Getting from Here to There

Navigating the streets, subways and event spaces of New York City with my three boys is always an, um, adventure.

And the number of questions they can ask along the way is staggering.

Here are just a few of the queries I heard this afternoon as we walked maybe half a mile from our apartment on the Upper West Side to Riverside Park for the West Side Country Fair (no, that's not an ironic name for the fest, though it certainly should be. The only thing 'country' about this fair are the bags of apples for sale.)

And, go!

As we cross the street, heading west...

"Mom, remember when that taxi hit the subway station?"

Yes, I remember. It was two weeks ago.

"Why did that happen anyway?"

Dunno.

"Look, isn't that Max from camp? Didn't he always have stinky breath? Is that Max's mom? Why do you think her sunglasses are so big?"

As we pass the diner...

"Does that dinner have blueberry pancakes?"

I'm sure they do.

But are they, you know, really good blueberry pancakes? The kind we like?

"Do you think they give whipped cream on pancakes?"

Again, dunno. It's not "our" diner. As we cross the street again, making our way into Riverside Park...

"Who's that lady again?"

Eleanor Roosevelt. They ask about the statue every time we pass it, which is pretty darn often.

"What was she famous for?"

A very smart, unusual woman who had great ideas about how people should treat each other and help each other.

"Is she dead?"

Yes.

"Why did she die?"

She was old.

"Was she the most famous person then? Or was that blind and deaf woman more famous?"

You mean Helen Keller? I don't know who was more famous; they were different kinds of people, but both brought a lot to the world.

"But which of them were more famous?"

Sigh.

Walking down the hill to the Hudson River waterfront, past the dog run...

"Why is that dog pooping there? Doesn't the owner know that dogs aren't supposed to poop on the grass?"

Yes. He's cleaning it up.

"Can we go into the doggy park and play with the dogs? They're so cute. Why do they need their own park?"

No, we can't go into the dog park because we don't have a dog. Dogs have their own place to play so they don't poop all over the park.

"Can we get a dog? Just a little one?"

Not today.

Discussion of what kind of dog/cat/lizard/frog/fish/snake might make a suitable pet continues as we walk down the hill, with the kids asking every five seconds what kind of pet I might okay in the near future. ("A rabbit, Mom, can we have a rabbit?"

Standing and looking into the waters of the Hudson River...

"What would happen if we fell in?"

I'd jump in after you.

"But what if this fence broke and we were almost going to fall in?"

I'd grab you.

"What if you couldn't reach us?"

Remember the jumping in part? I'd do that.

'Why are there big logs in the water?"

Dunno, dunno. Becoming my mantra.

"Why does this river have waves? Rivers aren't supposed to have waves, are they?"

Because it's a tidal river and tidal rivers have waves. I might be making part of this up.

"Is it deep?"

Yes.

"Is it over your head?"

Yes.

"Is it over your head like ten times?"

No idea.

"But why don't you know?"

This is when I propose the idea of ice cream sandwiches for the boys.

And a cold adult drink for Mommy.

No, Apparently, He Can't Wait Two Minutes

Kyle is hungry.

No, he's starving.

"I'mmm starving," he's moaning. "Need food. Must have it now."

The current object of his focus is a Vita Muffin--a sort of healthyish chocolate muffin top.

He can get a Vita Muffin for himself, but prefers it warmed up in the toaster oven, which in our cramped New York City apartment, is on a shelf too high for him to reach.

"Two minutes," I promise.

He waits at least ten seconds. "Now? Will you make it now?" he asks hopefully.

"No, in a minute and 50 seconds," I reply, feeling my shoulders begin to tense up.

You know how this goes, right?

Every ten to fifteen seconds, Kyle repeats his request for a warm chocolate Vita Muffin, as my shoulders continue to rise toward my ears.

Even my threat of, "Every time you ask about it, your waiting time gets longer!" fails to clamp down on the begging.

As he begs, I scurry around, making the bed, picking up towels from the bathroom floor and giving the sink a quick wipedown. Still, the broken-record that is my ten-year-old continues.

Finally, I snap. "Two minutes! That's all I ask for! Is that too long for you to wait?"

He looks at me wide-eyed. "No, Mom, that's fine," he says, suddenly speaking in a most reasonable tone. "Sheesh, you don't have to get so annoyed."

He glances at his little brother Seth. "Watch out, Mom's really cranky tonight," he said. "I don't know what that's about."

Another Ploy Blown to Bits

Walking home tonight, Kyle said to me, "Mom, you don't really have eyes in the back of your head, do you?"
I smiled; telling me kids about my "other" eyes was a remarkably effective ploy for years, but I'd ditched it recently in favor of time-outs and other more punitive strategies (no Game Boy for a week! Or perhaps ever again!).
'What do you think?" I asked, as Kyle leaped and wiggled behind me, doing who knows what.
"Well, you can't see what I'm doing right now," my almost-10-year-old replied. "So I think...no eyes back there."
"When did you figure out that I don't have eyes in the back of my head?" I asked.
Kyle shrugged. "About four years ago," he said.
I explained that people often say Moms have eyes in the back of their heads because they always know what their kids are doing. "Like I always know what you guys are doing," I said.
My fourth-grader flashed me a sly little grin. "But you don't know what we're doing in the cafeteria at lunch," Kyle said. Teaser.
You know, I keep my kids pretty close at hand. Living in New York City, where space is almost unbearably limited, makes it easy to keep tabs on your children.
But I guess the rope is getting stretched now. Because I don't know what they're doing at lunch, what they're talking about in the playground. And the three of them have secrets now, jokes they tell only to each other, games that don't include me or their dad.
But we'll always have time-outs.