by Jim Gaffigan
A small child’s taste in movies is just as atrocious. You know you’ll do anything for your kids when you find yourself paying twelve dollars a ticket to see The Smurfs. If you liked some of the movies toddlers liked, you’d definitely keep it to yourself. I brought my kids to see Yogi Bear. At the end, my then four-year-old son, Jack, popped out of his chair and said, “That was amazing!” I responded with the appropriate “Shhhh. Save the enthusiasm for a Pixar movie. This room is filled with your peer group. Don’t embarrass yourself.” I was tempted to turn to the parents behind me and announce, “He’s being sarcastic.”
Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised when my children beg to watch Spy Kids 2 for the twentieth time. After all, they are still impressed by a carousel. Also known as a “Merry-Go-Round” or “A Boring Piece of Junk.” Forty years after man walked on the moon, a slowly rotating plastic statue garden will put my children in gleeful hysterics. “Yea! A merry-go-round! Daddy, can we go on it? Oh please, please?” You are just going around and around at an excruciatingly slow pace to music they wouldn’t even play in an elevator. Nothing exciting is going to happen. That’s why those bogus shabby leather seat belts are so loose. They will never have cause to need those seat belts. At least with NASCAR, there is always the potential for an awesome wipeout.
Katie enjoying the rotating pieces of junk.
I guess I’m doomed to never have anything in common with my kids except my last name. The sad thing is that by the time they’re old enough to have good taste, I’ll be one of those old guys with bad taste. “Really, Dad? Those clothes? That music? The Smurfs movie?” I finally understand what the Generation Gap is. Well, at least we’ll always have McDonald’s.
Hotel New York City
We live in a five-story walk-up. To you non–city dwellers, the term walk-up is used to describe an apartment building that is so luxurious, it doesn’t have an elevator. It’s called a “walk-up” because once you get up to your place, you never want to walk down. To fully understand this quandary, imagine you are watching television without a remote control and to change the channel you have to walk up five flights of stairs carrying a stroller. My dreams often involve elevators.
I should mention this apartment is on the Bowery in Manhattan. For those readers not presently recovering from heroin addiction who are familiar with this area of New York City, consider this: supposedly the term hobo comes from a description of the sketchy characters who were the main inhabitants on the cross streets of HOuston and BOwery. Hey, that’s right where I live. Isn’t that cool, hip, and ironic? The tiny overcrowded apartment where I’m raising my young children is in the same location where they manufacture homeless people. Location, location, location.
I truly love living in New York City, and I’m proud to call it home. New York is a global city and exerts a significant impact upon commerce, finance, media, art, fashion, research, technology, education, and entertainment. New York is the home of the United Nations and has welcomed all kinds of different cultures. Most recently, the parent culture. Despite the great improvements in the quality of life over the past couple of decades, the city is still not really kid-compatible.
The last several years have seen more and more parents deciding to stay in the city rather than take a long, frustrating, traffic-congested commute in for work. There have been a lot of great new playgrounds, kids’ programs, and kid-themed events added to this fine city. These things coupled with all the other assets I mentioned earlier would make it sound like an ideal place to raise a well-rounded individual. The problem is that all these amazing places and activities that New York City has to offer are impossible to get to if you have five kids.
We don’t have a car, an SUV, an eight-passenger van, or one of those Partridge Family buses. This means our primary forms of transportation are cabs, walking, and the subway. Cabs are probably the most convenient way to get around New York. True, cabs are superexpensive, but not really, compared with gas and parking. Cabs give you door-to-door service, and the drivers are always great characters. Why not just take cabs everywhere? Well, New York City cabs are only allowed to carry up to four passengers at a time. That’s right, I can’t fit my entire family in one cab. There goes the cab option. So, walking.
Walking had always been one of my favorite things about New York City. Many times on a balmy autumn evening I would opt for walking home from a spot at a local comedy club even if I could get home much faster on the subway. True, I am a cheap bastard, but it wasn’t just because of the $2.25 that I could save. Walking for thirty minutes in the city is a completely different experience from walking for thirty minutes past a boring cornfield. There are remarkable sights, sounds, and people watching that make the time pass extraordinarily fast, and before you know it, you have arrived at your destination. However, when you add a couple of kids and a stroller to that equation, it becomes a vastly different experience.
Strolling a kid down a sidewalk seems like it would be easy except for the fact that the stroller is the Bermuda Triangle of kids’ shoes. Strollers should always come with a coupon for a free pair of shoes. You can’t stroll a kid half a block before they only have one shoe on. You have no idea when or how they got it off or how you missed a shoe being dropped or flung from something you are pushing right in front of you. Wouldn’t you have walked over it? Toddler shoes should definitely come in threes. Of course, then you would always lose the wrong one. Then there are the kids that are “walking” with you. Little kids have short legs and complain a lot. Also when you walk with kids, they get bored of simply “walking” real quickly. Every metal grate, fire hydrant, tree guard, pole, and stoop becomes part of his or her personal obstacle course. A simple walk becomes my personal obstacle course … but my obstacle is actually getting anywhere while I try to wrangle my chimps off of dangerous death traps like tree guards, stoops, ramps, and poles and try to prevent them from getting too close to the curb, where giant trucks and mindless cyclist are inches away from plowing them over. So, the subway.
The subway is a fast and economical way to get around Manhattan, but from the moment the turnstile smacks your kid in the head to the time your child terrifies you by almost falling in the gap between the platform and the train, to the lack of interest anyone has in yielding a seat to you, to the kid inevitably licking the subway pole that 800 million filthy hands have touched, to almost missing your stop because it’s too crowded to get off and you don’t want your kid trampled, to carrying the stroller up three flights of subway station stairs behind people who are moving so slow you have to hold yourself back from stabbing them, to the time you realize that the museum is closed for renovations, this fast, economical, environmentally friendly form of transportation becomes more of a treacherous pilgrimage than a way of getting from point A to point B.
Why people are frightened to ride the subway.
So the payoff of all these terrific playgrounds, music classes, and cultural destinations dramatically diminishes when by the time you get to them you are a harried shadow of your former self. And instead of being enthusiastic about showing your children all the ancient artifacts in the Temple of Dendur, all you can do is feel terrorized anticipating the dread of the return trip, and you’d pay a billon dollars for some ruby slippers you could click together and magically be face-first in your bed in an air-conditioned room crying your eyes out, muttering over and over again, “There’s no place like home!”
Raising children in New York City is just stupid. So why do we stay in New York City? Why don’t we move to the suburbs or LA? Or at least get a bigger apartment. Well, I feel like I can’t leave New York City. Los Angeles? I don’t want to deal with the sunscreen, plus I can’t get in that kind of shape. Besides I love New York City. When I was ten years old in Indiana, I remember looking around thinking, “There’s been an enormous mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.” I belong in New York City. I need New York City’s energy, diversity, and the convenience. Sometimes I leave for work ten minutes befor
e I have to be onstage. I don’t want to give that up. I work in NYC during the day and at night. I’d be commuting constantly. Also there is no “normal” in New York City. I grew up in a small town where everyone was white and Christian and Giovanni’s Italian restaurant was considered ethnic food. I want my children to be exposed to social, economic, and cultural diversity. I like it when my five-year-old asks me if a woman in a burka on the subway is a ninja. Jeannie and I would love to be in a bigger apartment, but we need something that would give us that last influx of cash to afford a place we really require. Something like selling a book that lots and lots of people might buy. Thank you for helping us getting a bigger home. Tell your friends. I’d invite you over to the new place, but that would mean I’d have to put on pants.
Vamanos
Recently on a warm, sunny day, a day perfect for napping rather than wasting outside, I found myself preparing to singlehandedly take all five of my kids to the park. I was doing this because I’m a great father and because Jeannie told me to do it.
Now, the only thing harder than leaving Jeannie and the kids when I go out of town to do shows is getting my entire family to leave the house to do anything. It is probably easier to land a quadruple jump in ice-skating than to get my five children to depart our home in a timely manner.
Everyone knows leaving anywhere with a large group is extremely difficult. I don’t know how Moses did it. “Does everyone have their shoes on? I wanted to leave Egypt for the Promised Land like two days ago!” I grew up in a big family, so I learned early on that everyone leaving the house together at the same time is virtually impossible, and I’m sure there is some law of science to explain it: whereby if one body exerts force on five other bodies, no body goes anywhere. When I was growing up, my dad would just leave without us. I remember my mother saying, “Where is he? He left?” I remember thinking at the time, “Jerk.” Now I get it.
When you have little kids, you can’t just say, “C’mon, let’s go!” and walk out the door. Nor can you say, “We’re leaving in five minutes!” and sit down and check e-mail. It will immediately become apparent that even if you’re taking them somewhere they want to go, your children will not move a muscle to do anything to get themselves ready. You must be an active participant in herding them out the door. If there is an electronic media device turned on anywhere in the vicinity, you must turn it off in order for your children’s brains to process that you are speaking to them. Even if there were shoes lined up next to the door, at least one shoe from each pair will have mysteriously disappeared by the time they have to go on their feet. You must always add “find the shoe” time to your calculation of estimated time of departure. If you have a child in diapers, you must realize that they time their soiling of the diaper to the precise moment you say, “Okay, we are all finally ready to go!” If it’s winter and there are hats, gloves, scarves, and mittens involved, just forget it. You might as well just stay in. It will be the spring thaw by the time you get them bundled.
It’s not just leaving; it’s leaving with stuff. There is just so much stuff to bring when you have young children. When you’re headed to the park, you must pack diapers, wipes, juice boxes, and sunscreen. And then there is the stuff for the kids. (Thank you, I’m here all book.)
Once you have collected all the stuff you need for the kids, you must deal with the stuff that the kids have decided that they want to bring with them. It’s never the logical thing to bring to the park like a bat or a ball. “Daddy, I want to bring my Play-Doh to the park.” Your departure becomes further delayed by the twenty-minute debate you are forced into, where you futilely try to explain why Play-Doh, board games, and dress-up clothes are probably not appropriate things to bring outdoors. I usually compromise by allowing them to grab one toy they don’t mind not returning with if it’s lost or because it’s Play-Doh.
My one-toy policy usually backfires. For example, on this particular my-wife-won’t-let-me-take-a-nap day, our six-year-old, Jack, decided he was going to bring his harmonica to the park. A harmonica that his older sister, Marre, suddenly believed was hers. I had to then find the other harmonica so they both could lose the same thing at the park. Overhearing this conflict, three-year-old Katie insisted that she also wanted to bring a “moniker” to the park. Of course, there were only two harmonicas (aka monikers) so I had to convince Katie that a plastic red recorder was a fancy “moniker.” Marre, ever supportive, seconded my lie. When my one-year-old, Michael, indicated in his unintelligible baby talk that he too wanted a “moniker,” I just handed him a square baby pillow that made noise and informed him it was a harmonica. He seemed satisfied or just had gas.
As long as we are on the subject of gas, little kids have no awareness of if or when they need to use the bathroom. “Do you need to go to the bathroom? Do you think you may need to go to the bathroom? Why don’t you just try to go to the bathroom?” They never need to go to the bathroom until you get to the place without a bathroom. I’ve become one of those parents who demand their children go to the bathroom.
“But I don’t have to.”
“Well, go anyway.”
After everyone faked going to the potty, we were ready to go. Then Marre, being ever unsupportive, piped up, “Mom says we need sunscreen.” My shoulders drooped as I grabbed the sunscreen and began the arduous process of protecting my pale offspring from the evil sun. I haven’t even gotten out the door yet and I’m already exhausted. An hour later, we trekked down the five flights of stairs. I wore the newborn in a Björn, carried my one-year-old, and held the hand of my three-year-old while I pleaded with my six- and eight-year-olds to hold on to the railing. At the bottom I had the eight-year-old hold the hand of the one-year-old as I grabbed the double stroller off the second floor, where our childless neighbors had mercifully allowed us to store it with the big kids’ scooters.
I pushed the one-year-old and the three-year-old in the double stroller as I wore the newborn and monitored the six- and eight-year-olds on their scooters. I was superdad. My relief at achieving departure from my apartment coupled with my utter exhaustion probably came across as confidence or calmness. Strangers looked at me like I was running a mobile day care. I proudly headed to the dog run. I mean playground. Because, unfortunately for a lazy guy like me, children, like dogs, need exercise and fresh air, and because we don’t have a backyard, I can’t just open the door and let them out. Well, I could, but I would probably get a visit from Children’s Services.
Children need a backyard. This statement mostly comes from friends who have moved to the suburbs in order to give their children a precious yard that they don’t feel comfortable letting them play in because they’ve watched too much Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I get the suburban yard argument, but given that I work in the city during the day and at night, I’d rather my children know me. I realize my children are missing something by not having a yard. A couple of years ago, my sister Cathy was living in a New York City suburb. We had Thanksgiving at her beautiful house with a spacious backyard. For months after that, my children kept requesting that we visit “the aunt with the house in the park.”
New York City parks and playgrounds are really my children’s backyard. Unfortunately, this means occasionally there are dead rats, homeless people, and used syringes in our backyard, but I think it gives my kids character and a strong immune system. So that’s where we are headed today. Our backyard. And it only took us two hours to get there.
Going to the playground is never really a day at the park. Because my children are city kids who are growing up going to playgrounds, they sometimes complain about going to the same playground. “We went to that playground yesterday!” So we go to many playgrounds. New York City playgrounds are usually named after great New Yorkers who nobody has ever heard of. As a parent, you end up using nicknames to describe them. There’s “Dirty Park” (DeSalvio Playground); “Injury Park” (Chinatown’s Columbus Park); “Poser Park” (Bleecker Playground); “Kidnapper Paradise” (Ancie
nt Playground); “First and First” (don’t know actual name); “Heroin Addict Park” (Tompkins Square Park); and “The Park” (Central Park).
My kids’ favorite part of a recent visit to Washington Square Park.
On more than one occasion, I’ve made excuses for the stumbling heroin addict. “Is that guy a zombie?”
“Actually, yes, he is.” It is probably unique to NYC that your children can’t play in a sandbox because it’s closed due to rat poop.
The dynamics of New York City playgrounds are fascinating. There are typically children of every race and socioeconomic background. There are moms, dads, grandparents, and nannies. Some caretakers are on the phone, some are chatting with one another, and some are actually playing with their kids, but mostly the kids are on their own. Even though there are watchful eyes nearby, this is the place where children feel like they can run free. I love watching children socialize at the park. It is so much easier for young kids than it is for adults to make friends. The lines children use to introduce themselves with are fascinating.
“Do you like Star Wars? I like Star Wars.”
To kid with a Cars T-shirt: “I’ve got that movie.”
Or just a simple “Wanna play?”
Sometimes they won’t say anything. They will just start playing with some kid they’ve never met. This would be the equivalent of going up to an adult that is dancing and just starting to dance with them. Yet when I tried that at the ballet, people assumed I was drunk. Granted, I was, but that’s beside the point. If only all human interactions were as easy as they are for kids.
