Not Really What We Had in Mind

TTD - Bikes that Look Like Dinosaurs

This Tuesday we went to a bike shop in the West Village and rented a bakfiet, also known as a cargo bike. Generally, they look like this:

All week you asked to go see the dinosaurs again. But it's $25 for us to go to the Museum of Natural History, not something we can do every week. Trying to come up with a compromise, I thought of the five bicycles we have hanging on racks downstairs. You call them dinosaurs. You roar at them. I tell you they are bikes. You tell me I am wrong. Just recently, you've conceded that they are bikes that look like dinosaurs.

So we went to Hudson Urban Bicycles (HUB) to see more bikes that look like dinosaurs. A cheap alternative to actual dinosaurs.

This time you left Percy at home; Toby came in his place. You ran all the way to the train. You told everyone who would listen that Toby was the number 7 engine, and Percy was number 6, and Thomas was number 1, and Henry was number 3. We took the R train to the D to West 4th and walked down Christopher Street, past Sheridan Square Park, where a statue of General Sheridan overlooks some Gay Pride sculptures. New York City is so full of history. Events are layered one on top of the other, like the floors of the city's highest buildings. It makes me dizzy if I think about it too much, all the things that happened in one spot, all that knowing. We fit our lives around it all, and it's a tight squeeze. In a recent interview about his move to SoCal, Jonathan Lethem called it "mental traffic." I prefer the word "haunted."

The bike shop was just opening for the day - While the owner rolled out the bikes you played with Scout, the shop dog. We had our pick of the bakfiets. It was, after all, 10:30 on a Tuesday and not quite 50 degrees. No one else was renting bikes. We opted for their lightest model, which was black and plain. I took it for a test ride while you played on an antique trike and marveled at the "dinosaur" collection. When I came back you had the shop owner on board with your vision. "I can see it," he said. "There's something skeletal and predatory about some of these bikes." By that logic what we were renting was a slow moving herbivore.

I strapped you in and we were off! We rode to the Hudson River Greenway, a dedicated bike path along the Hudson River. There are all sorts of playgrounds and sports centers along the way, skate parks, a trapeze school, dog runs, tennis courts, we flew past it all, the wind at our backs. When I slowed down you told me to go faster. You weren't interested in the scenery. Your body was bent sideways, trying to get a better view of the wheels spinning under you. We rode down to Battery Park City, to Teardrop Park, where there's this really big slide I've been wanting to try. You were not enthusiastic - you wanted to keep riding. When I asked you where you wanted to go you said back to the dog, and back to the dinosaurs. So we turned around and pedaled into the wind, back to the bike shop.

We both marveled at the bikes. You played with the dog while I talked to the mechanic. I'd love to build us a bakfiet from spare parts and scrap metal, but for all the children's activities on offer in this city, I've yet to see Mommy and Me Welding. We will make do with the Frankenbike for now.

You threw a fit when we left the bike shop. Part of me was pleased. Roan Michael, I believe we are going to get along.

But as I carried you out I caught a whiff of that unmistakable smell.

A word about public restrooms in NYC: there are no public restrooms in NYC. Such services are provided to the public by Starbucks and McDonalds, and if you happen to be in a neighborhood like the West Village where there are minimal chains, good luck. The bike shop had no running water. The coffee shop up the block had a bathroom the size of a broom closet. You stood with one foot on the toilet and the other on the sink and I gave it my best shot. When you were dressed I let you out so I'd have room to bend down and tidy up. By the time I was done you'd introduced the barrista to Toby and bummed a hot chocolate.

We ate Israeli couscous on the train ride home, watched the cars and trains pass on the Manhattan bridge. Waiting for the R at Atlantic you wouldn't stop talking to the man who happened to be sitting next to you, a man who looked like he possibly killed people for a living. He gave you absolutely no encouragement or response, but your enthusiasm for talking to him could not be curbed. When the R train finally came, he made sure to get a seat in a different car.

At 25th Street we stood on the platform and watched the train go. Then we walked up the hill past the ConEd plant, which was screaming with birds. Some monk parrots had made their nests high up among the conductors. There must be thousands of trees in the cemetery across the street, but even the birds in this city have to make creative use of space. Or maybe they can feel it too, all that history and death, weighing a place down until it feels like you're wading through soup. Like the rest of us, they have to fit somewhere. They make a home where they can.

As we pushed through the doors of our building you looked up at me and said, "that was a good train day." And it was. It was the best train day yet.

Photos from the Almost Spring

Big Thomas gets a new coat of paint. Percy supervises.

We walk on trolley tracks.

A train passes our train on the Manhattan Bridge.

We donate one of our many holly bushes to the Community Garden.

Close up.

Tuesday Train Day - Dinosaurs

This Tuesday was our most ambitious train day yet: the Museum of Natural History. It's the best museum in the city. And, if anything can counteract all that creationism you're taking in, it's this museum, with it's Big Bang exhibit and carbon dated fossils and towering dinosaurs. Because in the battle for little boys' hearts, I'm betting that dinosaurs beat creationism every time.

Daddy had to go to the city too, so we walked by his office (i.e Southside) to pick him up. You took him through your usual pre-train chatter, this week Duck the Diesel Engine was going to roll into to the station, and after a lot of deliberation you conceded that perhaps Percy was too small to fit on the track, but Mommy could put some bigger wheels on him and then he would fit just fine.

You loved the dinosaurs. They crouched right under the ceiling, their tails swept up in graceful arcs above the light fixtures. You had been roaring all the way to the museum, but in their presence you got quiet. You walked around tentatively, circling them. Then you got bold and ran around from room to room, making your trademark pirate face when I asked you to pose for a photo.





You started losing steam around the turtles. You laid down on the floor, as if in preparation for a tantrum or a nap. I asked if you were tired and you looked up at me and said, "I just like to lay on the floor. Sometimes."

The expression on your face said, don't over think this one Mom. I'm laying on the floor because I want to lay on the floor. It doesn't have to mean something. Sometimes a rose is just a rose.

It was a message I needed to hear. That night we went to Parent Teacher Conference at your preschool. Here is what we heard: you are very focused and determined and don't like switching gears from one task to another. You will interact with others but prefer to play alone. You are never aggressive or mean. You have memorized all of the train books, including a new one they brought in on Monday. Then came the shocker: they are concerned about your physical strength and stamina. Because sometimes when you go outside, you don't run around and play with the other kids. Sometimes you just sit there.

I was gobsmacked. And insulted. Last summer you were the only kid under 2 on a balance bike; you had a reputation and some serious skills. You tackle more subway stairs than most full grown commuters. You are the only kid in the grocery store pushing the cart instead of sitting in it. How could you be weak or enervated?

I suggested that instead of having a physical problem, perhaps you just didn't feel like running around. They said they'd also noticed you leaning a lot. I've noticed that too - I figured you were looking at things from a new perspective, or experimenting with shifting your weight around. Maybe you are naturally energy efficient. I never thought it was cause for concern.

Thursday was a beautiful sunny day, the warmest it's been in 4 months. You came outside with me to take out the trash. We have a game: as soon as I close the lid you take off running down the hill and I chase you. We raced up and down the hill four or five times. It began casually enough, you happy to pump your legs. But you gradually lost enthusiasm and I gradually turned drill sergeant. I kept chasing you, kept urging you to run and run and run. I had to reassure myself that you still could.

Winter: a Tribute

Now that winter is almost over we can start to get nostalgic for it and pretend like it wasn't all that bad...

Tuesday Train Day - Chinatown

Two weeks in a row of train trips to Target had left us feeling culturally bereft. So this Tuesday we went to Chinatown. Like most Tuesdays, Percy accompanied us. Waiting for the train, we discussed whether or not Percy could go on the track. I thought the tracks were too big for him. You thought he would fit just fine. It's an ongoing debate that will never be resolved.

It's a quick ride to Chinatown, which is just over the Manhattan bridge. We climbed out of the station and walked east on Canal, straight into the sun. Our first stop was the Mahayana Buddist Temple. You were all over the lions at the entrance, and were put out when I made you turn around to snap a photo, until you spotted a bus in the distance.

Inside the temple is a huge golden Buddha. Also, the Buddha had lipstick on. I don't know much about Buddhism so I don't know if this is normal. We paid a dollar to pick out our fortunes, scraps of paper rolled into tight scrolls, put them in our pockets and left.

We turned south down the Bowery and you started whining. What was your problem? I wanted to know. You already wanted to go back on the train. And you were oriented enough to know we weren't going that way. You seem to have a sixth sense about where the subway stations are.

We walked down Pell and Doyer, two small pedestrian streets with a lot of hair salons and barber shops. This was what impressed you most about Chinatown - it wasn't the stalls selling gaudy trinkets and toys, it wasn't the fish markets, or the spice baskets, or the strange fruit, or the gigantic Buddha, it wasn't even the toy taxi cabs and airplanes stacked neatly in a box, being constantly dusted by a doting old man. It was the barber poles. They were lit up and spinning. You were entranced. You would only leave one if I promised there would be another. This was your big cultural takeaway.

We took a variety of trains homes because unlike you, I find Chinatown disorienting and always get lost. My original plan was to eat in Chinatown, but you were too eager to get back on the train. We took the 6 to the 5 to the R, and walked up the hill to eat lunch at home. While we were eating I remembered our fortunes. Mine was pretty good, something about no one going hungry and strong men getting stronger, and then, the last two lines advised: "stay awake a little longer, and you will sure look much younger."

Your fortune was not good. For someone who doesn't put much stock in this stuff, I was upset. How could you possibly have a bad fortune? Then I read it again a couple days later, and decided that for a 2-year-old it might not be so bad:

“The world is full of traps / Which cause many mishaps. /Don’t sail and get aground, /Or run circling around.”

I mean, you love to run around in circles. And if you were literally sailing, in a boat, by yourself, getting aground would probably be the best thing, since you don't know how to swim. I'm really trying to find the silver lining here.

Here's what I'd rather remember from this Tuesday: you at home, tugging on the door, yelling for the train, then running down the hill full tilt. You tripped and fell twice, but you are so insulated in your winter clothes that you weren't hurt or even bothered. After your nap you said, "want Mommy to say hi to trains?" so I greeted all your trains, one by one. Then we walked to Judah's house. We had just started up the hill when you stopped and said, "wait! I forgot a train!" So we went back inside and you deliberated for five minutes about which train to bring. Ultimately you decided to leave them all at home.

Old Trolley Cars