Tuesday Train Day - The Library

Last Tuesday we took the train to the library. There is actually a library within walking distance, but I wanted to check out the Brooklyn Central Library, which is really big and landmarked. To get there we had to take two trains - the R to the 2/3. I knew you would be excited about changing trains.

Tuesday Train Day is not for the faint of heart, and this week was no different. It was snowing when we left home, big fat quiet flakes. The transfer at Atlantic St. Station involved a lot of stairs and you walked up and down them all. Going up one set, we were passed by an old man with a cane who stopped to tell you how strong you are. We got off at Grand Army Plaza and walked around the traffic circle, then up the stairs to the library.

Right inside the library there were two narrow escalators, and that was all you wanted to do. By that point I had had enough of stairs, in any form. I dragged you into the children's section where you picked out an Elmo book on opposites and demanded a bagel. We went to the cafe and shared an everything bagel with orange juice. Again, I had to drag you past the escalators and back to the children's section, where you kept trying to escape. So much for fostering a love of literature.

We couldn't stay long. You had a doctor's appointment. You were happy to break out of the library and get back on the train. We walked to the Eastern Parkway Station, past the Brooklyn Botantic Gardens, where all the plants were blanketed in fresh snow. We hopped a 2 until Atlantic, where I put you in the ergo and rushed down 4th Ave, trying to make it to your appointment on time.

A word about Doctor's Appointments: this is a Daddy thing. When you have a cough, it makes Daddy feel better to have a doctor look in your mouth and your ears and listen to you breathe and make sure everything is okay. You and me, not so much. It takes forever, costs $15, and makes you scream. This time it wasn't too bad - Thomas and Friends was on TV, which reinforced our train theme. I read you a really good Dr. Seuss story that I've never read before, about Sneetches.

Afterwards we walked down to Union Street and caught the R train home. I started taking photos of you on the train, and got so carried away that we missed our stop. We had to get off at 36th Street, climb up and down more stairs, and catch what would be our 5th and last train of the day. You stood on the platform and pointed out all the trains that were not our train. There were a lot of "not our trains" before our train came.

Snow Day

Tuesday Train Day - Transit Museum

Ever since you’ve gone to Chai Tots, I’ve worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and stayed home with you on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Last week I decided to make Tuesdays a day we take the train somewhere.

Last Tuesday we took the R train to the Transit Museum. The train was packed full of commuters, but we found you a seat between two plus sized women with big puffy coats and big hair where no adult sized passenger would fit. It was a tight squeeze even for you, but the women kept you steady through all the rocking turns and starts and stops, squeezed between their jacketed hips. Daddy had to go to the city, so we all rode the R together until you and I got off at Court Street.

It was a terrible day to do anything. We were experiencing the most intolerable of all winter weather patterns, the “Wintry Mix.” This is a mix of rain, sleet, hail, and snow, accompanied by strong winds. It's the type of weather that renders an umbrella completely useless, so you really just have to accept that going outside will make you wet and cold and mad. By the time we got to the subway our mittens were soggy and our pants were drenched from wading through slush. Daddy thought this whole outing was a terrible idea, but my mind was made up. It was the Inaugural Tuesday Train Day, we had to go.

We got off the train and walked a few blocks to the museum, which wasn’t open yet. The Wintry Mix was in full swing, and we huddled in a doorway with two other boys and their babysitter. The boys were 3 and 4, and when I told them it was our first time at the museum they got really excited and started telling you all about it. By the time it opened they had taken you under their wing. They waited patiently for you to work your way down all the stairs, and showed you all their favorite exhibits. There are old turnstiles, trolley cars, buses, stoplights – everything functional and real. Except for the pretend crate of dynamite, which I’m guessing was used to make the tunnels. Keeping up with you didn’t give me much time to read the markers.

Finally, the boys were ready to show you the best part – the trains! We went deeper underground to an old subway station where different kinds of trains sat on the track, from the 1920s onward, their doors open and welcoming. You ran in the first one you saw, climbed in the seat and said, “train go?” And I told you the train couldn’t go, because it was stuck between all the other trains, and we walked to one end of the platform so you could see how the track ran out against the wall. You seemed unconvinced so I told you that all these trains had the day off. That seemed to do the trick. You walked into each train and proclaimed, “this train not go. This train resting.”

The boys told you that there was a train that looked just like James at the far end of the platform and off you went. You deserve to know the truth: that train looked nothing like James. He was red, but that was it. But you were ecstatic, and cried for James when I finally had to carry you away.

I'm not going to lie - the commute home was terrible. The Wintry Mix never let up, so I put you in the ergo to speed up our time outside, but by time we got to the station my fingers were frozen into stiff claws. It took a couple of tries to free my metro card from my pocket, and when I finally swiped it and it blinked "INSUFFICIENT FARE" I wanted to cry. Accessing my wallet would mean taking you out of the ergo, unbuttoning buttons and unzipping various zippers, and there was no way my numb fingers could navigate all that. I got help from a stranger and while I refilled our card you stood at my side, patting my leg and saying, "okay mommy." Maybe I wasn't keeping it together as well as I'd thought. Or maybe you just knew I needed some comfort.

Walking home from the R train, uphill the whole way, your 30 pounds limp in the ergo, my feet slipping backwards through slush as if I were walking up a sand dune, the loathsome Wintry Mix dripping down our faces, I thought that maybe this would be the first and the last Tuesday Train Day. But later that day, you woke up from your nap and said, "go on train?" Go on train with Mommy?" as if it was this fabulous new idea and we hadn't spent our entire day doing just that.

I knew we would do it again. Next Tuesday.

Because I'd need a week to recover.

Rockwell Moments - Essay #5

*What motherhood means to Erica, mother to 3-month-old Zachary*

On November 20th, 2010 motherhood was pain. Gone were any sweet thoughts of carefully folded onsies, perfectly coordinated bedding, and over-priced birth announcements. That baby needed to get the hell out of my body---right now. Our 41 week co-habitation was coming to an intense end in ways that only a first-timer could not have imagined.

Eventually Zachary did make his appearance, and since then motherhood has been many things.

Motherhood is wanting so badly for the little one to take a nap, but when the nap goes on and on, wanting even more badly for him to wake up and begin the endless feed, burp, change, sing, read, cuddle and soothe cycle.

Motherhood is speeding home after an hour away, and wanting to know in great detail everything that happened during those 60 minutes.

Motherhood is having the intention of writing this essay for two whole months, but never finding the right moment---always too busy or too tired.

Sometimes my life feels like a Norman Rockwell painting. I adore my handsome husband, my baby boy is so sweet and perfect, we have a comfortable home, the fireplace is lit, the Christmas decorations are still up-----and all I really have to do all day is love my baby. Well, that and lose 15 pounds, write a thesis, keep up the house, and somehow continue advancing my career…. But whatever, these snap shot moments are blissful, and I have experienced a contentment in these past two months that is refreshingly new.

Of course there are the Rockwell outtakes. A neighbor would be more likely to peek in our window and see this less than idyllic scene: I am half-dressed, Zachary has been fussy/screaming bloody murder and the blow-dryer/vacuum trick is not working but both appliances are still running full blast, Clint is a minute late and I am literally staring out the window willing him to pull up in the red Jeep and save me, and the part of me that's dressed has been wearing the same annoying pants for two months now because they are the only ones that fit.

If I said motherhood was always a dream I would be lying---and all you other mothers would know it. But I can say that I have discovered love that I didn’t think possible, a pride that I have never before felt (I have finally learned to use a camera! And I'm taking pictures!), and sometimes, despite my sleep-deprivation, I just cannot wait for my little one to wake up. I’m sure all you other mothers out there know the feeling.

*Erica* January 24, 2011* *420 words*

Cold Day at Lowes

Roan,

On the first truly cold day of winter we walked to the car and climbed inside. The straps of the car seat were so tight against all your layers - they pushed your puffy coat up over your mouth and your arms stuck out at your sides. Your hat slipped down over your eyebrows. It reminded me of lifeguard training, when we practiced strapping people down on spinal boards. You looked completely immobilized.

It was the same temperature inside the car as outside, except it felt worse because we were just sitting there. I put on the radio and drove down the block. At the red lights I tried to teach you how to make steam clouds with your breath. I think you were getting the idea, but the coat made it hard to see your progress.

"Go Lowes?" you said. You recognized the turns.

"Yep." I said.

"Train come?" you said.

"Maybe." I said. You think I control the F train the same way I control when we go outside and whether or not we eat red soup for lunch. I can't convince you otherwise.

At Lowes we parked in the back of the lot, where we have a clear view of the elevated tracks. The F train isn't all that reliable, but it runs above ground for two stops, up over the Gowanus Canal before it slips back underground and goes all the way to Coney Island. We got out of the car and walked to the edge of the Gowanus. Across the canal there's a scrap metal yard where cranes move piles of twisted metal onto a barge. It's hard to capture the drama and operatics of the magnetic crane, flinging junk through the air, and my fingers were too frozen to operate the camera. The barge was already full, so we watched the cranes move stuff from one pile to another. It looks random, like maybe they are doing it just for fun. Later I found this video online - it's our scrap metal yard in 2008:

The Lowes parking lot is the perfect place for boys. I'm always surprised there aren't more kids here. Whatever the reason, we always have the place to ourselves. Except for that first cold cold day. Some Scandinavian-looking guy with neon orange sunglasses and a real serious camera showed up. It was his first time here - he'd been kicked out of the actual yard earlier, and across the canal, one of the men on the barge was pointing at him. I shared all the information I had - if he wanted to see them load the barge he'd better get here early, 8AM was best. They tend to use the magnetic crane closer to lunch time. Noon to 3 is your nap time, so who knows what happens then. In the afternoons, there's an old apologetic man who practices his trombone.

Eventually you started whining - the tip of your nose and your cheeks were bright red and your lips were chapped from the wind. I picked you up and was carrying you back to the car when we finally heard the F train rumbling. "Train coming!" you shouted, and I held you up high. We stood shivering and watched it pass. As soon as it was out of sight you said, "train come again?" And I told you no, that the F train wouldn't come again until Spring.

I think you believed me.

Baby Zach

It is far past time to acknowledge the birth of Roan's first baby boy cousin: Zachary Eric Womack, November 20, 2010. I met him for the first time 2 weeks ago. He is my sister Erica's first child. He is six weeks old and likes loud noises, just like Roan. For 15 terrifying minutes I was alone with both boys. How did I cope? I made a smoothie. When the smoothie was done, I just let the blender keep going.



Roan calls Zachary Baby Zach. Most of the time Roan didn't mind when I held him, but once he grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy, put Baby Zach away." When I asked Ro where I should put him, he impatiently pointed at the floor.

I didn't love the infant stage. They cry a lot, and frankly, it's hard to interact. But holding Baby Zach, I remembered how nice it is to hold somebody who really only wants to be held. You can cuddle all you want, they have nothing else on the agenda. We couldn't put Baby Zach down unless the vacuum cleaner or the blow dryer was on, and even then it was dicey. I tried to hold Roan like that and he stuck his finger up my nose.

On New Years Day we had Mo come over and take some family photos. My favorites are of my parents, holding their grandsons.