happy New Year!  You are now officially in 2011.

A lot has happened since I last wrote:

- you went to your first party (my staff holiday party)
- we flew to Nebraska for Christmas break
- you celebrated your first Christmas
- you were baptized in Nebraska
- you met a whole lot of family
- we went on our first zoo trip together, in Omaha, NE
- you celebrated your first New Year

I'll have to write about these individually later since I had little time to sit and write during all this fun.

I will say a little something about our flying experience...

I'm not a fan of flying.  At some point in my life I wanted to be a pilot, and even an astronaut, but as I grew older and realized that my nearsightedness was going to prevent me from piloting an airplane or shuttle, I had to settle for being a passenger.  Here's the thing, I have control issues.  If the plane swings from one side to the other, gets bumpy, or drops a few feet in altitude, I... flip... out.

Not in a big way.  But, I will put my hand on your mom's knee and squeeze a little.  I'd like to believe that if I was sitting at the controls, I wouldn't be needing reassurance.  That might create an awkward moment between me and the co-pilot.

However, taking you on your first plane ride was a very different experience.  We had one layover on our way to Nebraska and one on the way back to New York - four planes in all.

I only had to grab your mom's knee once.  Not that the plane rides were perfectly smooth.  It was that all our attention was on you.  Flying with a 3 1/2 month old is hard work.  Every step of the way, from packing luggage, checking in at the counter, boarding, to simple things like sitting, diaper changes, and getting off the plane felt three times harder with you.  And, you were a dream baby... for most of the flights.

On three of the four flights we probably looked like parents who knew what they were doing.  We even got compliments on how great a baby you were.  Then came the fourth and final flight.

We took our seats in row 12 and prepared for takeoff.  The lady sitting next to me looked at you and did one of those "isn't that baby cute" shrugs.  As the plane started to roll your mom tried feeding you to help you deal with pressure changes, a system that worked well for the three other flights.  You refused to eat.  And you started to cry.  The lady next to me did one of those half smiles with a pout, as if to say, "aww, precious."

The crying went on.  We tried changing positions.  We tried singing.  We tried showing you a toy.  We tried everything we could think of.  And you cried.  The tall guy sitting in front of us turned around a few times to see what was going on behind him - his face more annoyed than concerned.  You continued to cry.

The lady next to us stopped looking over with those "cute baby" glances and she put her headphones on.  I finally put you in a sleepy time position, the last thing either of us thought you were, and within a minute you were asleep. 

For all the crying you did, I think your mom and I did pretty well.  Although we were aware that for the first time in our brief and limited flying experience, you were "that crying baby" we ignored all the glances and head-shakings and focused on you.

You, my Nugget, are a lot of work.  A lot.  And I wouldn't change it for anything in the world.


Eternally yours,

Tu papa

your great grandfather Bolivar

Dear Chicken Nugget,

It's been a while since I wrote a letter, but it's been a busy couple of weeks.  Don't worry, I won't neglect you the way I neglect my writing.  In fact, my writing production will decrease when you arrive because I'll want to spend as much time as I can with you.

I wanted to share with you that today would have been your great grandfather Bolivar's birthday.  Had he been alive today he would have been 96 or 98, depending on who you asked.  According to his paperwork, he was 96, but according to him he was two years older.  He always told us that they made a mistake when they registered his birth back in 1913.  Back then, chicky, they used pens and paper for all their record keeping and sometimes made mistakes.  Crazy!

Anyway, Bolivar Santiago Escudero Cascante (yes, you'll learn that our people like to use all their names) was born in Ecuador where he lived a life full of excitement and wonder.  He was an altar boy as a child, a boxer as a young man, a telegraph worker and salesman as an adult, a father of eight children, husband to your great grandmother Maria, grandfather to 17, and great grandfather to a yet incomplete number of children (as of this writing, 10.5 <- you're the .5).  He came to the United States in the early 1980s and became a citizen in 1999, one of the proudest days of his life. 

When I was little, around 4 or 5, he would tell me these grand stories of his boxing matches or of him fighting off tigers.  He would sing me tango songs of love and deception.  And, he would drink the awful "yogurt" mixes I made from random materials I could get my hands on.

But, I also remember him for what he taught me.  He taught me to always listen to my mother.  He taught me to always help a lady with carrying heavy bags.  He taught me to walk behind a lady so I could make sure she was safe from danger.  My grandfather taught me wrestling moves when I was home sick with the chickenpox.  He taught me to always try a food at least once.  He taught me to always have a snack before going to a party because you never know if they'll serve a meal.  And, more importantly, he taught me to enjoy life.  I don't think I can recall a time when my grandfather wasn't singing or playing the harmonica or telling a joke or flirting with the ladies.

He was quite a guy and I'm sorry you missed him in this life.  He passed away just last summer after a long battle with congestive heart failure.  Even in his last days he kept fighting back like a champ.  He was a great example of living every minute to the fullest.

I hope I can pass on some of his wisdom to you.

Wishing my grandpa a happy birthday up there and
Eternally yours,

Your papa

Nebraska

Dear Chicken Nugget,

Your mom and I have been in Nebraska since Monday, visiting your Grandpa Dale and Grandma Sue.  Your Aunt Sara, Uncle Jerry, and Cousin Timothy will be arriving from Madison, Wisconsin later this week to celebrate Easter with us.

You have a lot of family here.  Greatgrandparents Arleen and Paul live here as well.  Aunt Nancy, Uncle Brad, and Cousins Allison and Jacob live in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Personally, I love Nebraska.  I told your mom that when I first met her about five years ago.  I first came to Nebraska about ten years ago, to a town called Ceresco, to visit my friend John from NYU.  He and his family lived on an old farm in Ceresco and we spent a few days there before heading West to Yellowstone National Park.  It's on that trip that I grew to love Nebraska.

The people are incredibly friendly and there's a complete lack of noise.  After meeting your mom and visiting here some more, I realized that my first impression of Nebraska was right.  Friendliest people ever.

As a born and raised Brooklynite, the friendliness and calm of Nebraska was a little hard to get used to.  But now, it's something I enjoy.  I look forward to coming to Nebraska because it's relaxing.  I think you're going to love it here.

If Grandpa Dale and Grandma Sue still live in the same house when you come visit, I think you'll enjoy playing in their backyard.  You could probably spend hours out there.  I'll love kicking a soccer ball out there with you.

We probably won't be back for another year but this time, we'll come back with you in our arms.

Can't wait.

Eternally yours,

Your papa


PS - Just so you know, you will be a Nebraska Cornhusker fan.  You have to be - no arguing.