Owen and I would like to offer our thanks to our loyal readers. Last week we posted some record numbers (see below), and we just wanted to give a “shout out” to you all. Please spread the word about Tribe of Dad. We have recently learned we are featured on numerous parenting blogs and we did not even know it. Pretty cool stuff and it is largely due to your readership - so THANK YOU!

Resist. Multiply. Spread the word.

Mending Update:  I’m able to pee, poo, and walk all my own now.  Progress. I will finish the Costa Rica tale, and pontificate about my lovely bi-lateral hernia surgery.  Yeh.

Here is a holiday’esque picture of the “D” man.  He wishes you a Happy Easter and so does Strummer’s butt.

Resist. Multiply. Hunt For Easter Eggs.

It was just another sh@tty day in paradise. Dalton took to the water, for the first time ever, like a little guppy fish.  He loved it.  Swimming at Avellanas, and then in an affinity pool that overlooked the Pacific is not a bad introduction to the ocean.  Video and photos to come, tomorrow.  We crashed a high end Marriot Hotel, Hacienda Panilla, for their beach side restaurant and expansive, football field like pool.

We, including JFL and Lola, sat pool side as the sun set.  The descent of the sun here is quick, very.  It’s as if it is tired from it’s work, eager to return tomorrow, so it makes a quick, panoramic, Easter egg like, colorful exit.  Even the colorful aftermath, the distant canvas rapidly fades to black.  Night time.

Dalton slept on the bumpy car ride home.  One thing you must know about Costa Rica, a drawback, there are some, as all places have pro’s and con’s, are the roads, or lack of them.  The majority of roadways are dirt, gravel paths with various bumps, bends, and enormous pot holes.  Driving can be hazardous, dusty, muddy, depending on the season at times.  Marzo y Abril is their dry season, so clouds of dust add to the pleasure that it is while traveling via car throughout the very brown, scorched Costa Rican landscape.  Dalton was sleeping so deeply he was snoring.  He takes after his mother when it comes to his ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, through anything, even Costa Rican roads.

The days here seem to go on forever.  The sun rises so early, so strong, so ready, demanding you to do the same.  So much can be done in one lone day while in Costa Rica.

For example: (random, out of sequence happenings)

Drink Imperials poolside before lunch (Imperials are what Guinness is to Ireland, dig?)

Put Dalton in a swing and watch him laugh as his hair blows in the breeze (the temperature today was 95 degrees, but with a constant breeze it seemed a mere 85 degrees, the palms on the trees and shrubs rustling, scratching, acting as an organic backing band to his unadulterated enjoyment)

Spend time with Laura, Guillermo, and their daughters, Uma, and Lola (friends living in our house, ironically, two and half years ago they were the first people we met in Costa Rica)

I tried to keep up with Uma’s three-year-old Argentinean Spanish, but failed miserably

Took a siesta in the shade while the aforementioned breeze serenaded me

Shopped at the Super Mercado, and picked up some cherished food items that can only be found here

Took Dalton to Playa Tamarindo.  It was the first time his novice eyes met the archaic Pacific blue.  They both have some commonalities, serenity and purity of intention.  The ocean just is, and so is a seven month old.  We stayed in the shade, and I marveled at this.  Es mucho calor, es un milagro.

Dined at one of the coolest pizzerias I’ve ever been to, open air, refurbished wooden tables, marbled floor, several different languages spoken by both staff and constituents, and there was a swing set, and playground for the little diners, super cool

Exchanged idioms, slang with Laura and Guillermo.  Funny, but it seems like many things, idioms are universal and cross all geographical, lingual, and cultural borders.  We shared with them the comedic stylings of the much-missed Dave Chappelle.  This took some explaining, but I think they now understand Ebonics, an introduction class

It is 9:45 in the very dark, quiet evening as I type this closing. Consider this entry closed.  Tomorrow will be another busy day, if you want to call it that, off to Playa Avellanas early in the morning.  Mid day the sun is too strong for Dalton, so we have to capitalize on the a.m. sunshine, hoping the cooling breeze will return for a command performance.

Hasta manana.

-Owen Scott Verde

So, I’m not going to win any directing awards, but behind the camera I had Strummer nudging me, I was holding a bottle of milk, and I was trying to keep the camera steady.

Dalton - Bananas taste great, and they’re even better for your skin.

Owen - Eat it; don’t wear it.

Trying to feed a seven month old is like trying to force feed an intoxicated friend of yours some aspirin and water.

Have A Great Weekend.

Resist. Multiply. Keep Hope Alive.

Horas
Time moves forward with no regard.  It just is. It is a incessant, progressive moving, blind entity.  It’s that of a wild horse with blinders on, running through months, years, decades, centuries and on, and on, leaving a faint dust in its’ tracks, and that’s where we find ourselves, in the haze of the past, the mist of the present, and the compromised view of the future.

Time spent with Dalton Charles has traveled quickly.  The horse must have gotten spooked and re-motivated it’s already speedy gait.  I return to the classroom in one, lone, hopefully stretched out month.  Gasp. Sigh.

He has changed.  I have changed.  Strummer has changed.  But then again perhaps we have not changed that much.  Another enigmatic capability time has is the ability to make people delusional, thinking things are different when they aren’t.

Tres Amigos
Oddly enough, all three of us speak a lot of Spanish during the child rearing day.  Scratch that.  I do the speaking, and I think Strummer and Dalton are listening, maybe, naw, I doubt it, most of the day is spent with me talking to myself; I’ve learned a lot, I’m an excellent conversationalist. Strummer does understand commands in Spanish though.  He is a bilingual dog, impressive.

The other amigo of mine, Dalton, well, he hears four different languages on any given day:
Spanish (Stella and I cover this genre)
Tagalog (Lola and Karaoke Mike hold class)
English (Friends and family, and The Howard Stern Show all spread the knowledge)
Strummer Talk/Commands (Sit, Go To Your Place, Speak, Release, Outside? Inside?)

Throughout the past two months, Strummer has displayed the patience and tolerance of a saint.  When that infamous day comes when he no longer barks, and lives amongst us I will make a suggestion to the celestial Big Kahuna that Strummer should be canonized.

While on the topic of canonization I will apply for a slot of my own.  It has been a trying, but very rewarding two-month run.  Friendships were solidified, Strummer and myself.  Relationships were formed, Dalton and I are now bonded for life.  Not a bad piece of work, accomplished in just two winter months.

Typically, the end of the three amigo’s sequestered day ends in the living room.  Our living room is Spartan, intentional.  It is for sitting, reading, thinking, and closing out the day, welcoming the night.  Strummer sprawls out on his floor pillow, let’s out an extended breathe like a monk preparing for meditation.  Dalton and I sit on the couch looking out our bay window, looking for something, a sign, a vivid indicator that there is more to this all than the elusive horse of time, ferociously running into the future, where all is uncertain, and at times, particularly these times, intimidating.

Eventually, the winter sun sets, bringing the colder temperatures, and a soothing darkness to the living room.  The three amigos wait.  Strummer continues his breathing, his meditating.  Dalton speaks, synapses fire away, connecting, some not, maybe he sees something I don’t, maybe he can follow the horse charging into the dusk.  I think of nothing, and everything all at the same time, sort of like speaking Spanish to a dog, and a six month old.

Up Next: Bananas, Son, Bananas

Resist. Mulitply. The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills.

For Donna & Strummer
Tibet is far, far way from northern New Jersey, but yet it has profoundly impacted me.  Not only it is geographically removed from the place of my upbringing, it is vastly different when it comes to well, s@#t, everything, particularly when dealing with spirituality, humility, and a plethora of metaphysical characteristics and spiritual attributes.

Joe Strummer, a man, a musical icon, a legend I have never, ever met has had a profound impact on me as well.  Hell, Stella and I named our beloved four-legged friend after him.  Joe Strummer was from another generation, another continent, an entirely different culture from what I am familiar with, but, yet, like Tibet I understand it, or understand it the best way my sole, biased perceptions allow me to.

I might not understand their entire stories, but I have a healthy grasp on some of the narratives. All of this came to my mind early this cold, cold morning, while the winter wind blew in my face and in an insulting tone, said,”I’m not going anywhere.  Do you see the fresh snow I just dumped on the east coast?”

Yellow Snow
Strummer, not the musician, the dog, replied for me by urinating on the freshly fallen, pure snow.  No longer white, no longer virgin like, tainted acidic yellow.  Now, there’s a Tibetan Buddhist lesson for you when it comes to permanency, or impermanence.  Things fall apart, white snow can easily turn yellow.  (Thanks for sticking up for me Strummer, and letting winter know I’m done with it, and it’s stubborn, grumpy holding on.) Again I drifted off into my a.m. thoughts while Strummer, with his nose to ground, sifted through the snowfall for a place to add a brown tint to his already yellow, and white pallet.

Café con Leche
A car horn brought me to.  A car horn at this time of morning?  I looked up, and it was the contractors, the fine gentlemen who are working on our garage.  They came this early, chill morn to do some touch up work, and get ready to move onto the next stage of the Verde Expansion project, widen the driveway, and make it look pretty, like a valet drive up at a pretentious restaurant that looks better than the food tastes. The workers are good people.  I always provide them with coffee, water, and a little snack, or in their language café, agua, y un bocado pequeño. They speak not a word of English, allowing me to practice my Spanish, preparing me for Costa Rica, and the inevitable future.

I even add,”Usted quiere café con leche?” (do you want a particular type of a coffee beverage) Always they react with surprise and just as much respect as I showed them.  Always they wear humble grins on their faces, very appreciative of my very bad Spanish.  I try a little; they reciprocate a lot.   The world could work that way, could, should?

A Broken Heart
Strummer did his job and barked at them, perhaps a bit too aggressively, but as stated in the past he does take his work seriously and has elevated his professionalism with the birth of Dalton.  The men are strangers, so… We headed into our warm home.  Strummer manned the window, taking a good look at the workers circling around our house, getting ready for the workday.  He barked some more, and then laid down on one of his three pillows strategically located around the house.  I headed to the kitchen to make some coffee para mis amigos.

Unfortunately, this winter Strummer has been spending a lot of time napping, and mopping around the house, sort of like Dalton and myself.  The winter is our jailer, and we’re doing time. Every time Strummer, my main man, comes to my side, trying to get my attention, a paw, or friendly nudge signaling, hey, let’s run around outside, or let’s go for a walk, or hey, let’s tassel, I sadly have to send him to his “place”, one of his three comfy pillows.  He’s not being punished, he thinks he is, but Dalton is in need, and going outside in 23 degree March weather doesn’t fit into his regal schedule.  Sorry Strummer, it breaks my heart every time I have to do it.  Spring is coming soon, change will soon be upon us.

Tibetan Glue (finally for Donna)
Change is needed for Strummer, for the weather, and for me.  I’ve been in a ’strange’ place, a very different place, an enigmatic zone of potentially vast growth, but like change, growth is slow and at times painful.  Some friends, loved ones have noticed the periodically puzzled, bewildered look on my face, one of them being Donna, Stella’s close childhood friend.  Donna, too, has gone through much change, all of it being profoundly good, and enlightening.  Lately, she has been beaming, and full of life and enthusiasm, a place I want to be, take residence in.

She wrote me a caring letter, offering suggestions.  She suggested this:

Get back to Tibet

Not literally, but figuratively, a decade ago, wow, 10 years already, when Stella and I initially met we both had a common interest and passion for the kind, altruistic ways of Tibetan Buddhism.  Throughout the years, well life, gets in the way of life, and we lost our way, therefore the meekness, and rejuvenating powers that practicing , meditating brings when following, even loosely, the ways of Buddhism.

I listened to Donna; I listened to myself.  She was right; I had to get back on the meditative horse.  A catalyst was needed, and I found one just at the right time.  In Nyack, NY, a 30 minute car ride north I recently attended a benefit/gathering for Tibetan orphans.  The function was very spirited and attended by several Tibetan monks, musicians, and well meaning citizens.  The feel of the room was warm, divine, and full of zest, just what the doctor ordered a.k.a Donna and my sagging heart.  From there I gained some perspective, and some websites, yep websites.  A mile a minute I spoke to Stella about the event’s happenings and the website that will lead us to a Buddhist Monastery located in our very own NJ.

The weekend of March 14th, Stella and I are attending introduction meditation classes held at the monastery, taught by Tibetan monks.  Its the first step in a long journey.  I’m excited.  It’s the Tibetan glue needed to put together this NJ man child.  A Bodhisattva? No. Not yet, but I’m ready to prostrate and bring back balance to my own internal force.

Wrap It Up, B, Wrap It Up
I brought the steaming hot coffee outside, butchered some more of the Spanish language, looked around, and got excited for next weekend’s pilgrimage to southern New Jersey.  It’s not Lhasa but it will do.  Dalton was sleeping, so I did the same, a meditative cat nap, wink, wink.  When I wake up I will email Donna thanking her.

For those who are interested here is the link to the organization assisting Tibetan orphans.  There is an amazing story behind the founders. Investigate.

Tibetan Home of Hope

Up Next: Team Rash, Does anyone remember surfing?

Resist. Multiply. Meditate.

Dean and I have been busy rearing the young ones, painting, and keeping our collective homes running smoothly, or at least trying to. Stories, anecdotes, foolish banterings are on the way - couple of hours, Dalton is due for a nap soon, so I can craft “Uncle Cool Roy’s Mustard Mess”.

Here are some shameless pictures of growing, now very verbal Dalton.

Cleanin’ Up (on my terms)

Jujitsu Full Guard, Future Mundial Champion

GQ Shot, Love Me Camera, Love Me

Next Up: Uncle Roy’s Mustard Mess

Resist. Multiply. Struggle For Cutsie’ Wootsie’ Picture Titles.

Give it time.  There’s a payoff.  Watch for his face, his startled expression immediately after Stella laughs.

Next Up: Uncle Cool Roy’s Mustard Mess

Resist. Multiply. Squeak.

The lights come up, the audience files out.  As you make your way towards the doors I wish you and yours a splendid weekend, and a Happy Valentine’s Day.  Now, I bring out my son, the inspiration for this self-serving diatribe, Dalton.  Watch, he can swallow his hand, whole.  Impressive, eh?  We entertain even after the third act.  We’ve been working on this skill.

Throughout our day I read Neruda to him.  It allows me to work on my Spanish, and allows him to hear a magnificent rhythm, and a Latin cadence.  After every poem read, I ask him what he think will be his second, if not his first language, will it be Spanish.  Spanish with a Costa Rican accent?  You see my global hopping intentions are not selfish.  Dalton is the intention; he is the motivating force behind this weeks prose, behind the curtain.

He doesn’t respond to the question; he just looks at me, laughs, and inserts his hand into his face.  Now who’s the poet, who’s working magic?  Will he be able to fit both hands into his mouth by the time we get there?

Que tenga un fin de semana bueno.

-Owen Scott Verde

The dirty snow already on the ground was freshened up by a new snow fall last night.  This morning everything looks fresh, pristine, and a pure January white.  A clean slate.  The uneven levels of snow that pocketed our front lawn are all now filled in, smooth out, and crystalline, a level playing field for Strummer to run through, lick up, push his nose through, and leave some yellow, ammonia scented patches.  He’s an artist, and the snow is his canvas.

I look out our bay window while Dalton learns how to use his legs, his balancing, thrusting his legs up and down in his exersaucer.  It’s noisy, very, and he’s happy.  Laughing, moving about in it, figuring out his body.  After my first full week at home with Dalton I’ve figured out several things myself:

1. It can take 20 minutes to put pants on the legs of a very active infant.

2. Small, very, small bodies are capable of producing big, very big messes.

3. Baby Einstein videos are very good, soothing, and a 25 minute breather for parents all over the world. Perhaps, genius.

4. At four in the afternoon I look good in my pajamas; I’m a Hugh Hefner of sorts, minus the millions, minus the cultural icon status, minus countless naked babes, and our small home does not house a legendary, Caligula like, love is in the air underground pool and Jacuzzis.

5. Brushing your teeth and eating breakfast in the morning are highly overrated.

6. Dalton’s smiles, random shouts and attempts at communication blow wind into my tired sails.

7. Not having to go to work on a cold, snowy Monday morning is worth its weight in gold.

8. After seeing all of the comfortable pajamas with ‘footsies” Dalton wears throughout the winter nights and days I feel a serious fashion design company should create, and market adult male pajamas with ‘footsies’.  When the new clothing line is unveiled to the masses I’ll be the first in line, a stay at home parent fashionista.

9. The list is coming to an abrupt end; Dalton is in need, and I’m here for him.

Tomorrow: Thoughts - The Presidential Inauguration

Resist. Multiply. Wear Pajamas All Day.

House Painters Pay Close Attention To Ceilings

The churches acoustics resonated pure, and the deacon’s brief sermon was heard easily by all in attendance.  While the deacon was speaking, ironically, I looked up, gazing at the detailed, high, 30 foot something ceiling.  Who or what exactly I was looking for is still a mystery to me, but I have a pretty good idea.  The deacon spoke about the sanctity of a baptism, and the responsibility Stella, myself, Dalton’s godparents, and the entire community have when it comes to his spirituality.  I listened intently - the audio.  To match the complex words with a visual, I continued to peer up at the arching tainted ceiling.  There were different levels, compartments, stages to the ceiling as if they were an ascending staircase to the house of worship’s divine landlord, the big, omnipotent grand energy.  The deacon’s deep words, his serious message described the ceiling resting above, Stella, Dalton, myself, and all of our loving family and loyal friends in attendance.  I had an epiphany while studying the symmetrical, straight edge patterns, and the shimmering colorful shaped outlines cast by the surrounding stained glass windows, and the outside sun beaming through in a strange unison with the good deacon’s words.

Epiphany

Like the complicated ceiling, faith, pure, unadulterated belief is complex, and it’s tainted, at times, by various shimmering lights of doubt, anger, disbelief, regret and self delusion.  It’s much easier not to believe, not to trust, not to walk up the stairwell.  I’m stuck on one of the steps, have been there for some time now.   Maybe I’ve taken the easy way out.  As a matter of fact my grandmother joked with friends of mine that she wouldn’t be surprised if the church’s pillars shook when I entered the church, and the ground gave way.  The Irish have a way with words, eh?  The devout bring it to a Pulitzer winning level.  The rub is, I agree with my grandmother.  I’ve made some angry, misguided statements towards the landlord and his faithful tenants, and I haven’t been paying the rent for some years now, some years.  Lo siento, padre, lo siento, vida.

“Dude, That’s 86 Years Old.”

My wordsmith Irish grandmother was proud that day, and at peace.  She was proud of her grandson, me, the black sheep who has lost his way from the flock.  Stella and I wanted to honor our Roman Catholic upbringing, our parents, and the aforementioned grandmother by having Dalton christened, allowing him in the future to make his own metaphysical, spiritual decisions and leaps of faith.  I hope he is stronger than me and chooses to incessantly take the stairs, never to get stuck at one level, perhaps, he can even lead the way for me.

Another reason Dalton’s great grandmother was full of beaming, Gaelic joy was because Dalton was yet another link in a 86 year old tradition.  The christening garb, the baptism dress Dalton was donning was  pristine, white, immaculate and 86 years old.  It was brought over from the motherland.  No not Africa, Ireland, the green isle.  My grandfather wore it when he was welcomed into the church as an infant.  I wore it.  My brother wore it.  My cousins wore it.  My nephew wore it just six or so months ago, warming it, leaving behind a metaphysical energy, a genetic impression for his first cousin, my son.  It’s a worthy tradition, a honorable one, and we’re all proud to be a part of it.

At the end of ceremony, as we made our way through the cold I turned to a close friend and said,”Dude, what Dalton was wearing during the ceremony is 86 years old. Eighty. F@3kin’. Six.  My grandfather wore it, son. My grandfather.”

Epiphany #2

Perhaps I was looking for my grandfather up in the ceiling.

(Don’t worry, Poppy, we’re taking good care of your christening gown, and I’m trying everyday, trying…)

When In Doubt

Stella and I wanted to keep the after party, the festivities small, but…Stella and I are blessed to have so many good friends and kind family members, so after much deliberation and discussion about who is invited, who is not invited, well, when in such doubt and contemplation we say invite them all.

And yep, all of them came to the late afternoon dinner, all 70 of them.  Dalton held his christening dinner at his mother’s hotel, her place of employment.  An entire banquet room was delegated to the Verde party.  The ceiling was much lower, so the bustle, and all encompassing buzz of 70 people socializing were captured in the room and bounced back and forth from table to table.  It created a nice energy, might I say another christening of sorts, an introduction of Dalton to the entire social fabric that is his parent’s life, love and support system.

Food. Eaten. A Lot of it.  Received a lot of compliments on the menu.

Drinks. Imbibed. A Lot of them.  Stella and I marveled at the bar bill.

Our Clan

For the entire party, Dalton was passed from one set of loving, caring arms to another.  Stella nor I held him once, as a matter of fact, I lost track of him, but was never concerned.  He was with family.  He was with friends, and he was safe in a room full of 70, celebrating under a low ceiling with it’s own sort of staircase, camaraderie, and the comfort knowing you are not alone, there is a clan, and the clan cares for you and your baptized son.

Life is beautiful.  The world, well, the world…

Epiphany #3

It’s hard to host a christening celebration while making frequent trips to the hotel bar to check in on the NFL playoffs.

Final Ceiling Comment

There is a beautiful, 600 year old church, Dom, in Cologne, Germany that Zippy and I toured just 18 months ago.  During WW II, 90% of the city was leveled by allied bombing.  The Dom was untouched.  Theories? Faith?

After the war, Cologne, the bohemian city residing on the ancient Rhine river, was rebuilt, reinvented modern.  The city is bustling and neo, but when walking in front of the gigantic, towering place of worship you are headed into the past.  When within the tranquil, quiet interior of the massive structure you are in the past.  Zippy and I gazed up at the ceiling; it’s architecture was brilliant, the craft, skill and pride put into it’s construction is evident, it still stands in the year 2009.  Since that walk through of the Dom, I always take notice of ceilings, always, and I’ve yet to find one that rivals the Dom’s.

After the experience, the self guided tour, Zippy and I headed towards the Rhine, and it’s neighboring beer gardens.  We sat at a table, processing the impressiveness of the Dom, the history of the Rhine and drank the best beer I’ve ever had.

Life is beautiful. The world, well, the world…

Next: Observations From Owen’s Home Front

Resist. Multiply. Honor Traditions. Look Up.

Owen and I spent some quality daddy time together with our two boys. While Dalton and Jacob slept, we discussed more important topics like Entourage and SNL skits with Mark Wahlberg. Here’s one that you might enjoy:

Dalton is only 4 months old, wow, already, and his belongings take up 2/3 of our house. I now have one small corner of the house to myself. His pack and play, Exersaucer, toys, blankets, changing table, and piles of clothes he has yet to wear have taken over.

“Back from the front with observation; it is too late.”
-Ian MacKaye

Dalton is only 1/3 of a year old; I’ve been breathing for 38 years now, but he seems a lot more content, and at ease than I am. He’s got it figured out. Regardless of the day, the time, the circumstance he breathes easy. As a species, where, when do we go wrong, losing those carefree, deep belly breathes?  If it is actually lost, then it can be found again. There’s some optimism for you.

I’ve got 456 months served on this rock we call Earth; I’m fortunate. I have plentiful friends and family; I used to be popular, but when I walk into a crowded room of friendly faces the 4 month veteran of life is the talk of the town, well, really the room, but the brother carries serious social clout.

If life is a mathematical formula, an algorithm, then it is executed in the eyes of an infant. The product, the sum, the difference, the dividend gleams divine in a pure 4 month version of myself.

At night, foolish as it sounds, I look into Dalton’s eyes, and intently investigate his iris, his pupil, looking for that enigmatic mathematician that some call God. Glimpses have been caught; it’s complicated. I’ve never been good at math.  Hopefully, Dalton will process the equation better than I have.

-Owen Scott Verde

Stella has been sick.  Dalton has been sick.  The holidays, and the mad dash are upon us.  I’m preparing myself, my classroom, and our house was for the changing of the guard, Stella returning to work, and I beginning my leave of absence to tend to him.

So, I apologize for the recent delays when it comes to my posting.  As of today, sickness, holidays, business aside, I will have a simplified schedule, and will be on a strict writing regiment.

I hope you view me as Joe Strummer once viewed his temperamental, but talented band mate, Mick Jones.

“Talent, well, it’s worth waiting for.”

Thanks for the patience.  ‘Hope all is well! The stories are coming around the bend.