Beautifully written. Probably true.

The most beautiful tragedy

Earlier this week I cried harder than I remember every crying. Both of my dear grandfathers passed away in recent years, and yet the tears I shed then didn't seem to come close to the amount that flowed from my eyes for someone I never met.

No life should ever be taken so soon. The memorial I attended was for one of my closest friend's 7-month old nephew. He was born with odds greatly stacked against him. He had serious brain and heart problems that doctors knew would require multiple surgeries as soon as possible. But after one operation, he couldn't gain the weight for "possible" to again be realized.

My friend's brother and sister-in-law are remarkable people. Not only are they incredibly kind, but they must be some of the strongest people I have ever met. Three years ago they gave birth to a girl with different life-threatening issues than her brother. She survived however, and today is perfectly fine. I guess people are only allowed so many miracles.

Though I never met my friend's nephew, I wanted to go to the service to support him and his family. I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't expect to nearly have to excuse myself from the church in order to collect myself.

The service was beautiful. My friend's brother is the pastor of the church, so a guest reverend officiated. He spoke about God and Jesus and asked how such terrible things could happen in life, especially if you love God and Jesus so much. I've often wondered how such devout people can continue to lead lives so full of faith after such devastating tragedies. In the end, it's clearly deeply personal; well-spoken and genuine as he was, I'm not sure the reverend made much sense to me.

Throughout the entire memorial, a picture of the tiny boy was projected onto a screen next to the reverend and guest speakers. His big eyes were wide open and there were many tubes attached to a breathing apparatus that he wore. Though he may have been happy, the image looked so incredibly sad.

My friend's nephew never left the hospital and those tubes were always attached to him. It occurred to me during the service that while my own daughter was being born, somewhere in that very same hospital that little boy had already been fighting for his life for four months. My wife and I got to take our baby home after two days. It seems so unfair that his parents never got to take him home at all.

I cannot fathom how much strength it must have taken for my friend's brother and sister-in-law to have basically lived in the hospital for so long with the likelihood of such an awful ending. And doing so with so much grace and while taking care of their 3-year old to whom they somehow had to explain what was going on.

I never knew all the details of what was happening. Talking to my friend about it was always somewhat awkward. He doesn't usually readily volunteer personal information. It was even harder after my own daughter was born because I didn't want my joy and the news of my healthy baby to remind him more of his family's perilous situation. But he always seemed happy to ask how my girl was doing, and though I did not inquire about his nephew every time we spoke, I did occasionally ask so that he knew I really cared.

One of the most moving parts of the service was when two of the little boy's aunts spoke about him. Their words were touching and I doubt there was a dry eye in the building afterwards. But for me, the absolute hardest part of the memorial was at the end when a slideshow was played of the baby's far-too-short life. I looked at the photos and videos through blurred eyes while biting my lower lip.

His life was a story of love. Of family and close friends who came to visit, and to sing, and to hold his little hands. It was beautiful in the most tragic way. And the whole time I couldn't help but think of my own daughter. What if she were in his place? And more and more tears went running down my face.

The most uplifting part of the service, and indeed the most surprising, was during the recessional. My friend's brother and his sister-in-law walked down the aisle to the back of the church - after everything they had been through and were still going through - with smiles on their faces. I'm not exaggerating for effect. While almost everyone, if not everyone, surrounding them was crying, they were smiling.

I have no idea how they could gather the strength for those smiles. Nor how strong they must have had to be for so long, but I sincerely hope that they find some peace in knowing that their sweet boy is no longer in pain.

I loved my grandfathers deeply, but they had the opportunity to live full lives. My friend's precious nephew never got that chance. Babies - my daughter, his nephew - are totally dependent on others. And despite being loved and cared for as much and as well as possible, no one could help that little boy defeat his fate.

I pray my daughter's fate is full of life and love and happiness. And I pray my friend's nephew is in a better place. 

My #newdad empathy

"You'll understand once you have your own children." For as long as I can remember, my mom has been telling me that.

Every time I would get annoyed at her for telling me not to forget my jacket before I left the house, or for freaking out if I got a cold, or for crying in overreaction to a sunburn (true story), she would defend herself by saying, "You'll understand once you have your own children."

It really irritates me when people say things like, "You'll understand when..." or "You'll see if..." Rightly or wrongly and whatever the circumstance, it's meant to excuse the person for their actions. Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't, but when it comes to parenting, I've recently learned that it's not an excuse, it's an explanation. Though I still think my mom goes overboard, since my daughter was born, I feel her point.

I am constantly thinking about my baby girl. I can't stand to hear her cry and I feel bad every second it takes me to calm her down. The little sad frowny face she makes when she is upset is heartbreaking. I am sure when she gets older I will also be telling her not to forget her jacket and to put on sunscreen.

The feeling of overwhelming responsibility and love for a child that is totally dependent upon you (and your spouse) that you get the day she is born is probably impossible to convey to someone who has never had kids. Maybe not all parents feel it the same way, but I bet most do. People who don't have children simply can't understand. I don't mean to sound condescending toward those who don't have kids. It's just the way it is.

I've been thinking about this notion of parental empathy more and more since the devastating tornado that tore through Moore, Oklahoma on Monday. There are so many terrible aspects to the story of that community, but the ones that are the worst to me involve the children. More specifically, the babies.

Within the span of an hour, I watched two CNN interviews with tornado survivors. The first one was with a man whose baby son was born hours before the tornado struck the medical center where they were. The man, along with his wife, newborn, and everyone else in the hospital, was sent to the cafeteria to take cover. He described how when the tornado struck he shielded his baby and still-woozy wife. I couldn't help but imagine myself in his place doing the same thing, and I started to tear up. Fortunately, none of them were injured. But I can't imagine the horror he must have experienced.

The second interview was with a woman who took refuge from the tornado in her underground shelter with five of her six children, including an eight-week old. While the reporter asked her questions, she held her sleeping baby whose head was tilted back. The child looked just like my daughter. As she recounted her ordeal I couldn't help but put myself in her place too. And again I started to tear up.

As a journalist, I've seen and covered many horrific stories involving children. I've combed through hours and hours of some of the most gruesome amateur footage of children ripped apart by bombs in Syria, buried under rubble in Libya, and so on. Though it was always difficult to see the images, ultimately I was sort of numb to them.

Now I only have to think about the possibility of something awful happening to a child and it saddens me. When I heard the details concerning the recent story out of Cleveland where a man abducted three women and allegedly punched them in their stomachs when he found out they were pregnant in order to induce miscarriages, I got angry in a way I never had previously. Frequently I now just switch the channel if a story has to do with tragic events involving a baby or child.

My heart goes out to the victims and survivors of the tornado, especially those with affected children. I really feel a connection to the parents of babies in a way I've never experienced. I imagine there is this built-in bond that rests upon shared sleepless nights, first smiles, and sad frowny faces.

If my mom didn't continue to cry and worry so much about my well-being, then I might think that I'd someday get over it. However, I'm not so sure. And despite the fact that it annoys me when my mother tries to baby me, I think I now understand.

My Jewish baby

Is it possible to be a proud father when your daughter is all of two months old? Well, I am - so apparently yes.

My baby had her first lifecycle event a week and a half ago: She received her Hebrew name. My wife and I aren't terribly religious, but we both strongly identify with our Jewish culture. We grew up attending classes at our synagogues in preparation for our Bar and Bat Mitzvah ceremonies, sitting around our dinner tables for Passover, and visiting Israel after our sophomore year in high school (where a mutual friend introduced us).

After college my wife became a part-time Jewish educator at the same temple where she grew up. I continued attending synagogue during High Holidays and occasional Shabbat services. But more than anything we actually did or do that might identify us as being Jewish, it is an all-encompassing feeling of Judaism that most strongly resonates with us. Yes, religion plays a role in that feeling, but it is also the anecdotes we've grown up with, the food, the sayings, the events. And at the risk of sounding like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof (whom I played in the eighth grade, to my parents' boundless delight), the traditions.

Though my parents could not really practice their own Judaism growing up in Soviet Ukraine, I grew up with my mother telling me stories of how her grandmother, after whom our daughter is named, kept the tradition alive. When my parents immigrated to the U.S., they knew that they wanted their children to be able to learn the prayers they did not know and to be able to openly celebrate the culture they had been forced to keep within.

Fast-forward a generation: A week before her naming, I bought my baby girl a beautiful white little dress. I thought it would be appropriate for her big day. My wife thought the dress was extremely cute too, but was torn between putting her in that dress and the one her mother had saved from her own baby naming. Neither my wife nor I would have ever bought rose vintage apparel, but in the end, I'm glad that we chose to dress our daughter in tradition.

As if she knew what was going on, our girl was serene throughout the service. She was called before the congregation for the first time and was welcomed into the community. My wife and I said a prayer for her and so did the rabbis. My wife symbolically washed her feet and we all sang. It was an incredibly beautiful evening.

It is obviously impossible to know with certainty what I will or won't do in the future. But if my daughter one day came to me and said she did not feel Jewish and identified more with another religion, I'd like to think I would not make a huge deal out of it. If anything, it's more likely she would simply not identify with any religion at all. However, due to the way my wife and I live our lives, it is nearly impossible for me to imagine that our girl won't identify strongly with Judaism. Not because we plan on giving her a Jewish education like the ones we had, or because she will attend religious services with us, but because of our traditions.

I did not marry my wife because I wanted to raise my future children a certain way. But I can't imagine I would have fallen in love with her had she not shared the same Jewish values that are an integral part of my life.

I've witnessed many children of mixed-religion parents grow up to feel like they have no religion of their own. I've similarly witnessed many children of parents who shared the same religion grow up without a strong connection to their faiths because traditions weren't a part of their upbringings. It's definitely not my place to judge parents in these situations, but I can't help feeling like their kids are missing out on something great. Don't get me wrong - I don't mean God, the Bible, or Torah. After all, I don't really believe in God myself. What I do mean is another layer of self, meaning, history, and community.

I guess if you never experienced it, you wouldn't know what you were missing out on. I am glad my daughter will grow up with rich traditions that will undoubtedly help define her. I am happy she will have the choice to do with them what she pleases when she is old enough to make her own decisions. And I am extremely proud to facilitate her Jewish journey along with my wife.

This is how they roll at #Russian restaurants. #SanFrancisco

Versions of myself

Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you grew up somewhere else? Would you value the same things you do now? Would you look at the world similarly? Would you have the same interests? The same career path? Would you even look the same?

  As a first-generation American, I probably think about it more than most. I was the first person in my immediate family to be born in the U.S. My older brother, parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on are all from the Former Soviet Union (Ukraine, more specifically).

  My parents fled the USSR in 1979 along with my brother and grandparents as a result of religious persecution. In the "motherland" they carried identification stamped "Jewish," and with it experiences of inequality and a fear for the future of their son (and future children).

  Like so many others with similar identifications, they took what belongings they could fit in their suitcases and boarded trains for Italy via Vienna, Austria. Though officially they were only sanctioned to emigrate to Israel, my father did not want his children to have to join the military. My parents had relatives in Toronto where they could go, but instead chose to settle in San Francisco where a friend of my dad's lived.

  Russian was the language I first learned. However, when I began attending school my English skills quickly overcame my "native" tongue. Like many other first-generation citizens, my childhood was an inevitable mix of cultures, languages, foods, superstitions, and references. The other day my wife asked me how well I know nursery rhymes and it occurred to me that I don't really know any all that well. The reason, I think, is because I learned two sets in different languages and therefore never learned either particularly well. I do, though, feel fortunate to still be able to speak my first language and understand its culture.

  Now I speak to my daughter in Russian. I want her to grow up with not only an appreciation for her roots, but also a real sense of where she came from. My wife and I even named her after two of my great-grandmothers, giving her a very Russian-sounding first and last name. That said, there's no way I'd ever want her to grow up there. And for that matter, I'm so grateful to my parents for giving birth to me here and raising me as an American.

  But my curiosity about the authentic Russian version of myself (in addition to some other important factors) did lead me to chase it to Russia for about 3 years not too long ago as CNN's Moscow-based field producer. According to many, including my parents, the country is in many ways the same as it was when they left. It is different in many respects too, but in very few ways is it better than the country I call home.

  Walking along the Moscow streets I would sometimes try to picture my native Russian self walking in the other direction. I'm blurry, but I imagine my eyes are much harder than my American ones. They tell of a life less privileged and more jaded. They hint at the familiarity of a corrupt culture, harsh winters, and a longing for social tolerance. It is in these moments that I perhaps most appreciate the sacrifices my parents made on my behalf.

  I wonder if my daughter will one day think about what her life would have been like if she had grown up somewhere else. I wonder if she will decide to someday visit that other version of herself.

  Whatever happens, I hope my daughter loves the real version of who she is as much as I love my parents, despite the fact that I'm sure the sacrifices I'll inevitably make for her will never be as great as theirs.

Losing my freedom and gaining my present

At what point in your life do you begin thinking about the past more than the future?

Since my daughter was born six weeks ago, I haven't had much time to think about anything except the present. But there are peaceful moments: As I type I can hear music upstairs from my iPod's "Soft" playlist my wife turned on as she tries to calm our baby to sleep, and my mind is simultaneously wandering into the past and skipping into the future. 

When I was in middle and high school, I used to look up at the night sky or across the Bay or nowhere really and wonder. I did it all the time. There was no particular image of my future in my mind so I considered all the possibilities. Who would I fall in love with one day? When would that day come? When would I get married and have children? Boy? Girl? How many? What kind of a job would I have and where would I live? 

Most of those questions are answered now and I'm most likely not even halfway through my life. Now that I have a child and a house in the suburbs where I grew up, I jokingly sometimes tell my friends that my next stop is the grave. I don't really mean it of course, but the idea worries me from time to time. I don't want to be the type of parent who just goes to work and then comes home to watch television every night - the kind that uses their child as an excuse for not going out with friends or travelling or maybe even sometimes (hopefully) being spontaneous. 

When I was single I did all of that without much of a second thought. Ironically, these days I think about that time quite often. As an international journalist I lived in Moscow and frequently travelled around the region. There were many weekend nights I would enter a club only to exit once it was light the next morning. Aside from my professional responsibilities, I could do what I wanted when I wanted. Do I miss having no attachments? Yes. Would I go back to living that way if I could now? No. 

I'm not sure if anyone is ever really ready to "settle down." But for one reason or another many of us do it anyway. In my case, I fell in love with a long-time friend and knew there wouldn't be a better (or any other) time to see if it would work. I wanted to start a life and a family with her. But that meant giving up "my freedom." 

Now, I obviously haven't given up my freedom. One of the things I love so much about my wife is that she doesn't keep tabs on me when I go out (not that it's all that often) or ask me to be home at a certain time [note: I haven't gone out since our daughter was born, so we'll see if that changes]. However, my life is totally different now and things I was previously "free" to do suddenly come with conditions. 

In an imaginary, perfect world I would have it all. But there's no way to fully invest yourself in one life without giving up parts of the other. In these moments when I think about my past and my future, I'm still coming to terms with that fact. 

Instead of dancing to head-pounding music in a Moscow nightclub until the sun comes up, many mornings I now greet the new day dancing to my "Soft" playlist with my sweet baby girl in my arms. I think about her future and hope it is bright and loving. I hope I will be a good father and provide her with all the things I had growing up, and more. My daughter is changing so fast I wonder what the next week, month, year will look like. 

I treasure these quiet moments (and thank my wife for allowing me to have them). They give me a few minutes to step outside of myself to contemplate my past and consider my future. The present is exhausting. It's often frustrating and loud and poopy. But it's also so much more fulfilling.  

When I sit around family dinner tables these days, I hear my parents and grandparents talk more and more about their pasts than their futures or even the present. I love their stories; indeed, they are guides to my own history. Rightly or wrongly though, I can't help but feel a little sad for them. I want for them to be getting as much out of their present as they can.

I never really thought it about it before my baby was born, but I hope one day I'm not reminiscing about how great my past was, implicitly indicating my life is not as good or fulfilling now. I will of course want to remember every detail of this period of my life - and recall it to my daughter and her children - but in as much as possible, I want to always be free and present.

I think I'll go check on my daughter now.

Coming to terms with my breastfeeding failure

We quit. And it's the best decision we've made for our young family since our daughter was born a little over a month ago. 

I was really happy when after three weeks of struggle our baby was finally able to breastfeed. But I am even happier now that my wife and I decided to stop. 

I say "my wife and I" because though the decision was ultimately hers of course, she really needed me to be on the same page. But when it comes to "giving up," I have a much harder time letting go than she. 

I hate quitting, especially when I feel like something has even the slightest chance of working out. However, the pumping, pain, crying (baby and adults), stress, even less sleep, and way too much worrying that accompanied the whole breastfeeding process was doing more harm than good.

My wife and daughter were only able to successfully breastfeed a handful of times the past month. After the first two "normal" sessions, I was hopeful it was just a matter of time, patience, and perseverance before it was a regular, pain-free, and perhaps even enjoyable experience. But that never happened. 

Perhaps it's because not enough milk was being produced to meet our baby's needs. Perhaps it's because we started bottle-feeding her so early and she couldn't get used to her mother's nipples. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It doesn't really matter. We will never know for sure. 

There was something else though. The thing that made it the most difficult for me to let go.

Many women whom my wife and I spoke to about our breastfeeding tribulations shared similar anecdotes. Many of them said, "Yes, it's painful and stressful, but I just stuck with it and eventually it worked." 

My wife does not have a high pain threshold. I do. I felt like if she were better able to tolerate the pain of breastfeeding, then it might work out. I thought that if it were me, I would take it and make it work. Sitting on the sidelines, wanting to take the pain, but being the half of our parenting duo who couldn't produce milk, was really tough. 

It wasn't until I talked to a close friend of mine one night this past week that my feelings changed. He asked me how things were going and when I hinted not so well, he hinted that he understood. 

People just don't come right out and say they are having trouble breastfeeding. Even fewer get into the details. Still fewer are guys.

Lucky for me, this guy is a great guy. And he happens to have an amazing wife and two young children. After a few more sentences he knew where I was going and told me he and his wife went through the same exact thing. "Give her the phone," I said immediately. 

This woman is one of the strongest women I have ever met. I am incredibly strong-willed and I know she is the same way. Could it be that she couldn't MAKE it work? 

As it turns out, she couldn't. Unbelievably, she DID have virtually the exact same issues as my wife. And she tried to work through them with both of her children. But after a long, sincere conversation, both of my friends said it was healthier for their family if they stopped trying. Their babies were happier, they were more relieved, and most importantly, the children are growing up just as healthily as they would have if they had been getting their mother's milk.

Though I knew our daughter would be just fine with formula, I was stuck on the question of how much pain my wife should be able to take and how that *might* lead to what "nature intended." 

You hear that a lot during the process of breastfeeding - "what nature intended." But the thing is, that nature doesn't intend for all babies to live. It's sad, but true. Fortunately today we have medicines and many other ways to keep babies healthy and alive. But not too long ago in human history, and indeed, probably still in too many underprivileged places on the planet, that was not the case. If a baby couldn't breastfeed from her mother and there was no wet nurse nearby, then the baby would most likely not make it. So it's not necessarily what "nature intends." 

In any case, my friends helped me come to terms with the fact that neither my wife's, nor my own suffering were worth the slightest possibility that breastfeeding may work out. And it was totally ok. 

It took some time and talking to a friend I (perhaps naively) thought could never have had the same problem to come to terms with the fact that the cost of trying to make the breastfeeding work was actually being counterproductive to the collective health of our family. 

Turns out the problem was more mine than my wife's...

In the days since we made the decision and haven't been trying to breastfeed and have been scaling down pumping to stop the milk altogether, things have been exponentially better. We are less stressed,  we're getting more sleep, and we're much happier. 

I'm not suggesting that people shouldn't try to breastfeed if they run into problems. It's clearly an individual family's decision. That said, at this moment I couldn't be more comfortable with our choice.

I'm happy to say we quit. 

#NewDad. illustration by Jasper Rietman via @NYTimes: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/07/magazine/how-shared-diaper-duty-could-stimulate-the-economy.html?_r=0

Priceless expression on #Putin! RT @FEMEN_Movement: Иди на хуй, Путин! Fuck you, Putin! pic.twitter.com/LrrhKb2ZzA 

Remember when kids' tables at stores just had blocks or coloring books? #GenerationiPad

Sanitizing my baby's @WubbaNub pacifier. Hope monkey survives! #newdad

A huge, happy sigh of relief on an uncertain road



A couple days ago, on her 24th day of life, my wonderful baby daughter breastfed for the first time. Emotionally, I let out a huge, happy sigh of relief. 

The day she was born, my wife tried to breastfeed our little girl. I don’t think either of us considered the possibility that it wouldn’t work. There was nothing wrong, per se. My wife was producing milk (colostrum) normally. Our daughter showed signs of wanting to feed and searched for her breasts. 

Despite not knowing exactly what to do (apparently no one does with their first child), my wife was able to get our daughter to suckle for a few seconds. The problem, however, was that she didn’t stay put. 

We had lots of help. Each shift a different nurse offered her expertise. The resident lactation consultant paid us a couple visits. My wife tried using a nipple shield. Her sister who recently had her own daughter offered advice. But our baby just wouldn’t latch on.

I did what I could to try to help too. I offered words of encouragement and all the support my tired, sleep-deprived body had in me. Before we rented a breast pump (and even a few times afterwards), I hand-expressed my wife’s milk/colostrum from her breasts. And those first days I fed our girl with a spoon and a syringe. 

When we came home from the hospital, we set up an appointment with a private lactation consultant. She was empathetic and very knowledgeable. She told us that she’d be surprised if by the end of the month our daughter wasn’t breastfeeding. By the end of the session, we were feeling pretty good about our chances.

But that feeling of optimism didn’t last long. 

After a few days, because it pulled with such force, the breast pump the insurance company provided us tore open one of my wife’s nipples... Not good. We didn't know breast pumps work differently. So we went back to renting the Medela Symphony we used in the hospital. And of course there is the size of the breastshields to consider. We still don't know if we're using the ideal ones for my wife's breasts.

When my wife could muster the energy to try to feed while catching our daughter at the right time in between trying to make up for lost sleep and pumping, it hurt and our baby still wouldn't latch.

Throughout all of our breastfeeding madness I learned from many women that it’s fairly common for babies not to be able to take their mothers’ breasts for some time (and for some, never). There are many reasons. Some women can't produce enough milk. Some babies who want to at first, but can't, later won't because they're already too used to bottles. And women have all kinds of different nipple shapes that frequently don't pair up with their infants' mouths. 

Where was all this knowledge before hand? I must admit, I hardly read any pregnancy or baby literature. But my wife meticulously paged through volumes. And we both went to classes. The limited information we got about breastfeeding, other than about how good and amazing it is for mom and baby, hardly mentioned the possibility of problems. 

Almost all of the women we talk to about our issue agree: the health industry should do more to prepare soon-to-be mothers about what happens immediately after birth. 

That said, there is no substitute for patience and perseverance. Just as my wife was so frustrated with everything that she was beginning to feel ok with quitting, she tried again - in that awesome turquoise rocking chair - and it worked! 

Apparently our baby had grown enough by three weeks to be able to more-or-less comfortably latch. My wife also began the feeding session just as our daughter was getting hungry, and not when she was already too fussy with hunger - and my wife's breasts were full and ready to be emptied. 

Achieving this perfect alignment of fluid situations is not easy. But it happened, and then happened again later that day, and it was like a heavy, dense fog was lifted from over our house (at least, for me). 

Don't get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong, in my opinion, with NOT breastfeeding or even NOT pumping and simply using formula and bottles. There are many arguments both for and against. But it is difficult to contend that a child will be any less, or noticeably less, healthy if he or she only drinks formula.

It was just relieving to know that it did work, and could work again - especially after so much stress. 

Since then, my wife has tried again a few times with mixed results. Each time I hold my breath a little and hope it works out. When it doesn't, I'm right there to tell my wife it's ok and help with whatever we need to do next. 

Sometimes I want to bang my head against a wall. Sometimes I actually do. But other times, especially when everything and everyone is calm, I am happier than I have ever been. 

I don't know if this whole breastfeeding and pumping thing will work out. I'm optimistic that if we keep trying and trying and trying, then it most likely will. But it's a long, and probably painful road. 

What I do know, is that in the end, everything will be ok.

My baby @mobywrap-ed for the first time. This thing is awesome! #newdad

Frustration

This shouldn't be my first post. Ugh. My first post is somewhere behind that black screen on my Mac. 

Yesterday I began typing away at what I thought would be post #1 - what I wanted to be post #1 - instead, this frustrated rant is taking it's place. 

My MacBookPro has this problem where sometimes the screen just goes black for some reason. It's been happening for a few months now and I've checked some forums for ideas on how to fix it, but what's worked for some is all too technical for me. 

So in an effort to save my work (which I actually copied, but did not paste anywhere, before the black plague engulfed my screen) I went to speak to a "Mac Genius" just now. Unfortunately, it's Saturday and I didn't have an appointment. A nice employee took a second to hook up the computer to an external display, but it didn't help. So now I have to wait for my official appointment on Monday to see if there's any way to resurrect the bulk of my post.

I could obviously just start over. And I will most likely have to. But I really, REALLY don't want to. You know when you've written something for the first time and it captures the spirit and feeling of what you wanted to convey because it's fresh? That's how I feel about what I intended to post. What's even more frustrating is that it was tied to the date, March 29.

Oh well. HOPEFULLY I'll be able to pick up where I left off after some Genius helps me out. If not, then I suppose I'll just try to microwave my thoughts back to life. 

And oh, yeah, this feeling of frustration isn't helped by the fact that I'm not getting regular sleep. #newdad