Over the last month I've discovered a whole new world of storytimes. There's yoga storytime and library storytime followed by playtime. There's something to do nearly every day without even boarding a bus. These free activities have had a tremendous impact on Michael Alexander, who is interacting with his peers and toddlers, mostly toddlers. I hate to miss one, as we are right now while Michael Alexander takes a rare nap that's allowing me to bang out by personal finance column and cobble something here. Most infants and toddlers that attend these mixed playgroups are accompanied by nannies. In the East Village there are more moms and dads than there are in the West Village, where nannies replace parents. But there are still more nannies in general, often nannies that accompany the moms. I had hoped these sessions would both boost Michael Alexander's social development and help me meet other moms (or dads) who've opted (or been forced by unemployment) to stay at home and raise their babies. It's certainly helped him grow, as he interacts well with the others, save for his not-so-uncommon fascination with hair-pulling. We even had a playdate with one his fellow baby yogis yesterday. I've met some moms, to mixed results in boosting my mommy confidence, profile and general understanding of mommyhood in the city.
The nice thing about Manhattan (and I'm sure some neighborhoods in Brooklyn) is that it's the anti-suburbia when it comes to mommyhood. Storytime reflects our unique lifestyle, as books and songs about transportation are edited to elevate the MetroCard and reduce the car's status to a vacation rental. Our offspring are cosmopolitan creatures born into a culturally rich landscape that will nurture their aesthetic tastes and a diverse streetscape that will spur a savvy that suburban sprawl can't cultivate. City kids talk about painting and sculpture and theater and opera and open mikes and know not to run into traffic or step too close to the platform. While I wish we lived within walking (or driving, if we had a car) distance to a great shoreline so my son and I could swim and sun, I believe raising a child here is superior to subjecting him to a closed community, even if he'd have a big lawn. Really, he's got his choice of the biggest lawns, from Central Park to Union Square to Tompkins Square to Madison Square. (The last three within quick walking distance.)
As I wonder how these early influences will shape my son's development and future, I'm also trying to figure where I fit in this new and evolving role as mommy. In her new book, Kids or No Kids, Zoe Slater considers interviews she conducted with women across the world. "In today's society, women often choose to have children later in life. New value systems mean that we are pickier about picking a partner, and embrace the lifestyles enabled by financial factors and modern living arrangements. The common denominator for all of us, is to one day confront the question of motherhood. Regardless of age or location, motherhood is like a sisterhood that bonds us," Slater writes. Manhattan is clearly representative of "today's society" in terms of waiting to have kids. A little over a week away from feting my 40th, I'm one of the "young" moms in these storytime groups. Sure some of my fellow moms, I learned just this week, are raising a baby with their *new* partner or spouse nearly two decades after raising their first with their ex. Still, we're all facing the same challenges of a digital parenting age where our babies are born masters at navigating our iPhone touch screens.
What Slater fails to address is how these demographic differences are truly divisive. Sure I can relate to suburban moms on many matters from sleepless nights to teething pains, but the challenges of being a mother in Manhattan are unique and can be more isolating than a house tucked away on a quiet cul-de-sac. In most suburban, country or low-income communities, moms are generally in the same socioeconomic situation, save for a few hundred grand in mounting debt for many of the suburbanites *living* well beyond their means. Manhattan is a mix of struggling artist moms and dads who tuck their toddlers into a nook in a one-room walkup -- to those who spa and shop and socialize while nannies tote their toddlers to the same free storytimes -- to everyone in between. It's tough being trapped in the middle (is that how we define class in this city?) where your sensibilities, academic and artistic achievements, professional prowess (even when it's on hold) and choice to mommy (in varying degrees) bridge the real estate and childcare gaps. Motherhood is no more a sisterhood than a shared career goal or haircolor. In fact, motherhood is the source of the same -- or more severe -- competitive strife that pits women against other women in the workplace or the salon. And in this city, it's a struggle on steroids as the haves are so preoccupied with the have-mores that we often forget the have-nots.
As I try to do best by my son, I strive to put my plight into perspective. I can't shake brownstone envy, especially when I take Michael Alexander to his pediatrician's office on a picturesque Village block where a nice family home (a renovated late 1800's townhouse) just sold for $12 million. Mike and I want more than anything (other than to have a healthy, happy son and a blissful marriage) to be famous novelists or magazine editors. Famous authors with a Village townhouse, of course. Meantime, I'll try to not complain about my life as one of the haves, even by a New York perspective. I hate when I compare myself with the have-mores, especially when I'm confident they're not nearly as content as I when it comes to my son, my husband, my family and my appreciation of this city's myriad perks, many cheap or free. I'm comforted by conversations with like-minded moms, who agree that the backdrop of storytime -- the tales of babies sleeping through the night and sleeping in until mommy-only yoga -- are clearly a Grimm reality.
Showing posts with label Union Square. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Union Square. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Snow What Matters
A blizzard in New York is polarizing. Living in Manhattan is a breeze, even with the high wind. You don't have to shovel anything. You can walk anywhere and get what you need, unless it's a salad from Whole Foods (more on that later.) But if you live way out in Brooklyn or Queens, it can ruin your day, or even a couple of days. People whose only access is an elevated subway train can't make it work, and most of those people aren't paid when they can't show up. Many people who work in offices that aren't newsrooms can work from home, changing the dynamic of everyday life in your neighborhood. Different people are at the gym or out to lunch. It can be a luxury, almost like a snow day when you were a kid, for those who get to work from home. Generally, it's a lighter workload and those working from home can sneak out to the gym or linger over sashimi instead of slurping down some bodega soup at their desk wishing they were in Spin class. While newspepople need to get to work regardless of where they live, there's little argument that financial services execs should have to trek to the office. Are investors really eager to rebalance their portfolios in the wake of thundersnow? I think not. Yet some bosses, or at least Mike's, decided it was essential for them to staff the office. Funny how Mike was one of three people in the otherwise empty building yesterday. One left at 1 p.m. after muddling his way into Midtown from that faraway planet we call Jersey where he could have been cuddling with his wife and kids.
Back to Whole Foods. My father-in-law, who is visiting for Michael Alexander's first Christmas, went out to get salads from my mother-in-law and me. He returned empty handed as none of the regular salad selections were stocked. I made a second run with him to see what we might forage. In place of usual mezzes and cobbs was a stockpile of greens topped, or toppled, with quinoa and rice. Clearly the salad maven couldn't make it in from the outer Bronx so the guy who restocks housewares and cleaning supplies was summoned into the land of Caesars and Nicoises. The butcher and the fishmonger couldn't make it in either, so the protein of choice (or no choice) was quinoa. I managed to muster my taste for something called a harvest salad comprised mostly of red grapes. I do like grapes, but rarely as the star ingredient in a savory salad. Still, they were more appetizing than a giant lump of unseasoned quinoa. Quinoa is a good source of magnesium and phosphorus, and an excellent source of manganese. It's a complete protein, meaning it is one of the few grains that contain all the essential amino acids. But, still, they could throw in some veggies to brighten up the greens. Veggies, not grains, need to be the bigger player in the plastic tub. I digress. The real problem here is that the salad maven, the fish monger, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick stocker who couldn't make it to Union Square yesterday lost a day of pay. Meantime, Whole Foods saved on wages and reaped sales from these substitute salads as snowmageddon shoppers crammed their carts for fear the staaaahrm will never cease and even the Chinese takeout places that fueled the shattered city on 9/11 would shudder.
I can kind of, sort of, understand the fear of a Depression era born rural Vermonter who must travel 10 miles to Johnsons' General Store and about 150 miles to the nearest supermarket. I get why he might fire up his pickup truck and scour the megamart shelves after the forecast hits. But really Manhattanites? Really Union Squarers and East and West Villagers? You really, truly fear you will starve if you don't pile your puny apartment with perishables you'll purge after the slush subsides? It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, or react, to a storm that means nothing more than donning an extra layer and risking destruction of your favorite shoes. That's the woe of Manhattanites in winter. You don't even need to leave your walkup. A myriad deliverymen will climb seven flights to bring you steaming sacks of specialties from the Seven (or close to all of the more than 100 identified by the International Hydrographic Organization) Seas. What should concern you is how polarizing such an event is for NYC. While many, if not most, Manhattanites steal a day or two to complain about the whiteout and embrace any excuse to be lazy and order in, outer borough dwellers are largely losing a big chunk of their piddly weekly hand-to-mouth wages. It's so easy to lose perspective and forget about other peoples', most peoples', struggles when we're luxuriating in the city that will serve us whatever we can pay for, whenever we want it. Snow or no snow, the deliveryman will show.
I'm guilty of this, too. I just let my conscience come out occasionally so I can rant.
Being a Manhattanite is completely different from life in New England where I was born and grew up. In my early years as a newspaper reporter and AP newswoman, I was buried in storm coverage. I'd work around the clock to cover every fatal crash, rushing to the scene on the same dangerous streets that claimed those lives minutes ago, and keep constant tabs on every outage. I could drive through what TV "reporters" called "impossible" conditions. I do not miss having to play rugged, wake at 2 a.m. to dig out my car and clear the first few feet from my driveway and the street below. I don't miss being one of the few motorists on the snowy, icy streets, and usually the only one with any confidence in her skills to get where she's going. Living in the city makes life so easy. Yet for most it just makes it easier to complain about something different. The snow that "cripples" your commute. Ha! Yeah, none of us buys it. You just might be lucky enough to have a boss who is as wussy and proud as you. Try being a newsperson. I mean a real newsperson who covers every detail of every second and gets fired for getting to work a minute late even when the apocalypse hits. Seconds count, even more so when the thundersnow strikes. You were supposed to be at the office ahead of that. So stop asking your Facebook friends if it's safe or feasible to travel those two miles to work from Brooklyn. Even trudging through snow won’t take more than an hour and you’ll see the city in all its glory, enveloped in white. My AP colleagues will attest to this. That little bit of incidental cardio (walking two miles is NOT exercise; you must go to the gym for that) will help clear your mind. It can even merit a story in its own right. My musings on my walk to work during the New York City Blackout of 2003 was fun to write, especially in the trenches during a 15-hour shift with no flush toilets or food. Be lazy if you want to be lazy, but don't forget that those who really can't make it to work aren't getting paid enough to order curry.
Back to Whole Foods. My father-in-law, who is visiting for Michael Alexander's first Christmas, went out to get salads from my mother-in-law and me. He returned empty handed as none of the regular salad selections were stocked. I made a second run with him to see what we might forage. In place of usual mezzes and cobbs was a stockpile of greens topped, or toppled, with quinoa and rice. Clearly the salad maven couldn't make it in from the outer Bronx so the guy who restocks housewares and cleaning supplies was summoned into the land of Caesars and Nicoises. The butcher and the fishmonger couldn't make it in either, so the protein of choice (or no choice) was quinoa. I managed to muster my taste for something called a harvest salad comprised mostly of red grapes. I do like grapes, but rarely as the star ingredient in a savory salad. Still, they were more appetizing than a giant lump of unseasoned quinoa. Quinoa is a good source of magnesium and phosphorus, and an excellent source of manganese. It's a complete protein, meaning it is one of the few grains that contain all the essential amino acids. But, still, they could throw in some veggies to brighten up the greens. Veggies, not grains, need to be the bigger player in the plastic tub. I digress. The real problem here is that the salad maven, the fish monger, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick stocker who couldn't make it to Union Square yesterday lost a day of pay. Meantime, Whole Foods saved on wages and reaped sales from these substitute salads as snowmageddon shoppers crammed their carts for fear the staaaahrm will never cease and even the Chinese takeout places that fueled the shattered city on 9/11 would shudder.
I can kind of, sort of, understand the fear of a Depression era born rural Vermonter who must travel 10 miles to Johnsons' General Store and about 150 miles to the nearest supermarket. I get why he might fire up his pickup truck and scour the megamart shelves after the forecast hits. But really Manhattanites? Really Union Squarers and East and West Villagers? You really, truly fear you will starve if you don't pile your puny apartment with perishables you'll purge after the slush subsides? It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, or react, to a storm that means nothing more than donning an extra layer and risking destruction of your favorite shoes. That's the woe of Manhattanites in winter. You don't even need to leave your walkup. A myriad deliverymen will climb seven flights to bring you steaming sacks of specialties from the Seven (or close to all of the more than 100 identified by the International Hydrographic Organization) Seas. What should concern you is how polarizing such an event is for NYC. While many, if not most, Manhattanites steal a day or two to complain about the whiteout and embrace any excuse to be lazy and order in, outer borough dwellers are largely losing a big chunk of their piddly weekly hand-to-mouth wages. It's so easy to lose perspective and forget about other peoples', most peoples', struggles when we're luxuriating in the city that will serve us whatever we can pay for, whenever we want it. Snow or no snow, the deliveryman will show.
I'm guilty of this, too. I just let my conscience come out occasionally so I can rant.
Being a Manhattanite is completely different from life in New England where I was born and grew up. In my early years as a newspaper reporter and AP newswoman, I was buried in storm coverage. I'd work around the clock to cover every fatal crash, rushing to the scene on the same dangerous streets that claimed those lives minutes ago, and keep constant tabs on every outage. I could drive through what TV "reporters" called "impossible" conditions. I do not miss having to play rugged, wake at 2 a.m. to dig out my car and clear the first few feet from my driveway and the street below. I don't miss being one of the few motorists on the snowy, icy streets, and usually the only one with any confidence in her skills to get where she's going. Living in the city makes life so easy. Yet for most it just makes it easier to complain about something different. The snow that "cripples" your commute. Ha! Yeah, none of us buys it. You just might be lucky enough to have a boss who is as wussy and proud as you. Try being a newsperson. I mean a real newsperson who covers every detail of every second and gets fired for getting to work a minute late even when the apocalypse hits. Seconds count, even more so when the thundersnow strikes. You were supposed to be at the office ahead of that. So stop asking your Facebook friends if it's safe or feasible to travel those two miles to work from Brooklyn. Even trudging through snow won’t take more than an hour and you’ll see the city in all its glory, enveloped in white. My AP colleagues will attest to this. That little bit of incidental cardio (walking two miles is NOT exercise; you must go to the gym for that) will help clear your mind. It can even merit a story in its own right. My musings on my walk to work during the New York City Blackout of 2003 was fun to write, especially in the trenches during a 15-hour shift with no flush toilets or food. Be lazy if you want to be lazy, but don't forget that those who really can't make it to work aren't getting paid enough to order curry.
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