Popular consensus seems to dictate that if you're a Manhattanite -- or at least one who hasn't just won the lottery -- from the moment you give birth to your first child, it's only a matter of time before you'll have to relinquish your enviable Manhattan perch. Once you've succumbed to that inevitable compromise, the undertow will sweep you out into the inescapable limbo of suburbia, where your life will become governed by train schedules, car pools, bake sales, PTA meetings, bingo nights and the like. You'll sit out on the narrow rectangle of grass you'll call a lawn and reminisce about your days in Manhattan as if you'd spent your formative urban experience hanging out at the Factory with Warhol, clubbing at Danceteria with Basquiat, dining lavishly at Le Cirque with Trump and sipping cocktails at Elaine's with Woody. You'll spin swashbuckling yarns about how difficult and dangerous it was when you lived there...when it was still the Manhattan of "Mean Streets" and "Taxi Driver." Then you'll lean back in your lawn chair, crack open some rancid lite beer, swat a mosquito and claim that life's so much easier out of that squalid rat race. But deep down, you'll still miss it.
As if the financial rigors of raising two children in Manhattan weren't formidable enough, my wife I are routinely surrounded by a phalanx of friends and family who get all aggressively incredulous when they hear that we're planning on staying put in Manhattan for as long as humanly possible. We have nothing against Brooklyn and Westchester (where we've half-heartedly looked as potential future destinations), but we simply don't feel cut out for either. Now, there may come a point when the decision to move out of Manhattan is made for us, but until such time, we're not budging. What can I say, I'm a city kid. Hell, I was fortunate enough to be raised here, and I survived unscathed...ish.
So, with this somewhat in mind, I concocted a plan out of the blue this past weekend to expose our little people to some of the myriad benefits of Manhattan living. It was high time to exploit some of our resources. So on Saturday morning, little Charlotte and I boarded the subway for the Central Park Zoo.
Now, when I was growing up here in Manhattan, the Central Park Zoo was essentially just a strenuously foul-smelling animal prison. The conditions were appalling, and the animals would pace dejectedly in a druggy, suicidal torpor. "Wild Kingdom" it assuredly was not. Regardless, I still loved it, not least because of the open-air sea lion tank, which is pretty much the only element remaining from the zoo of my youth (well, that and the fabled clock). After the lengthy subway trip uptown ("it's very bumpy," quoth Charlotte) my little girl and I arrived at the gates of the Central Park Zoo. We were early, of course, and were thus forced to wait in line with a battalion of portly Wisconsinites, as Charlotte hopped up and down, chirping "Wake Up, Animals, Wake up!"
Once inside, we checked out the sea lions, the penguin house, the polar bears, the monkey island, the rain forest and Charlotte's favorite spot, the Zootique (purchase: one plush penguin, summarily dubbed "Rocco" by Charlotte for no immediately discernible reason). Oddly, Charlotte's other favorite aspects of the zoo were the giant, stone eagles that flank the perimeter of the sea lion area (see pic). Had she her druthers, she's simply have climbed all over those all day.
When I did manage to pluck her off the statues, we repaired to the Children's Zoo down the road a little bit. Again, back in the 70's, the Children's Zoo was rife with mangy goats, a dilapidated Noah's Ark and a giant whale whose mouth you'd step inside (wherein you'd find a rather paltry fish tank). At some point in the last thirty years, somebody poured a pile of money onto the Children's Zoo, and it's now a significantly nicer affair. The grounds are padded, so that the inevitable little spill will not result in a sprained ankle, chipped tooth or bloody chin. The attractions are simple and well spaced. Charlotte became obsessed with the log tunnels, insisting on running through them about a hundred times, giggling maniacally. The goats, llamas and other sundry livestock were still somewhat mangy, but didn't pose too much of a threat. Charlotte particularly thrilled to a trampoline-like net fashioned to look like a spider's web. Prizing her off this attraction after several minutes resulted in flailing little limbs and impassioned entreaties to reconsider, but it was time to move on. We left the Children's Zoo with a purple, heart-shaped balloon and a big, happy smile. Mission accomplished.
Upping the ante on Sunday, Peg thought a trip up to the American Museum of Natural History was in order, and this time, we brought both kids. Unlike the Central Park Zoo, the Museum of Natural History remains endearingly unchanged, for the most part, since I was a kid. Oh sure, they're still updating it with new exhibits and whatnot, but the best parts -- the cavern like chambers filled with bull moose and giant squids and antelopes and grizzly bears and walruses etc., are all still there. I remember a fleeting passage in "The Catcher in the Rye," wherein Holden Caufield ruminates on how comforting he found this Museum, and how the details would always remain the same. That same little fishing Eskimo in the glass case would always be in the same spot, every time you went back. The circumstances of life might be different and you may have undergone a change of some kind, but that Eskimo would still be there. And still with only two fish.
I pushed Oliver's stroller while Charlotte darted zippily through the big animal rooms with an unprecedented exuberance, staring up at the beasts behind the glass with her big brown eyes and mouth agape with wonder. For me, strolling through these calmingly dark rooms and seeing the same vignettes felt comfortable and familiar, like slipping on an old jacket. I can't count how many times I came to this place as a child, but I can still find my way around it with my eyes closed. To see my own child experiencing it for the first time was a peculiar feeling, being that the building still has the power to make me feel like a child myself. After a logging some time in the Hall of Ocean Life (I fully expected Charlotte to be terrified by the whale on the ceiling, but she didn't even blink at it), we repaired to the museum's forbidding food court.
Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't catch me dead in a food court. But this one wasn't so bad. Yeah, we had two little loud, messy kids with us, but so did everyone in the place. The room singularly encapsulated every horrific cliché that make people without kids shudder with abject contempt and disgust. There was screaming, crying, spills, messes, kids climbing on tables, kids under tables,...the whole nine yards. But everyone was in the same boat. No one was getting uptight. Everyone knew the drill. Our kids, I'm happy to report, were delightful. Sure, little Oliver made a mess, but he's one.... That's what he's supposed to do. Afterwards, we climbed back on the downtown subway and went home.
Walking back up 9th street, a young gentleman stopped us. He said that he had just recently found out that his wife was pregnant, due in October. "I was wondering," he said, looking at Oliver in his stroller and Charlotte perched atop my shoulders, "What do you do with your kids here in the city? Where do you take them?" We regaled him with our favorite parks and playgrounds, assuring him that despite all the hype, Manhattan is indeed a child-friendly environment. Which is exactly why we're staying
Despite all my puffy-chested urbanite bluster of only a few days ago, last night brought with it the greatest argument for forsaking NYC as I've yet to hear.
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