Tuesday Train Day - Stanley

This week was Winter Break and Chai Tots was closed. I don't understand Winter Break. I guess it's for rich people, so they can take their families skiing or somewhere warm. For the rest of us, it creates a childcare nightmare.

On Tuesday two of your classmates came over, so we didn't get around to Tuesday Train Day until Thursday. You wouldn't have been the wiser, except that this happened to be the week that Daddy bought you a Thomas the Train calendar and started making a big deal about writing in your plans for the day and trying to teach you the days of the week. I was hoping to pretend that Thursday was Tuesday, but that stupid calendar ruined it.

I was burned out on museums, and in any case, Winter Break meant that all the museums would be overrun. So we took the train to Target. There aren't very many big box discount stores in NYC, so going somewhere like Target or K-mart, some generic national chain with wide aisles and cheap imported merchandise is a novel experience. More novel than going to a museum, which are everywhere.


It's only four stops on the R train to Atlantic Station, and the Target. You've been to Atlantic Station so many times now that you know the drill. We got off the R and you stood on the platform to watch it leave, then you looked across the platform, waiting for the express trains to come. Lots of express and locals came, one after another, and you monitored them all. We were the only people on that platform standing still.

Finally, there was a break in the trains. I waited for the crowd to thin and then we made our slow voyage up the stairs. You like to watch the track as you ascend, to see it from different perspectives. I have to time our ascent carefully. If another train comes while you are watching, you will try to reverse course back down the stairs for a closer look.

Last week we changed to the red line, so at the top of the stairs you took off running, headed for a 3 train which had just pulled up. I kept you off that train by reminding you of the Henry I promised to buy you at Target. "Henry and his COAL CAR!" you clarified, at the top of your lungs.

Target was a bust. Some Winter Break hoard had clearly razed the train selection earlier in the week, and the only trains left were a Stanley, a Henrietta, and two purple Charlies. Who the hell was Charlie, we both wanted to know? You have the complete collection of the Reverend Awdry's stories, totaling 415 pages of trains, and we have never met any Charlie before.

You kept asking for Henry and his coal car and barring that, Gordon and his coal car would do. I eventually got you excited about Stanley by reminding you of the story we'd read where he helped Thomas when Thomas's brakes failed. After that you wouldn't stop talking about Stanley. You wanted to go back on the train, go home and hook him up to the other trains immediately.

When we got home, you told me over and over to vacuum the floor, because, "Stanley no like a dirty floor. Stanley need clean floor." The next morning you brought Stanley to the breakfast table. In addition to being a neat freak, Stanley is a picky eater. He didn't touch the eggs, toast, or Turkey Food (aka yoghurt), that you ate, and repeatedly insisted on rice and beans. Then he told me to vacuum again, because Roan had dropped eggs on the floor and made it all dirty.

Stanley and I are not going to get along.

Dirty Little Secret

Dear Roan,

Disappointed parents are everywhere. When I had you I finally understood. I looked into your tiny face and I knew with more surety than I'd ever known anything that you are capable of truly incredible things. As you've grown that belief has not faded, it's only become more specific. I watch you ride your bike (technically a trike) and I am convinced you will be a teenaged BMX superstar. I see your attention to puzzles and think you will grow up to be an engineer. You love to study the way things work, and with your focus I believe you will become an inventor, toiling away with single-minded dedication until you come up with something that completely changes the way we all live. Your potential is so great, so unchartered, so ineffable, that I lack the imagination to fully understand it. You will do things that are so incredible that my ordinary mind simply can't conceive of them. In my heart of hearts, this is how I feel.

In this Roan, you will probably disappoint me. Because I'm beginning to suspect something. I'm beginning to suspect that my parents may have felt the same way about me. I'm told that I was a lot like you as a kid. Bright, attentive, kind of a loner, and very very focused. And I've grown up to lead a fairly ordinary life. I have a stimulating job, a husband that I love, friends that I wish I saw more often, bicycles that constantly need tinkering, books that constantly need reading, and you. Most of the time I feel exceptionally lucky. I try not to take anything for granted. But the bottom line is that I will pass through this world having made little impact. Is this the life my parents dreamed I would have when they dreamed the far-fetched dreams of proud parents everywhere? Probably not.

There is just no way you can live up to the hopes that I have for you. It's just not possible. And it's not easy, living under the weight of your parents' disappointment, even when that disappointment is small and well hidden. Please understand it's not you, you are not lacking. It's me. I want too much for you. I want you to validate my life, and shine so bright that it burns away any disappointment I've ever felt over anything. It's too much to ask. But here I am, like a typical rookie parent, asking.

In this, I hope you have the presence of mind to tune me out.

Tuesday Train Day - Another Museum

This Tuesday I meant to take you to the Brooklyn Children's Museum, but the Jewish Children's Museum was much closer to the train stop. The JCM is extraordinarily well advertised in our neighborhood - there are signs everywhere pointing the way. I kept thinking I would run into it, that it must be just right around the corner, when it's actually in Crown Heights, 5 miles away. I asked a few friends about it but no one had gone. It was a mystery I couldn't let stand.

In typical fashion, the weather sucked. All week was in the 50s, except for Tuesday, when the temperature plummeted into the 20s. An icy wind was blowing in our faces as we walked down the hill and made it hard to breathe. You kept saying, "I think wind stop blowing," which was a nice way of saying that you'd had enough.

The JCM has 6 floors, and we were told that the 3rd floor was the best place to start. There is an exhibit devoted to the 6 Days of Creation, culminating in Shabbat, a room with an enormous crawl-through challah loaf, a giant kiddush cup, and a jacuzzi sized bowl of matzah ball soup with video screens embedded in the matzoh balls. The 6 Days of Creation terrified you. It scared me too, for entirely different reasons. By the time we made it to Shabbat you wouldn't leave my arms. I sat on the floor and rocked you, halfway between the towering bread and mammoth soup. The floor above us was under construction, and when those deep rumbling sounds mixed together with the thunder and dramatics of Creation, your little arms hugged me tight.

Around the corner was an exhibit on all the different holidays. On the Pesach table there were talking kiddish cups that recited prayers. You loved them. Two of the four were broken, but you kept holding them to your ear, waiting.

Then we came to your favorite exhibit: the kosher market. There were mini shopping carts that you could push around the store and fill with food. There were check out counters where you could put the food on a conveyer belt and scan it. You could have played there for hours, but suddenly the place was overrun with 30 screaming orthodox tween girls. They raced around the store, loading up their carts with Golds mustard and kosher candy. I've never seen so many frum girls in one place, and in such a state of mass hysteria. Was Justin Bieber in the museum? Or was the kosher shopping experience always this exciting?

You stopped where you were, gripped your cart tight, and started screaming. Your screams put those girls to shame. I tried to reach you as quickly as a I could, but we were separated by a sea of navy pleated skirts and black tights, sensible shoes shuffling everywhere I tried to step. I dodged a traffic jam by the bagels, sidestepped a cart full of grape juice, pushed my way through a blockade of black cardigans. I tried to pick you up but you wouldn't let go of your shopping cart, where you had hoarded almost every piece of fruit. I had to pry your fingers off one by one.

We went to other exhibits, but all the screaming and world making, combined with all the stairs we climbed at the Atlantic Street transfer, left me drained. I sat on a bench, surrounded by religion. A position that, even on a good day, would have made me scowl. Life is exhausting, how can we be expected to summon the energy for an afterlife? Most days I'm not sure which is worse, the idea of a higher power, or its total absence.

Likewise, I have mixed feelings about exposing you to creationism, which science has definitively put to bed. But to paraphrase Yann Martel in The Life of Pi, I'd hate for you to be so pragmatic as to miss the better story, and let's face it, when it comes to the origins of life, creationism is the best story in town. But these are your decisions to make.

For myself, I rarely choose truth over a good story. Except for when I write these Tuesday Train Day posts, which are pure hits of 100% non-exaggerated truth. The truth is that after all that Judaism, cold risotto on the 3 train, up and down stairs to the R train, up the hill bouncing in the ergo, Percy squeezed tight in your fist, through the doors and off with your hat and gloves and coat and sweater and shoes and socks you took a nap. Praise G-d.

Playlist

We have 3,798 songs on our iPod. Almost 300 of those are children's songs. But Roan will only listen to 2 songs. Redemption Song, and Wagon Wheel.

We have two versions of Wagon Wheel, but only one is acceptable. The Chris Pureka version, not the OCMS one. Babysitters must be advised not to confuse the two. We've also had to clarify his constant request for Redemption Song, which, when he asks for it, sounds remarkably like, "a different song." The uninformed babysitter could roll through half our library without finding the "different song" he's looking for.

Why these 2 songs? Jay's been singing him Redemption Song as a lullaby since he was a baby, and they also happen to be 2 of the songs that I can play competently on the guitar. I guess he's heard them a lot. We don't have a television upstairs, so there is always some kind of music playing. And for the last week, he has wanted to hear Redemption Song, and then Wagon Wheel, in that order, repeat repeat repeat.

It's killing us. We try to trick him by saying, okay, first we'll listen to this other song, and then Redemption Song will come on. He always remembers. And if Redemption Song isn't the next thing out of the speakers, we've got a problem. We try turning off the music, or listening to talk radio. No dice.

This morning Roan had a fever. I sat in the rocking chair and read him book after book. When he finally relaxed I realized that I'd had Wagon Wheel in my head all morning. Hell, I've had that song in my head for weeks. I sang it to him slowly, and for the first time in months he fell asleep in my arms. Even when he started snoring I didn't want to stop singing. It really is a damn fine song.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Tuesday Train Day - Cops

This week we visited the New York City Police Museum. I chose this location with a specific goal in mind, which was to settle for you, once and for all, the difference between a taxi cab and a police car. You always confuse the two. I've explained the differences - even though they both have lights on their roofs, taxi cabs are yellow and you have to pay to ride in the backseat.

The Police Museum is in the financial district, which is the only neighborhood in Manhattan where there are no children. Really, the streets were deserted when we got there, around 9:30 in the morning. We passed an empty cafe. The sun was shining so we shared a hot chocolate on a bench and blew steam out of our mouths.

I could tell right off that the Police Museum doesn't get a lot of visitors. There was an excessively friendly man behind the counter who talked us through all the exhibits and circled everything on the map. He spoke fondly of a time last week, when a field trip came through. We were the only people there.

We started in the Junior Officers Discovery Zone, which is a new part of the museum especially for kids. We took our fingerprints and I failed an observation test. You loved the police car and the ESU, and were afraid of the Station House. We went upstairs to see the jail cell, which the museum man had told me was a big hit with kids. You, quite reasonably, refused to go in. It was right next to the weapons room, which you also could care less about. At least you smiled for your mug shot.

You had a snack and I read some of the placards on famous criminals and crimes: about Ruth Brown Snyder, the first woman to die in the electric chair in 1928, and Winston Moseley, whose brutal and noisy murder of Kitty Genovese in the 1960s prompted all those studies on public apathy. I wanted to stay, but you kept tugging on my hand. You wanted to go back on the train. You wanted to go home.

You had been tired and grumpy all day. We left the museum and you immediately wanted me to carry you. The day had turned cold and windy. I put you in the ergo and jaywalked several times to reach the R train. You cheered up considerably when the train came.

Not every Tuesday Train Day can be a success. The very next day, as we drove to the grocery store, you pointed and shouted, "police car!"

You were pointing at a livery cab.

Suck it, Pottery Barn

I can never bring myself to spend $25 - $50 0n a box. Not when Roan and I can make our own. And then we don't have to recycle our cardboard boxes in accordance with Brooklyn's draconian recycling rules.

I am particularly pleased with the Winter Coat Box. Because we are actually too lazy to hang our coats in the closet. We will just have to put them on again, eventually. So we pile them on our bench. Which transforms the bench into an enormous winter coat monster, not suitable for sitting. Maybe you are thinking, "but there are only three of you, how can you have so many coats?" And I would say, "you would be shocked by the things I have found buried on that bench. Sweatshirts I'd given up for lost, stray mittens, Jay's hat that he accused me of stealing, clothes that the Robot has long since grown out of, and once, a moldy piece of challah bread in a plastic bag." The Winter Coat Box has given us back our bench.

Listen up, Pottery Barn: you could make a fortune by selling the yuppie urbanite version of this box to lazy people everywhere. When you do, all I ask is that you kick me down with a set of those choo-choo train toddler sheets, which I love, and which I am also too cheap to buy.

Crazy Lady

Tomorrow is Roan's first field trip with Chai Tots, to the Brooklyn Children's Museum. And I'm not letting him go.

I like to think of myself as a relaxed parent, but today I turned into a crazy lady. I kept fixating on the field trip, with a feeling that I finally recognized as dread. What scares me is that this field trip is the perfect opportunity for a kidnapper to single out Roan and kidnap him.

Yes, I am convinced that someone at the Brooklyn Children's Museum wants to kidnap my son. I know this is a crazy thing to think, but knowing that doesn't make me any less certain. I spoke to another mom about my fears, and she tried to make me feel better. She said something like, "everyone at the children's museum is there with a child." But who knows? I've never tried to go alone, but maybe they would let me in. And the fact that this mom thinks the Children's Museum is safe makes it the perfect place for kidnappers! Everyone's guard is down! All a kidnapper has to do is pay the $7 admission fee. Or maybe they have an annual pass.

I talked to another mom who confessed that she was nervous about the whole riding-in-a-bus-without-a-car-seat thing. Now that right there is some unfounded paranoia. We rarely have the opportunity to drive over 25 mph in our neighborhood. I brushed her off, bringing the conversation back around to my kidnapping scheme, which I had planned out in absurd detail. But later, after we'd hung up, I thought about the bus and how easy it would be for Roan to run out in the street and be hit by a car or a bike. The teachers and chaperones can't keep an eye on every child at all times. What if he doesn't listen? He's 2. He pretty much has an advanced degree in not listening.

To ease my nerves I made a homemade dog tag that Roan could wear around his neck, with all his personal information and our cell phone numbers. But Roan refused to wear it and when I finally got it on him I realized it was probably a choking hazard. What was worse, being lost in a museum where nobody knows who you are, or being strangled by your own ID card?

Ultimately, I e-mailed Roan's teachers and asked if I could come. Probably they will say no, since I waited until the night before the field trip to come up with this plan of action. The kidnapping scenarios kept my mind occupied all day, and it's only recently I've been able to think clearly. If they don't let me come I'll stay home with Roan and work on Thursday.

When Jay came home I explained the change of plans. He was diplomatic. He mentioned several times that there was a bottle of wine on the table.

It's embarrassing to admit that I'm a worrywart mother. I called my own mom to get some perspective. She tried to talk me off the ledge of maternal paranoia, and when she saw that wasn't going to happen, she threw in the towel and admitted that she went on every single field trip until I was in high school.

I feel better now. It's obviously genetic, this Crazy Lady thing. May as well embrace it and get on with life. Which will include a lot more field trips than I'd planned for.

Tuesday Train Day - Marionettes

This Tuesday we took the train to the Swedish Cottage Marionette Theatre in Central Park. We set a personal record - we took 6 trains! The R to the D to the C to 81st Street, and then the B to the D to the R to get home. The D train runs over the Manhattan Bridge and on the way home there was hardly anyone in our car. I gave you rice and beans for lunch and let you stand on the seat to look out the window.

We've had extreme weather on every Tuesday Train Day, and this Tuesday was no different - it was snowing again. The Marionette Theatre has been in Central Park since 1877, and looked quaint and cozy under all that snow. Walking through the park, it felt like we had travelled back in time through some kind of lonely nordic forest.

We saw the 10:30 showing of The Secret History of the Swedish Cottage. It's the story of how the cottage came to America, with the help of sea creatures and gnomes. Typically, the theatre puts on traditional fairy tales, like Cinderella and Jack and the Beanstalk, but this show was a perfect introduction for us first-time cottage goers. Apart from a few other families, the audience consisted of a theatre class of 5-year-olds, who asked fabulous questions during the Q&A after the show. You were the youngest kid there. When they turned off the lights and announced that there was no eating or drinking in the theatre I took away your O's and you started to wail. Too late, I tried to give them back to you, after all, it was really dark and who would see? But you were pissed. We shuffled out of the theatre just as the show was starting.

It took you a while to calm down, and when we went back in the Swedish Cottage was in a boat, making its way across the Atlantic.

There was a storm and the Swedish Cottage sunk to the bottom of the sea, where it was met by a hostile octopus and an amorous whale. You started to cry again. You were afraid of the octopus. I whispered in your ear, offering you O's, but you were having none of it. One of the theatre teachers turned around and and put her hand on your knee and asked you questions like, "are you afraid of the pretend octopus? Or the pretend whale?" Inexplicably, this calmed you down. A few scenes later a steam engine showed up, and you were all smiles.

The show was really great. It was funny and wildly creative. It actually made me tear up, just knowing that people are doing this, and have been doing this in this very building for the last 130 years, despite real world obstacles that are just as intimidating as giant octopuses and the wide and stormy Atlantic. I thought about why I take you places like this, why I like to take you on the train. It's because you're good company. And it's because I want you to know that the world is big. It is big and full of some terrific surprises. There's so much stuff and so many people you'd never imagine. There are so many things to do. And in this city, nothing is too far away, and it's never hard to get there. Nothing is inaccessible. You can always take the train.

Flossing