TTD - Work

It was easy to come up with a destination this week. On Monday night, I left my iPad at the office. I still had three more novels to read in advance of the London Book Fair. They are all on the iPad. We had to get it.

You were completely on board with this plan. You often watch YouTube videos of trains on the iPad while I'm getting dressed, and you had noticed it was missing from our morning routine.

Daddy rode with us all the way to Union Square and you sat on his lap the whole way. You are in a Daddy phase. You also are developing one of the strongest Brooklyn accents I've ever heard. You say things like "look at the little boirdie," like some Long Island grandmother. In typical fashion, I think this is hilarious, and Jay is worried.

I work on 27th Street, in the middle of the wholesale district, or what is also known in the publishing industry as the Agency Ghetto. Rents are cheap here. 28th Street is full of plants and flowers. 6th Ave is lined with jewelry, hand bags, and wigs. 27th Street has mostly toys, with assorted luggage and socks. If you need to pick up a dozen rubber frogs and a dozen pair of feather earrings on your lunch break, 27th St. is the place to be. (Full disclosure: these are things that I actually purchased on Monday, on my lunch break).

Outside my building I explained that this is where I go when you go to Chai Tots, and introduced you to the super and the doorman. We rode the elevator to the 8th floor. You weren't too impressed with my office. After a short period of fascination with my Rolodex, you climbed on the couch and asked where the iPad was. You played games while I printed out copies of our rights list.

Jay and I both love books, and I was hoping you'd have a stronger response to being in a space that was overstuffed with them. To be fair, none of us do children's, and our offices are mostly stacked with science-fiction and fantasy novels, some with truly unfortunate covers. Roan, you should know that I really like my job. I'm proud of the books I sell and the authors I work with. Some days it is really hard to drop you off at preschool, and it sucks getting home after you've gone to sleep, but on most days the work makes me happy. It's a different kind of happy than how you make me feel, but it's a kind of happy that I need.

You were less than charming for my coworkers, who tried their best to engage you with cars and talk of trains. You opted to throw a long-winded and half-hearted temper tantrum on the floor. We had what we came for. You were ready to go back on the train.

Walking back to the train you saw a waterfall. There was a barrier of small rocks to absorb any splashes, and you put three of them in the pocket of your poncho. Putting things in your pocket is a new thing. You don't entirely trust it. You are afraid they will fall out, or get lost or perhaps teleported to another dimension, never to come back out of your pocket again.

We got on the train earlier than we usual, but even so you asked for lunch. You've gotten into the habit of opening your mouth wide like a baby bird and me spooning in food as we rush through the tunnels. This week I brought risotto. You ate a ton of it until I gave you a bite that was too mushroom heavy, and you spit it out and flopped dramatically on the bench. "Just rice!" you wailed, over and over, your face streaming tears and mucus. Even once you calmed down you kept repeating it, "just rice, Mommy, just rice" like a wronged man demanding justice.

It was a fitting week for an office visit, as I'm about to leave on my longest business trip. I will be away from you for a full week. For the first time since we started these ridiculous train trips we will have to skip a week. Which might be why I let you talk me into a train ride on Thursday. I took you to Chai Tots for school pictures, and the F/G station was impossible to miss. You made a run for it, and since we didn't have much else on the agenda, we hopped on a Coney Island bound F. After the first stop it goes above ground, and you stood on the bench and stared out at the tracks. When other trains passed, so clear in the daylight, you bounced up and down in excitement.

We rode near to the end of the line, then caught a Manhattan bound train back. We didn't get off the train to go anywhere, which confirmed something I'd always suspected: the destination is irrelevant. Maybe I've been over doing it, trying too hard with this crazy idea that we take the train somewhere. All we need is the train, preferably an elevated line.

It wasn't anywhere near lunch time, but on the way home, like one of Pavlov's dogs, you asked for lunch. Roan, 10 years from now, you might wonder why you have this inexplicable craving for a rice dish every time you board a train.

If nothing else, this post will put that mystery to bed.

TTD - The Honeymoon is Over

Roan, I have a confession to make. I am getting sick of the train.

Maybe because this week was our 10th TTD. 10 train days, and we are still wearing all our winter gear. 10 train days, and you are showing no signs of walking up the hill yourself, so I continue to wear the ergo over all my winter gear. Lets just say it's not the most slimming combination.

We went to the Transit Museum again, which is what we did on our very first train day. Appropriately, you brought the subway car with us.

We got on the R train. I must have been broadcasting my foul mood because a few stops in this guy came over and got right in my face. "What you looking at?" he said. "You want me to hit you in your face?"

I've never been great with comebacks. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to say, "son, if you go out in public, you run the risk of getting looked at." Instead I started laughing. I know he meant the question as a threat, but it came out sounding earnest, almost accommodating, like if I said yes we would then discuss the particulars of where on my face I'd like to be hit. He said, "you think I'm playing?" and then we engaged in a staring contest. I took a long look at him. He looked mad and he looked tired. He was wearing a hoodie and sweat pants. Sadly, I am used to being bullied by a boy in pajamas. I said, very slowly, "I'm not looking at you," and broke eye contact. He turned away. "Don't look at that guy," I told you, because naturally you were now staring. The subway slowed to a stop and he got off.

You remembered the Transit Museum, and were very excited to go in. You remembered the pretend crate of dynamite and what I told you about the pulley cart, that it couldn't go because there wasn't enough track, and you told that story right back to me. You remembered right where the bus was. It's a real bus, with all the shifters and millions of buttons and switches.

And of course you remembered the subway cars. We went further underground to see them. The end of the platform (where you remembered "James" is) was blocked off. You stood at the barrier calling for Thomas and James. I knew you wouldn't leave without a fight or a bribe, so I took a deep breath and led you to the gift shop. I decided to buy you one train. Because I felt guilty for being so sick of them. I'm sick of formally greeting them, feeding them breakfast, rescuing them from the soccer net, finding them when they get lost, lining them up just so, gasping when they take plunges off the table, telling stories about them, reading books about them, and drawing pictures of them wearing costumes. I am dreading Halloween, when I will have to make costumes for not only you but all your trains. Percy wants to be a pig. Thomas wants to be an Indian. Gordon wants to be a knight. Henry, bless his heart, doesn't want to dress up.

I also felt guilty for letting the subway confrontation get to me. In such a dense city, we live our lives out in the open, in public spaces. Our actions and attitude impact so many. It is so important here to be kind. Nevertheless, I am used to getting bumped, muttered at, pushed, and occasionally cursed. I try not to take it too much to heart. But it wears on me. Sometimes I get tired of doing so much of my parenting in the public eye. I get tired of being judged. I want to shield you from this kind of disenchantment, for as long as I can. Some days I feel it building in me, like a shadow that gets longer and longer at the end of the day.

Some days it's enough to make me want to just stay home. Except that our home has been overrun with trains.

In the gift shop there were rows of trains lined up neatly in boxes, pull back steam engines that made a lot of train noises. You pushed the buttons on all of them, and soon the whole box was shaking with whistles and huffs. You took a red one out to play with while I skimmed through some books. When it was time to leave I offered to buy the red steam engine for you.

"No," you said, "I want to play with him here."

"We have to go home on the train now" I said, "so let's take him home. You can bring one train home."

"No," you said, and put him carefully back in the box. You grabbed my hand and led me out of the store. You asked for your subway car back.

You wanted to leave those trains as they were, so you could come back, and experience the magic all over again. I know this because you told me so, in not so many words. If you can have this much fun in a gift shop, and then ask me for a toy you already own, I guess this city hasn't turned you into a cynic quite yet.

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.

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.

Tuesday Train Day - Sneaky Hate Spiral

This Tuesday I had planned a double header - a train trip in the morning and then, another train trip in the afternoon! But then the universe decided to take a big dump all over our plans.

1. I locked myself out of the apartment, with you inside. I was schlepping all the soggy boxes out of our yard for recycling when the wind slammed the front door shut behind me. I didn't sweat it. You'd been opening the door all morning, telling me you were ready to go on the train, so I figured it was only a matter of time before you opened it again. A few minutes passed. I began to wonder what you were doing in there. I called your name, asked you to let me in, offered you chocolate, but nothing. So I scaled two fences and broke into our own backyard, a tricky maneuver I've had to pull off a few times before, but never in 30 degree weather and never barefoot.

2. We had to go to the doctor. To make sure your ear infection had cleared up. We left early and took the R to Atlantic so you could watch the trains. Even after a ton of trainspotting we still had time to kill, so we stopped by Target to see if they'd restocked their train selection. My secret plan was to exchange Stanley for Henry or Gordon, some less fastidious train who wouldn't ask me to vaccuum all the time. No luck. Even the Charlies were gone, replaced by some bloated looking Thomas themed bath toys. We were stuck with Stanley.

3. They took your temperature at the doctor's, and you had a fever of 100.5! That canceled our post nap train adventure, which was the really good one. It involved taking the train to the West Village to visit Lisa and Abi, and having dinner with Melinda and Willa. Your ear infection was gone, but your throat was red and you were developing a cough that the doctor promised would only get worse.

And it did, get much worse. You got so sick that I feel silly for complaining about such trivialities as the purple/green bruise on my forearm from breaking into my own house, and Stanley, the OCD train. The rest of the week made Tuesday look like a parental dream. We spent the afternoon painting stars on your big boy bed. You were so excited about the bed project that you only asked to go on the train once or twice. You refused to put any stars in the center of the footboard. You are saving that space for two buses.

I am sometimes prone to getting irrationally angry when small things go wrong. One of my favorite blogs, Hyperbole and a Half, calls this the Sneaky Hate Spiral, which is what happens when a barrage of small annoyances finally push a person over the edge. Having you around helps keep the Sneaky Hate Spiral in check. I want you to be better than that, to not lose your shit over the small knocks we all take, day to day. So I try and set a good example. If one of us is going to throw a temper tantrum, it really ought to be you.

I kept my cool on Train Day. Even when you screamed at me for dragging you away after a paltry 30 minutes of trainspotting, when you laid down outside Target and rubbed your lips on the tile floor, when you ran your hand along the station wall where I am quite certain a homeless man recently urinated. When we left the doctors and walked to the station and I imagined that deep inside your small body your temperature was ticking higher and higher with every step until I almost did the unthinkable and called for a car service. Instead we waited 15 long minutes for the R train to come and take us home, and you told me again and again that Gordon was coming, that we would ride Gordon home, and that he would be blue. The R train thundered into the station, looking nothing like Gordon. I braced myself for your disappointment. But you slid off the bench and shouted, "here is Gordon!" and pulled me towards the opening doors.

You helped me remember something I'd forgotten. Things are never so bad, if you know how to look at them just right.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.