On the End of Silence

(BIRTHDAY Cake) My brother's football inspired cake. We made a football halter top out of it, and then a football onesie. (Photo taken by the author's sister, Elaine Tupaz.)

(BIRTHDAY Cake) My brother’s football inspired cake. We made a football halter top out of it, and then a football onesie. (Photo taken by the author’s sister, Elaine Tupaz.)

Hello everyone.

I apologize for the long silence. (Why is it that blog writers always apologize for long silences? Every blog writer I know apologizes for their hiatuses—or at least acknowledges them. There’s no such thing as just picking up where we left off.)

Anyway, musings aside, I apologize for the long silence. There were several instants between this post and my last one when I wanted to get a word out, but the need to address the demands of my life far exceeded the need to reflect on them. As a result of this reflective neglect, I no longer recall what these demands were, except that they were, um, demanding.

Some fragmentary recollections fortunately wrested from the dustbin of oblivion:

  1. My brother’s 33rd birthday: A successful ambush pulled off! (Apart from the first 30 seconds when the over-excited organizers jumped into the hallway yelling “Surprise!” before the celebrant had managed to turn the lights on so that he could at least see the perpetrators.) While ingesting obscene amounts of food, we played Taboo and Cranium (yes, sigh, I know) and had inordinate amounts of fun without drinking any alcoholic beverages whatsoever (yes, sigh, I know). These two things—dorky board games and zero alcohol—are defining features of my family’s life.
  2. My recent obsession with functional anatomy: No longer content with the basic anatomical knowledge acquired from my yoga teacher training days, I’ve been spending ridiculous amounts of time poring through functional anatomy textbooks. As a result, I now have an annoying tendency to insert the Latin names of muscle groups into my conversations whenever I can—erector spinae!—like a Tourettes sufferer with medical aspirations. (In my defense, this is how we expand our vocabularies: through the incessant and compulsive utterance of the polysyllabic.)
  3. My bottle-feeding adventure with Piero: Nearly five months and countless physical transformations after his birth, Piero is now a feisty little boy with a clear-cut preference for drinking his breastmilk au naturel. Abbey and I were entrusted with the task of bottle-feeding him while his mother T. secreted herself in another room. Forty-five minutes and a dozen Carpenter songs later (Piero seems to like the bass-like registers of my voice plus the sound “hoo, hoo, hoo”) we had managed to coax a stunning 1.5 ounces of milk into his system (for those understandably reticent of the non-metric system, an ounce frankly amounts to: not very much).  His mother T. told us with much seriousness later on that that was the most anyone had managed to get him to drink out of a bottle. Next time, I’ll try Tom Jones.

That’s it for now.

It feels good to be back.

Happy sigh.


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