All my childhood heroes wore coveralls. They were older men and could usually be found in their garages or riding lawn mowers over vast expanses of emerald-colored grass.

There was my friend’s dad down the street who seemed to constantly tinker in his shop, fixing, making, doing things. I was never sure exactly what he was doing, but because he wore coveralls and cursed a lot, I could tell it was important. I could tell it was real work, manly work.

Then there was the bachelor who lived just a few houses away. He used to work on old cars in his driveway and, whenever I stopped by, he would put down his tools and give me a ride on a hydraulic jack. His gray, sagging coveralls hung on a nail by the garage door, and as far as I could tell he never washed them.

My grandpa’s friend and next door neighbor, Bill, wore neatly pressed white coveralls to mow the lawn, and it amazed me to no end that they never turned green, never got stained. Because even as a boy, I paid attention to such things, I always noticed his coveralls were crisp, as if he ironed them just before heading outside. If I hadn’t seen him incessantly attending to his lawn, I would have thought the coveralls were meant for lounging, which also seemed like a suitable use. Only handy men owned coveralls. They could do whatever they pleased with them.

On a court near our house, there was a sad, unfortunate old man who worked on his lawn all the time, and I would watch him mowing a barren brown patch of grass while wearing black socks, white shoes and tight, ill-fitting Bermuda shorts. Clearly, he didn’t know what he was doing, and I felt sorry for him. If only he had coveralls, I thought — then his grass would shine. Then no one would mock him.

Because my dad spent only rare moments in the garage and from what I can remember didn’t have an array of tools, I was always interested in the doings of handy men. It should say something that I was more interested in their apparel than their projects, and it occurred to me years later that maybe they were just weekend tinkerers and all their projects fell apart shortly after completion, but they all wore coveralls and so at least maintained a front of respectability, if only in the eyes of a boy who admired a fine cuff stitch and the utility of a zipper that ran from the crotch to the neck. The appearance of being handy was enough for me.

***

On a recent weekend day, Dana and I hauled Emmeline into a thrift store on Valencia Street, and hanging on a rack in the “vintage” section was a pair of the largest, longest coveralls I had ever seen. If the Jolly Green Giant actually existed and tended to his crops as the commercials would have us believe, he would have worn these coveralls. They were not for ordinary men.

“Can I?” I begged Dana.

“What? Are you kidding me? You could swim in those, and besides, they are coveralls.”

I struggled to defend the light blue denim garment, telling Dana I could take in a little fabric here, shorten a leg there, add a few buttons and flaps maybe and they would fit just fine. My energy flagged rather quickly when Dana rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips, and I could tell immediately what she was thinking. People buy coveralls to get shit down around the house, to kick start oily motorbikes or to break out the circular saw and go to town on a two by four — not to sit in front of a sewing machine and embroider kicky designs on them while taking a few inches off the legs.

I put back the coveralls, feeling the rough, manly fabric with my fingertips one last time. Standing amid the clothes, the faint aroma of garage and sweat wafted from the rack, and a familiar sense of longing returned.

***

In the past year, I’ve dislocated my shoulder three times. The first time, I was wakeboarding while on vacation in Michigan, and while that sounds like a reasonable excuse for watching your shoulder run away its home, the reality was slightly more embarrassing. I had already crashed and was safely bobbing in the still lake water when I tried to whip my feet around and felt my shoulder slide out of place and then slip back in again. Essentially, I was floating. I injured myself floating.

After that, it took a long time for things to heal. And my shoulder would frequently offer up a few reminders that things were not back to normal. For instance, while folding laundry one day, my shoulder decided to make a run for it again.

Folding. laundry.

I simply reached up to a high part of my closet, moved a folded stack of blue jeans and pop. It slid out again.

The third time, I was playing pool and my shoulder briefly escaped, although I felt much better about it that time because at least I wasn’t inert. At least I had a good excuse. I was wielding a pool cue. It could have happened to anyone.

Sadly, all the injuries made it difficult to resume one of my nap time routines: exercise. I used to workout like a madman when Emmeline was napping, but after all the injuries, I became something of a stay-at-home cliche. Every afternoon, I found myself sitting on the couch, eating a half-pint of Ben and Jerry’s and telling Ellen to “Dance! Dance, girl, dance!”

Of course, time passed and the shoulder started to feel better and better, and I soon revisited my workout routine. Just in time, too. At 2, Emmeline had become something of a handful, which is a polite way of saying the only people who had witnessed such levels of energy usually wore white coats, worked in a lab and frequently used the words “rats,” “methamphetamine” and “effects of drug use.” The kid would not stop. And I was having trouble keeping up.

But having moved into our first house, I have had to cut the nap time workout short. Whereas I used to spend an hour jogging in place in front of the TV — banishing thoughts about my mom Jazzercising to A Ha’s “Take On Me” while also wondering: Holy shit, have I become her? — I now had only 20 minutes. Between cleaning, fixing, making things and generally surfing the Internet, I had to make better use of my time, and so usually I would do a quick task, workout and then finish something else before Emme awoke.

Earlier this week, I dashed upstairs after Emme went down, changed into workout shorts and a T-shirt and then finished cleaning the kitchen. When I was ready to workout, I didn’t care all that much that I was still wearing the black and blue argyle socks I think go so handsomely with the Converse All-Stars I was wearing earlier, and so I kept them on, exercised and then hustled down to the garage to store some wood scraps and sweep out the driveway.

A young woman passed on the sidewalk and offered a lingering smile, and while I immediately thought, “Whoa, back off, honey, I’m married,” I had to admit it was nice to have the attention. Clearly, even a condensed workout routine was paying off. I was feeling good, and I made a mental note that I should totally check myself out in the bathroom mirror when I went inside.

Big mistake.

I looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw: a young, balding man wearing black argyle socks, black Crocs, white workout shorts and an old, ripped T-shirt.

When I relayed what happened, Dana laughed at me for a long, long time — almost bordering on a rude amount of time, really. Still, I knew how to fix it.

“Coveralls,” I told her. “This never would have happened if you let me buy those coveralls.”

All my childhood heroes wore coveralls. They were older men and could usually be found in their garages or riding lawn mowers over vast expanses of emerald-colored grass.

There was my friend’s dad down the street who seemed to constantly tinker in his shop, fixing, making, doing things. I was never sure exactly what he was doing, but because he wore coveralls and cursed a lot, I could tell it was important. I could tell it was real work, manly work.

Then there was the bachelor who lived just a few houses away. He used to work on old cars in his driveway and, whenever I stopped by, he would put down his tools and give me a ride on a hydraulic jack. His gray, sagging coveralls hung on a nail by the garage door, and as far as I could tell he never washed them.

My grandpa’s friend and next door neighbor, Bill, wore neatly pressed white coveralls to mow the lawn, and it amazed me to no end that they never turned green, never got stained. Because even as a boy, I paid attention to such things, I always noticed his coveralls were crisp, as if he ironed them just before heading outside. If I hadn’t seen him incessantly attending to his lawn, I would have thought the coveralls were meant for lounging, which also seemed like a suitable use. Only handy men owned coveralls. They could do whatever they pleased with them.

On a court near our house, there was a sad, unfortunate old man who worked on his lawn all the time, and I would watch him mowing a barren brown patch of grass while wearing black socks, white shoes and tight, ill-fitting Bermuda shorts. Clearly, he didn’t know what he was doing, and I felt sorry for him. If only he had coveralls, I thought — then his grass would shine. Then no one would mock him.

Because my dad spent only rare moments in the garage and from what I can remember didn’t have an array of tools, I was always interested in the doings of handy men. It should say something that I was more interested in their apparel than their projects, and it occurred to me years later that maybe they were just weekend tinkerers and all their projects fell apart shortly after completion, but they all wore coveralls and so at least maintained a front of respectability, if only in the eyes of a boy who admired a fine cuff stitch and the utility of a zipper that ran from the crotch to the neck. The appearance of being handy was enough for me.

***

On a recent weekend day, Dana and I hauled Emmeline into a thrift store on Valencia Street, and hanging on a rack in the “vintage” section was a pair of the largest, longest coveralls I had ever seen. If the Jolly Green Giant actually existed and tended to his crops as the commercials would have us believe, he would have worn these coveralls. They were not for ordinary men.

“Can I?” I begged Dana.

“What? Are you kidding me? You could swim in those, and besides, they are coveralls.”

I struggled to defend the light blue denim garment, telling Dana I could take in a little fabric here, shorten a leg there, add a few buttons and flaps maybe and they would fit just fine. My energy flagged rather quickly when Dana rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips, and I could tell immediately what she was thinking. People buy coveralls to get shit down around the house, to kick start oily motorbikes or to break out the circular saw and go to town on a two by four — not to sit in front of a sewing machine and embroider kicky designs on them while taking a few inches off the legs.

I put back the coveralls, feeling the rough, manly fabric with my fingertips one last time. Standing amid the clothes, the faint aroma of garage and sweat wafted from the rack, and a familiar sense of longing returned.

***

In the past year, I’ve dislocated my shoulder three times. The first time, I was wakeboarding while on vacation in Michigan, and while that sounds like a reasonable excuse for watching your shoulder run away its home, the reality was slightly more embarrassing. I had already crashed and was safely bobbing in the still lake water when I tried to whip my feet around and felt my shoulder slide out of place and then slip back in again. Essentially, I was floating. I injured myself floating.

After that, it took a long time for things to heal. And my shoulder would frequently offer up a few reminders that things were not back to normal. For instance, while folding laundry one day, my shoulder decided to make a run for it again.

Folding. laundry.

I simply reached up to a high part of my closet, moved a folded stack of blue jeans and pop. It slid out again.

The third time, I was playing pool and my shoulder briefly escaped, although I felt much better about it that time because at least I wasn’t inert. At least I had a good excuse. I was wielding a pool cue. It could have happened to anyone.

Sadly, all the injuries made it difficult to resume one of my nap time routines: exercise. I used to workout like a madman when Emmeline was napping, but after all the injuries, I became something of a stay-at-home cliche. Every afternoon, I found myself sitting on the couch, eating a half-pint of Ben and Jerry’s and telling Ellen to “Dance! Dance, girl, dance!”

Of course, time passed and the shoulder started to feel better and better, and I soon revisited my workout routine. Just in time, too. At 2, Emmeline had become something of a handful, which is a polite way of saying the only people who had witnessed such levels of energy usually wore white coats, worked in a lab and frequently used the words “rats,” “methamphetamine” and “effects of drug use.” The kid would not stop. And I was having trouble keeping up.

But having moved into our first house, I have had to cut the nap time workout short. Whereas I used to spend an hour jogging in place in front of the TV — banishing thoughts about my mom Jazzercising to A Ha’s “Take On Me” while also wondering: Holy shit, have I become her? — I now had only 20 minutes. Between cleaning, fixing, making things and generally surfing the Internet, I had to make better use of my time, and so usually I would do a quick task, workout and then finish something else before Emme awoke.

Earlier this week, I dashed upstairs after Emme went down, changed into workout shorts and a T-shirt and then finished cleaning the kitchen. When I was ready to workout, I didn’t care all that much that I was still wearing the black and blue argyle socks I think go so handsomely with the Converse All-Stars I was wearing earlier, and so I kept them on, exercised and then hustled down to the garage to store some wood scraps and sweep out the driveway.

A young woman passed on the sidewalk and offered a lingering smile, and while I immediately thought, “Whoa, back off, honey, I’m married,” I had to admit it was nice to have the attention. Clearly, even a condensed workout routine was paying off. I was feeling good, and I made a mental note that I should totally check myself out in the bathroom mirror when I went inside.

Big mistake.

I looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw: a young, balding man wearing black argyle socks, black Crocs, white workout shorts and an old, ripped T-shirt.

When I relayed what happened, Dana laughed at me for a long, long time — almost bordering on a rude amount of time, really. Still, I knew how to fix it.

“Coveralls,” I told her. “This never would have happened if you let me buy those coveralls.”

***

***

***

“What are you digging for, kid?”

“Emme’s boogies are all gone!”

“Where’d they go?”

“Home.”

“Oh, where do the boogies live?”

“Home!”

“No, I mean, where is the boogie home?”

“Downtown.”

***

New mantel work. Stay or go?

***

“What are you digging for, kid?”

“Emme’s boogies are all gone!”

“Where’d they go?”

“Home.”

“Oh, where do the boogies live?”

“Home!”

“No, I mean, where is the boogie home?”

“Downtown.”

***

New mantel work. Stay or go?

***

At the time we bought the door, it was wedged between three score others at a salvage yard in Hunter’s Point. It was the biggest door by far. More like a square than a rectangle. Stained, beaten, soaked by the rain, it seemed to sag against the other doors, desperate for escape.

Dana saw it immediately and said, “That one. That one right there.”

We had been looking for all of two minutes.

We got the idea of turning an old door into a dining room table from a contributor to Design Sponge. I saw the idea during one of Emmeline’s naps and emailed the story to Dana, who immediately approved. The next weekend, we went to the salvage yard.

At first we thought the door was once used for a barn — it was that big. It also had sad, rusted hangers at the top, suggesting it once slid rather than swung open. There was a large hole in one panel, and I envisioned a horse hoof stomping through it one day. It seemed more romantic for some reason. In the end, though, we decided it had a less glamorous former life, and probably was a pocket door used to separate a parlor room from a “bedroom” like so many miniature San Francisco Victorians.

On the day we moved into our new house, we rented a U-Haul pickup and brought the door to the new place, resting it on a back balcony. $50. Dana talked the guy down from $60. She has made negotiating skilz.

For reasons I have yet to comprehend, I fell a bit in love with this old door. I would go out to the balcony, rub my hands across the rough grain and scratch under the panels. I would think about what it would look like someday, anchoring the dining room where we would spend so many family nights together. I bought a power sander and ripped off the first coat of gnarled, flaked wood. Then I used my hands for a second go round, rubbing it until the door was smooth and naked and clean.

Each time I sanded it or stained it or rubbed it lightly with steel wool, I examined the grains — tight in some places, huge, swirling whorls in others — and I wondered what went on behind this door, what it saw or heard: whispered musings, sudden illnesses, impossible joys and gripping sorrows, hot sex and slothful Sundays. It held secrets. I wondered who opened it, who closed it, who entered through the portal and into what type of room and how it might have changed people; held them back or let them in. I thought about how the door had changed itself now, becoming a gathering place, a focal point. Clearly, I inhaled a lot of wood stain.

The door is done now, almost. We’re still waiting for the glass top to arrive. It is due on Monday. In the meantime, I have to install a few more legs to brace it a little more. It seems wobbly. Dana and I are also debating whether to lay colored papers in the five panels. I tried it out and had to admit Dana was right — the door itself seems perfect enough.

If you’re curious at all, here are the stats on getting one done yourself. The glass was obscenely expensive because it was so big and odd-shaped — 6.5 feet by 5 feet. Plus I think we got robbed.

Door: $50
U-Haul: $50
Power sander: $39
Sandpaper: $15
Stain: $12
Steel wool, misc.: $10
8 Ikea legs: $120
Glass: $740 (Holy shit!)

Tomorrow you get another glimpse into our crazy, craft obsessed household to vote on our mantel art, which I did today while Dana was at work.

***

***

At the time we bought the door, it was wedged between three score others at a salvage yard in Hunter’s Point. It was the biggest door by far. More like a square than a rectangle. Stained, beaten, soaked by the rain, it seemed to sag against the other doors, desperate for escape.

Dana saw it immediately and said, “That one. That one right there.”

We had been looking for all of two minutes.

We got the idea of turning an old door into a dining room table from a contributor to Design Sponge. I saw the idea during one of Emmeline’s naps and emailed the story to Dana, who immediately approved. The next weekend, we went to the salvage yard.

At first we thought the door was once used for a barn — it was that big. It also had sad, rusted hangers at the top, suggesting it once slid rather than swung open. There was a large hole in one panel, and I envisioned a horse hoof stomping through it one day. It seemed more romantic for some reason. In the end, though, we decided it had a less glamorous former life, and probably was a pocket door used to separate a parlor room from a “bedroom” like so many miniature San Francisco Victorians.

On the day we moved into our new house, we rented a U-Haul pickup and brought the door to the new place, resting it on a back balcony. $50. Dana talked the guy down from $60. She has made negotiating skilz.

For reasons I have yet to comprehend, I fell a bit in love with this old door. I would go out to the balcony, rub my hands across the rough grain and scratch under the panels. I would think about what it would look like someday, anchoring the dining room where we would spend so many family nights together. I bought a power sander and ripped off the first coat of gnarled, flaked wood. Then I used my hands for a second go round, rubbing it until the door was smooth and naked and clean.

Each time I sanded it or stained it or rubbed it lightly with steel wool, I examined the grains — tight in some places, huge, swirling whorls in others — and I wondered what went on behind this door, what it saw or heard: whispered musings, sudden illnesses, impossible joys and gripping sorrows, hot sex and slothful Sundays. It held secrets. I wondered who opened it, who closed it, who entered through the portal and into what type of room and how it might have changed people; held them back or let them in. I thought about how the door had changed itself now, becoming a gathering place, a focal point. Clearly, I inhaled a lot of wood stain.

The door is done now, almost. We’re still waiting for the glass top to arrive. It is due on Monday. In the meantime, I have to install a few more legs to brace it a little more. It seems wobbly. Dana and I are also debating whether to lay colored papers in the five panels. I tried it out and had to admit Dana was right — the door itself seems perfect enough.

If you’re curious at all, here are the stats on getting one done yourself. The glass was obscenely expensive because it was so big and odd-shaped — 6.5 feet by 5 feet. Plus I think we got robbed.

Door: $50
U-Haul: $50
Power sander: $39
Sandpaper: $15
Stain: $12
Steel wool, misc.: $10
8 Ikea legs: $120
Glass: $740 (Holy shit!)

Tomorrow you get another glimpse into our crazy, craft obsessed household to vote on our mantel art, which I did today while Dana was at work.

***

***

“Mondays are so hard some weeks,” I told Dana.

Just two days earlier, we all three woke up early and headed over to the farmers market at the Ferry Building. Dana and I loaded our arms full of springtime peas and fava beans and bought chicken mole tamales and tostadas from a stand. We brought it all inside and handed Emme a bomboloni, which is like a tennis ball-sized Italian doughnut filled with custard. All week long the child waits for this, asking several times whether it’s “time for a bomboloni?” While Dana and I inhaled the best mexican food on the planet – Primavera, if you’re curious — Emme stuffed the sweet, delicious tennis ball into her mouth and then spent the next ten minutes licking sugar off her fingers, her toes and her chest.

“Mmm,” she sighed, “That’s tasty bomboloni.”

“Yeah?”

“Can Emme have more bomboloni?”

We told her it’s just once a week and then she fell into eating off our plates. Dana pulled her in close and squeezed her, kissing her sugary cheek.

“Mmm,” Emme told us, “That’s tasty tamale.”

When Emme went down for a nap, Dana and I installed legs on our wooden door/table, spending an hour drilling guide holes and then screwing in the legs. Dana held the top part of the leg on the table, keeping it firmly in place while I did important things like slap her on the ass.

“Hey!” I’d yell, “Stop moving it! You’re moving it!”

“Well stop spanking me then!”

“Well just keep it still — sheesh!”

On Sunday we drove to my mom’s house in Vacaville and dropped off Emme with her grammy. Dana and I sprinted to a fabric store, where we loaded the cart with buttons and crisp cotton prints. Dana wanted to make blankets and burp cloths for friends who are expecting babies, and I wanted to peruse the dress patterns.

“What do you think of this?” Dana asked, holding up a brown roll of fabric festooned with colorful ovals.

“Perfect.”

Together we combed through the fabrics, searching for a less busy pattern to compliment it.

“This?”

“No.”

“This?”

“Are you high?”

At last we found something and, with more free time on our hands than we knew what to do with, we headed over to the factory stores, buying huge amounts of baby clothes for next to nothing before finally returning to pick up our child. Later that night, at home, we shelled peas together and laughed as Emme snatched them and gobbled them raw.

“Mmm,” she said, “Those are tasty peas!”

And they were. She wasn’t lying. They tasted like vegetable sugar, sweet and warm from drying in the sun.

Which brings us back to Monday morning. We were all in the car. Dana was going to work and had agreed to drop off Emme and me at a lighting store.

“I don’t know why they’re so hard,” I told Dana. “Maybe it’s because we have all weekend and … it’s just different. Emme and I have fun all week, don’t get me wrong, but …”

Emme and I wandered the lighting store, searching for an elusive trio of pendant fixtures and finding none. I took her to a frame store next, asking her which ones she liked, and later we went to a paper store where she helped me pick up some decorative motifs.

“This one!” she screamed, wrapping her hands around a tube of pink, creamy paper. I agreed and let her carry it through the store.

By the time we made it to Market Street and stood waiting for the F line to come take us to the J line, it had been several hours and we were both tired and hungry. There was something about the day, something about all Mondays really, that make them more difficult to face nowadays than they ever were when I was working as a reporter. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t the work — I never missed that. Every other day of the week is just fine. It was something else, something lacking. I wonder sometimes if Emme notices.

We stood in the middle of Market Street at the train stop, waiting for the street car. Emme dangled off a metal rail while I knelt down beside her and watched the cars and buses rumble toward the cityscape in the distance. From the corner of my eye, I caught a shining orange glimpse of a street car headed our way.

“Here we go, kid — this is us.”

The train emerged from under a blanket of buildings and we boarded, finding a seat up front when a young man stood to make room for us. With Emme on my lap, I turned toward the rear window, watching as the buildings grew smaller and smaller until they were nearly hidden behind a rise in the street. Something was missing.

Emme followed my gaze out the window, watching the buildings fade through the glass.

“That’s where mommy works,” she said.

“Where?” I asked.

“There,” she said, “In the buildings.”

I nodded and smiled, as the glistening building tops finally dissolved in the distance.

“Mommy’s not at home,” Emme said matter-of-factly. “When is mommy coming home?”

And that was exactly it.

***

“Mondays are so hard some weeks,” I told Dana.

Just two days earlier, we all three woke up early and headed over to the farmers market at the Ferry Building. Dana and I loaded our arms full of springtime peas and fava beans and bought chicken mole tamales and tostadas from a stand. We brought it all inside and handed Emme a bomboloni, which is like a tennis ball-sized Italian doughnut filled with custard. All week long the child waits for this, asking several times whether it’s “time for a bomboloni?” While Dana and I inhaled the best mexican food on the planet – Primavera, if you’re curious — Emme stuffed the sweet, delicious tennis ball into her mouth and then spent the next ten minutes licking sugar off her fingers, her toes and her chest.

“Mmm,” she sighed, “That’s tasty bomboloni.”

“Yeah?”

“Can Emme have more bomboloni?”

We told her it’s just once a week and then she fell into eating off our plates. Dana pulled her in close and squeezed her, kissing her sugary cheek.

“Mmm,” Emme told us, “That’s tasty tamale.”

When Emme went down for a nap, Dana and I installed legs on our wooden door/table, spending an hour drilling guide holes and then screwing in the legs. Dana held the top part of the leg on the table, keeping it firmly in place while I did important things like slap her on the ass.

“Hey!” I’d yell, “Stop moving it! You’re moving it!”

“Well stop spanking me then!”

“Well just keep it still — sheesh!”

On Sunday we drove to my mom’s house in Vacaville and dropped off Emme with her grammy. Dana and I sprinted to a fabric store, where we loaded the cart with buttons and crisp cotton prints. Dana wanted to make blankets and burp cloths for friends who are expecting babies, and I wanted to peruse the dress patterns.

“What do you think of this?” Dana asked, holding up a brown roll of fabric festooned with colorful ovals.

“Perfect.”

Together we combed through the fabrics, searching for a less busy pattern to compliment it.

“This?”

“No.”

“This?”

“Are you high?”

At last we found something and, with more free time on our hands than we knew what to do with, we headed over to the factory stores, buying huge amounts of baby clothes for next to nothing before finally returning to pick up our child. Later that night, at home, we shelled peas together and laughed as Emme snatched them and gobbled them raw.

“Mmm,” she said, “Those are tasty peas!”

And they were. She wasn’t lying. They tasted like vegetable sugar, sweet and warm from drying in the sun.

Which brings us back to Monday morning. We were all in the car. Dana was going to work and had agreed to drop off Emme and me at a lighting store.

“I don’t know why they’re so hard,” I told Dana. “Maybe it’s because we have all weekend and … it’s just different. Emme and I have fun all week, don’t get me wrong, but …”

Emme and I wandered the lighting store, searching for an elusive trio of pendant fixtures and finding none. I took her to a frame store next, asking her which ones she liked, and later we went to a paper store where she helped me pick up some decorative motifs.

“This one!” she screamed, wrapping her hands around a tube of pink, creamy paper. I agreed and let her carry it through the store.

By the time we made it to Market Street and stood waiting for the F line to come take us to the J line, it had been several hours and we were both tired and hungry. There was something about the day, something about all Mondays really, that make them more difficult to face nowadays than they ever were when I was working as a reporter. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t the work — I never missed that. Every other day of the week is just fine. It was something else, something lacking. I wonder sometimes if Emme notices.

We stood in the middle of Market Street at the train stop, waiting for the street car. Emme dangled off a metal rail while I knelt down beside her and watched the cars and buses rumble toward the cityscape in the distance. From the corner of my eye, I caught a shining orange glimpse of a street car headed our way.

“Here we go, kid — this is us.”

The train emerged from under a blanket of buildings and we boarded, finding a seat up front when a young man stood to make room for us. With Emme on my lap, I turned toward the rear window, watching as the buildings grew smaller and smaller until they were nearly hidden behind a rise in the street. Something was missing.

Emme followed my gaze out the window, watching the buildings fade through the glass.

“That’s where mommy works,” she said.

“Where?” I asked.

“There,” she said, “In the buildings.”

I nodded and smiled, as the glistening building tops finally dissolved in the distance.

“Mommy’s not at home,” Emme said matter-of-factly. “When is mommy coming home?”

And that was exactly it.

***

There is nothing better than going to work late with Dana, meeting for a leisurely lunch and then all three of us heading home afterward to nap. It’s a hard knock life.

Next week, I reveal our dining room door/table — the one that left my entire left foot stained in a beautiful walnut veneer because I didn’t watch where the hell I was stepping. The door, and my foot, look fantastic. Have a great weekend!

***

There is nothing better than going to work late with Dana, meeting for a leisurely lunch and then all three of us heading home afterward to nap. It’s a hard knock life.

Next week, I reveal our dining room door/table — the one that left my entire left foot stained in a beautiful walnut veneer because I didn’t watch where the hell I was stepping. The door turned out OK, I suppose, but my foot looks fantastic! Have a great weekend!

Can be found over at The Poop today. Please note that the second video is not safe for work.

Can be found over at The Poop today. Please note that the second video is not safe for work.

***

Like any other child, I played all manner of oddball, make-believe games. Dive ‘em. Catch ‘em. Hit ‘em. Even in the thick, lingering heat of summer, I would build a fort out of blankets, strap on a puffy snowsuit and play “astronaut” in what was essentially a make-believe space kiln. The only thing I remember about that game was an overwhelming swelter that must have burned off billions of brain cells with each new mission. Clearly, I played it a lot.

So it’s not surprising to find my own daughter making up all manner of activities to keep us occupied. “Wombat tunnel” is a particular favorite and basically consists of me covering her with a blanket and pretending not to see her. Bird tunnel, worm tunnel and The Lump are variations on the theme, while “Leap. Of. Death!” is slightly more involved: She climbs onto our headboard and jumps onto a mass of pillows. It’s tedious and our progress is slow, but I’ve been trying for weeks to get her to shape her hands like Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka when she jumps. She’s almost got it. Flying Tamale is, of course, her all-time favorite. But occasionally she will shove a pillow into my hands and ask “Daddy beat Emme please?” I don’t remember who thought up the name for what is essentially a slow-speed pillow fight, but at the time I must have thought it was cute, and so it stuck.

On the way home from a park the other day, Emme spotted a geyser erupting from the middle of Valencia Street. The water fountain seemed to spring from the asphalt itself, and she wanted to investigate.

“Daddy what’s that?” she wondered.

“I have no idea, kid — let’s look.”

We sat on a small brick shelf on the side of an auto parts store, staring at an enormous hole in the road while water erupted from a pipe and exploded all around us. A worker told me they planned to fix the pipe and needed to drain out excess water. Emme was transfixed. Eventually I checked my watch and realized we had been there a half hour and needed to get home for nap time. I nudged Emme’s shoulder.

“Come on, kid, it’s time to go.”

“No!”

“We can play wombat tunnel,” I offered.

“And bird tunnel?”

“Sure.”

“And worm tunnel?”

“Of course.”

She asked about The Lump and about playing Leap. Of. Death! and I approved them all, so long as we made our way home and eventually put her to bed.

“And beat Emme please?” she asked.

“Sure, we can play beat Emme. But let’s go.”

It was about this time a portly old woman in a billowy green dress stopped and remarked on Emme’s hat.

“Well isn’t she adorable!” the woman said, crouching low to smile at the child. “And what’s your name little girl?”

Emme paused, mulled it over and said, “Daddy beats Emme. At home.”

***

Like any other child, I played all manner of oddball, make-believe games. Dive ‘em. Catch ‘em. Hit ‘em. Even in the thick, lingering heat of summer, I would build a fort out of blankets, strap on a puffy snowsuit and play “astronaut” in what was essentially a make-believe space kiln. The only thing I remember about that game was an overwhelming swelter that must have burned off billions of brain cells with each new mission. Clearly, I played it a lot.

So it’s not surprising to find my own daughter making up all manner of activities to keep us occupied. “Wombat tunnel” is a particular favorite and basically consists of me covering her with a blanket and pretending not to see her. Bird tunnel, worm tunnel and The Lump are variations on the theme, while “Leap. Of. Death!” is slightly more involved: She climbs onto our headboard and jumps onto a mass of pillows. It’s tedious and our progress is slow, but I’ve been trying for weeks to get her to shape her hands like Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka when she jumps. She’s almost got it. Flying Tamale is, of course, her all-time favorite. But occasionally she will shove a pillow into my hands and ask “Daddy beat Emme please?” I don’t remember who thought up the name for what is essentially a slow-speed pillow fight, but at the time I must have thought it was cute, and so it stuck.

On the way home from a park the other day, Emme spotted a geyser erupting from the middle of Valencia Street. The water fountain seemed to spring from the asphalt itself, and she wanted to investigate.

“Daddy what’s that?” she wondered.

“I have no idea, kid — let’s look.”

We sat on a small brick shelf on the side of an auto parts store, staring at an enormous hole in the road while water erupted from a pipe and exploded all around us. A worker told me they planned to fix the pipe and needed to drain out excess water. Emme was transfixed. Eventually I checked my watch and realized we had been there a half hour and needed to get home for nap time. I nudged Emme’s shoulder.

“Come on, kid, it’s time to go.”

“No!”

“We can play wombat tunnel,” I offered.

“And bird tunnel?”

“Sure.”

“And worm tunnel?”

“Of course.”

She asked about The Lump and about playing Leap. Of. Death! and I approved them all, so long as we made our way home and eventually put her to bed.

“And beat Emme please?” she asked.

“Sure, we can play beat Emme. But let’s go.”

It was about this time a portly old woman in a billowy green dress stopped and remarked on Emme’s hat.

“Well isn’t she adorable!” the woman said, crouching low to smile at the child. “And what’s your name little girl?”

Emme paused, mulled it over and said, “Daddy beats Emme. At home.”

Can’t stand to watch.

***

“Hi, do you offer credit cards?”

“No.”

“Because a lot of stores when you open a credit card will give you 10 percent off on your purchases? Or even 20!”

“No, sorry. We don’t even have a charge department.”

“Oh, OK … No wait! Wait! Hello? Um, we’re about to place a big order online and I was wondering if you had any sales or discounts … or, you know?”

“No, I’m sorry. They cost what they cost.”

“OK, OK, but, um … OK, thanks.”

*CLICK*

“I just realized I’m going to embarrass the hell out of Emme someday. She’s going to hate me.”

“You’re kind of embarrassing me now.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t just make it simple and ask her to give you stuff for free?”

“What?”

“Like, `Hi, I’m buying something online and I want half of it for free, because, well, you know?’ I’m so glad that was over the phone and not in person.”

***

The site may be down for a bit this weekend for maintenance, or as the site claims: “It’s just surgery for a deviated septum, that’s all. I swear!” Have a great weekend.

Can’t stand to watch.

***

“Hi, do you offer credit cards?”

“No.”

“Because a lot of stores when you open a credit card will give you 10 percent off on your purchases? Or even 20!”

“No, sorry. We don’t even have a charge department.”

“Oh, OK … No wait! Wait! Hello? Um, we’re about to place a big order online and I was wondering if you had any sales or discounts … or, you know?”

“No, I’m sorry. They cost what they cost.”

“OK, OK, but, um … OK, thanks.”

*CLICK*

“I just realized I’m going to embarrass the hell out of Emme someday. She’s going to hate me.”

“You’re kind of embarrassing me now.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t just make it simple and ask her to give you stuff for free?”

“What?”

“Like, `Hi, I’m buying something online and I want half of it for free, because, well, you know?’ I’m so glad that was over the phone and not in person.”

***

The site may be down for a bit this weekend for maintenance, or as the site claims: “It’s just surgery for a deviated septum, that’s all. I swear!” Have a great weekend.

Emme giving us, “The Look.”

***

So, like, Emmeline had just woken up from her nap and Dana decided it was a good time to throw a stuffed pig at my face. And I was all, “Nuh uh girl!” And then beaned her with a stuffed cow. It was then that she jumped on top of me and wrestled me to the ground. (Before she became a lawyer, Dana used to work in a group home for druggie teenagers and actually had to learn all sorts of restraints and holds that seem mean to perform on orphans but have proven surprisingly useful in the sack. Wrestling. I mean surprisingly useful for wrestling. Sometimes it’s awkward to know the in-laws, my mom and many assorted relatives read this, and this is one of those times.)

So anyway, I was on the ground in pain, you know? And Emme was being of no help whatsoever, and so I turned to the kid and and shouted, “Emme! Hey Emme! Come here and help your father.”

“No, Emme,” Dana said, struggling to keep me on the ground, “Come help your mother.”

And then almost in unison, we asked, “Emme, who do you love more?”

But the kid was all oblivious, you know? By this time, Emme had found a book and climbed into her easy chair. She flipped through a few pages of some Richard Scarry yarn about firefighters and pickle cars or whatever, but finally she must have decided she had enough.

“Mommy. Daddy. Emme’s reading.” If she wore glasses, she probably would have looked over them and shot us daggers. (See exhibit A above.)

“What? No. Come here and help,” I grunted, “Attack your mother!”

Somehow I managed to escape without the pint-sized librarian’s help. I hid behind an armoire with an armory of stuffed animals, while Dana crouched below the crib rails with her own burgeoning arsenal.

“There’s no escape,” I told her at just about the very same instant an armadillo sailed through the air and smashed into my teeth. In no time at all I was on the floor again, thinking, “How does she do that?”

From the chair, Emme looked up from her book and was all, “Mommy, one minute.”

And we were all, “What?”

“Mommy, one minute!”

Dana and I pleaded, “Oh come on! That’s not fair — just a little bit longer!”

Emme put the book down and was all, “No! Mommy and daddy read with Emme! One more minute!”

Dana let me go and we all trudged into the living room.

“She started it,” I grumbled, spanking my wife.

Dana poked me in the ribs, “No way! He did!”

Emme put her hands on her hips and was all, “You finished?”

And then she grabbed another stupid book, one with lots words and not enough pictures, and demanded we read her a story, while Dana and I assembled styrofoam gliders that we had forgotten to give out as party favors for her second birthday.

We totally talked Emme into tossing them around our furniture-less living room and later we all went to up to the balcony to launch Army parachute men — another awesome party favor we had completely forgotten about. In fact, we discovered we didn’t give out party favors to anybody. We didn’t mean to not give them away and brighten the lives of little children, but whatever — they are pretty fun to play with. Watching parachute men flutter and flail in the breeze, one of my biggest fears came back in a big way, you know? Because one of these days, Emme is going to realize she’s being raised by two people who really aren’t much older than she is.

Emme giving us, “The Look.”

***

So, like, Emmeline had just woken up from her nap and Dana decided it was a good time to throw a stuffed pig at my face. And I was all, “Nuh uh girl!” And then beaned her with a stuffed cow. It was then that she jumped on top of me and wrestled me to the ground. (Before she became a lawyer, Dana used to work in a group home for druggie teenagers and actually had to learn all sorts of restraints and holds that seem mean to perform on orphans but have proven surprisingly useful in the sack. Wrestling. I mean surprisingly useful for wrestling. Sometimes it’s awkward to know the in-laws, my mom and many assorted relatives read this, and this is one of those times.)

So anyway, I was on the ground in pain, you know? And Emme was being of no help whatsoever, and so I turned to the kid and and shouted, “Emme! Hey Emme! Come here and help your father.”

“No, Emme,” Dana said, struggling to keep me on the ground, “Come help your mother.”

And then almost in unison, we asked, “Emme, who do you love more?”

But the kid was all oblivious, you know? By this time, Emme had found a book and climbed into her easy chair. She flipped through a few pages of some Richard Scarry yarn about firefighters and pickle cars or whatever, but finally she must have decided she had enough.

“Mommy. Daddy. Emme’s reading.” If she wore glasses, she probably would have looked over them and shot us daggers. (See exhibit A above.)

“What? No. Come here and help,” I grunted, “Attack your mother!”

Somehow I managed to escape without the pint-sized librarian’s help. I hid behind an armoire with an armory of stuffed animals, while Dana crouched below the crib rails with her own burgeoning arsenal.

“There’s no escape,” I told her at just about the very same instant an armadillo sailed through the air and smashed into my teeth. In no time at all I was on the floor again, thinking, “How does she do that?”

From the chair, Emme looked up from her book and was all, “Mommy, one minute.”

And we were all, “What?”

“Mommy, one minute!”

Dana and I pleaded, “Oh come on! That’s not fair — just a little bit longer!”

Emme put the book down and was all, “No! Mommy and daddy read with Emme! One more minute!”

Dana let me go and we all trudged into the living room.

“She started it,” I grumbled, spanking my wife.

Dana poked me in the ribs, “No way! He did!”

Emme put her hands on her hips and was all, “You finished?”

And then she grabbed another stupid book, one with lots words and not enough pictures, and demanded we read her a story, while Dana and I assembled styrofoam gliders that we had forgotten to give out as party favors for her second birthday.

We totally talked Emme into tossing them around our furniture-less living room and later we all went to up to the balcony to launch Army parachute men — another awesome party favor we had completely forgotten about. In fact, we discovered we didn’t give out party favors to anybody. We didn’t mean to not give them away and brighten the lives of little children, but whatever — they are pretty fun to play with. Watching parachute men flutter and flail in the breeze, one of my biggest fears came back in a big way, you know? Because one of these days, Emme is going to realize she’s being raised by two people who really aren’t much older than she is.

***

I’ve been working on a prototype of a new shirt for the contest winner, and I’m pretty sure I finally got it right. So this is what the cut will look like — just with much, much cooler fabric.

And now that I’ve finally perfected the pattern (sorry it took so long!), I envision another contest in the near future. Although the question will be much harder, I’ll give advance notice of the contest next time. Stay tuned.

***

***

We moved beyond the crowds, pushing out quickly. A grove of cypress trees swayed in the breeze, and a low-lying fog drifted by in ghostly sheets. We were alone. In the distance, the sound of peacocks, screaming.

“What was that?” Emmeline whispered.

“Peacocks.”

“Oh Emme likes peatocks.”

She wanted to ride in the “Jeep” at the zoo, and of course I couldn’t resist. Not today.

She wanted to see zebras. And so we sprinted to them. She wanted to see monkeys. And so we thundered down the walkways, emerging through the spectral steam to find a silver-backed western lowland gorilla not 10 feet from where we stood, separated from us only by a moat and a cheap fence.

“It’s hairy!” Emme said.

“Sure is,” I gulped.

“Like daddy!”

Thanks, kid.

For breakfast, she had a cupcake and on the way to the zoo, she consumed an entire bag of dried, candied fruit. If she had requested a gallon-size drum of high fructose corn syrup, I would have unsealed the container and passed it back. It was her day, I told her.

“You can do anything you want.”

She chose the zoo.

“Emme wants to see monkeys,” she said. “And giraffes. And ostriches. Emme wants to see the animals! All the animals!”

At the giraffe enclosure, I hoisted her on the fence and put my arm around her waist, listening as she pointed out the animals.

“There’s an ostrich!” she screamed, “There’s a peatock!”

Usually when we go to the zoo, we stay for hours in the petting zoo or pick one or two animals to make faces at for awhile. But today she wanted to see them all. After a few minutes of harassing the owls with her own high-pitched woodland screech, Emme wanted to jump in her little Jeep wagon and see the kangaroos and the wallabies, the koalas and mecaques. She rather quickly warmed to the notion that I was as much her man servant as her father, a sentiment I’m sure will reemerge when she’s a teenager.

“Faster daddy!” she would call, not bothering to look back. “Ooh, there’s anudder peatock!”

For lunch we shared an enormous bowl of macaroni and cheese, and quite daintily — “like a big girl,” she said — Emme took great pains to smear the mess over every open pore on her face. We washed it down with chicken strips, french fries and ketchup, and if she had seen the ice cream cart, I’m sure we would have had that, too.

“Emme wants to ride the animals!” she called on the way out of the cafe, running toward the carousel. In just two trips around the rickety contraption, she rode a giraffe, a horse, a cat, a tiger, a lion and an ostrich we named Toby.

When the spinning finally stopped, Emme grabbed my knee and steadied herself as if she had just stepped off a boat.

“You OK, kid?”

“Emme doesn’t want to ride the animals.”

It seemed like a good time to make a run for it, and so a half hour later, I found myself carrying her up our stairs, something she usually likes to do herself. I asked if she was hungry or thirsty or whether she wanted to play with a new dollhouse that had managed to build itself in an hour and a half the night before with only a minimal amount of swearing.

“Emme doesn’t want to take a nap,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you sure? Because it wasn’t me who brought it up.”

“No thank you.”

She still couldn’t find her legs. Standing over her dollhouse, she seemed to sway — like some drunken giant ready to ruin the village faire by falling on top of it. And so I gathered her up and we sat for a long time in her room, rocking in the soft light and recounting our adventures.

“Emme saw the animals,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes again and yawning. I asked her which one was her favorite and she asked me to sing her a song. It’s been months — more than a year, actually — since she has fallen asleep in my arms. It’s been so long it seems like that was another kid altogether. But there she was, drifting. Her eyes closed and jerked open again. I stopped singing and hummed instead. Her burning head rested in the crook of my shoulder, her legs draped across my body. Her feet barely made it to my knees.

After what seemed like long enough, I rose slowly in the dark, her limp body in my arms and kissed her on the cheek, whispering, “Happy birthday, kid.”

She opened her eyes and said, “Emme’s birthday. Emme’s two.”

“Sweet dreams,” I whispered.

“Emme’s a big girl now,” she sighed, before sticking her thumb in her mouth and drifting again. I closed the door behind me and wondered if I would ever think so.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Emme?”

“Daddy. Emme has to pee.”

“You have to or you did?”

“Have to.”

“Alright, do you want to go in the potty?”

“Hmm.”

“OK, let’s go”

“Emme pees in mommy and daddy’s potty.”

“OK, sure.”

“Emme pees like daddy.”

“Yes, you can pee in daddy’s potty. Let me get this diaper off …”

“No, Emme pees like daddy.”

“What? No, no. You have to sit down. Stop — sit down!”

“Emme’s peeing like daddy!”

“Well Emme’s going to clean up like daddy, too.”

***

“Are you serious? I don’t think we need to start inundating her with safety crap now … should we?”

“Well I don’t want to wait too long and be all, “Have fun at your first day of kindergarten. Don’t forget your lunch. AND NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO TOUCH YOUR VAGINA!”

At the bustling crossroads, amid the ambling, broken cars and the rusted shopping carts, our carriage came hobbling down the street, toddling and bouncing. It swayed. It leaned. It nudged derelict cars out of its path, a lumbering schoolyard bully headed blindly for the slides.

“Beep, beep,” it chortled.

White-stained, boxy, rattling and shaking, it wandered toward the curb, bent a knee and opened its doors — a warm whoosh of beery air. A puddle in the aisle.

“Here it is, kid,” I said.

“The bus,” she answered, “The bus. Not the train. The bus!”

We stepped inside.

“Well isn’t she a cutie!” the driver said.

Her hair was pulled back. Tight. Her ears sagged under the gaudy weight of golden hoop earrings.

“Watch your step now, honey.”

Over the puddle and into a seat. She sat on my lap, eating cookies. We were near the front, wedged in.

The bus chuckled to itself and struggled forward. The puddle flowed backward. Backward and forward. Backward and forward — each stop and start pulling the mass in a different direction.

“No, no — I was SWAT. SWAT! Do you hear me? I was a jump-out man!”

This from a man across the aisle. A green jacket. Clean jeans. Tired, black shoes.

“I was a SEAL before that,” he said, and the driver must have been in a mood. She glanced back in the mirror.

“SWAT, you say?”

“I ain’t jiving you, sister!”

“Every day,” she answered. “Every day it’s a new job!”

The man beside me laughed and stared out the window.

The lady on the other side adjusted her brandy-colored wig, pulling it lower over her eyes and revealing a scramble of the darker hair she left behind, her former self. She rubbed her cheek, scratchy with brown stubble. She had bleached the hair on her knuckles. A red bruise running from her nose to her ear — it didn’t come off. She sat there quietly, rubbing the bruise, trying to remove it.

“SEAL, that’s right,” said the man, “SEAL then SWAT. OK, this is me. You have a good one.”

The bus dawdled along the curb and the man stepped down and I could see him walking slowly down the sidewalk, into and out of our lives so quickly like all the rest of this great rolling pageant of beautiful misery. The bus toddled forward again and the puddle swished backward, nearly lapping against my feet. The bus driver glanced in her mirror. She rested an arm on the yellow bar that separates her from paying customers.

“Some people,” she announced to the sudden quiet, “Some people just need someone to talk to.”

She must have sensed an invitation, because an older woman with a light pink head scarf pushed herself nearly into the aisle, craned her neck around and said to the bus driver, “He was a good story teller.”

“Sure is,” said the bus driver. “Say, where you headed?”

Another older woman smirked to herself, searching the bus for anyone else who thought the whole thing was just crazy or weird or bizarre, and seeing no one, she clapped her hands together on her crisp skirt and stopped scanning the passengers, just sitting there, smirking.

At the next stop, a big-hipped woman. It took her awhile to get on the bus. She sat up front and almost immediately recognized a friend.

“It’s been too long,” she said, and they embraced on the seats, and after a few pleasantries all I could hear was snippets. Whispered. They could have been in a church.

“Treatment.”

“Four, five months. They don’t know.”

“Well I’m really sorry about that, I am. If there’s anything.”

And still the bus tipped along, bouncing from stop to stop.

“Emme needs more cookies,” she said on my lap, searching an empty cellophane bag. “Emme needs more cookies!”

And there we were, too, posed for the smiling, springtime rotogravure — a sweet, piercing sprite resting on a knee and calling out for more sugar and a dad saying he had none left, that they’d be there soon and please use your indoor voice.

“More please!”

The man beside me laughed, and the lady with the whiskers continued rubbing at the stubborn, angry bruise.

“This is us, kid,” I said, heading for the door.

She pulled the rope.

“Ding, ding!” she screamed, high.

On the sidewalk now, walking uphill. New passengers loading through the front door. The driver looked down and waved.

“You have a good one, honey.”

And then it was off again, a jolly white boxy bully pushing against the cars and bucking into a lane.

“Beep, beep,” it laughed.

“Beep, beep!” she echoed, pulling an invisible rope.

***

Bus Adventure No. 1