Huckey Berries

So I did go to the Tony's. Like two months ago. But it's summer. Who's counting?

I wore the shoes.


I didn't start getting ready early enough. Which is weird. I'm chronically, freakishly, eerily, supernaturally, time-warpingly early most of the time. But I guess that's once I leave the apartment and assuming I don't have to return from the subway to do an obsessive compulsive check to make sure I turned the stove off. So we didn't really have time to take good pictures before we left. And like an idiot we took a bunch in the lobby which are horrendous. Really really ugly. Took a few in the natural light and they were tolerable. Took lots afterward in the dark which was actually pretty fun. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started to rain a bit while we were in the car. The streets next to Radio City were closed and the traffic was gridlocked so we got out of the car at 7th Avenue and 50th to walk over. When we first got out of the car it felt funny to be holding my train, jumping puddles in my $220 shoes and dodging tourists in I heart NY tees. But as we got closer, more and more people in formal dress joined us, having also abandoned their cars in the traffic. Umbrellas. Long and short dresses. Tuxes and suits. It was a truly New York experience.

Radio City was a mob scene. I didn't walk the red carpet, though my parents definitely wanted me to. Which is sweet. Some day I hope to walk the red carpet when the people taking pictures know my name. So we lined up and gave our tickets and went in.

In the future, if you happen to be attending the Tony's, I encourage you to avoid a dress with a train. Everyone stepped on the train. Doc Hubby stepped on it three times. Honestly I stepped on it a time or two as well. Trains are good for presenters. And winners. A pain in the ass in the line for the bathroom. The dress however? Thank you again Carmen Marc Valvo. Like a column of silk. Which it was.

The ceremony itself was tons more fun in real life than on TV. Full disclosure--I hadn't seen all of the shows nominated. But the performances from the musicals were thrilling. Totally. Sean Hayes was adorable. We sat in the very very very back row of the orchestra, but we were right on the center aisle where all the entrances that were made from the house happened. Sean Hayes running like Spiderman. That girl from "Glee" singing Barbara Streisand. And Will Smith and Jada Pinkett entering about an hour into the whole event and then turning around and walking partway back up the aisle and then going back down. Most exciting celebrity sighting by far.

Our play didn't win anything. Which was more of a bummer than I imagined it might be. I think I really wanted it to. My sweet friend Maria looked beautiful, but she didn't win either. She came over to bum a snack from our assistant costume designer (and the fact that our costumes didn't win was just criminal), and I got her attention. She hugged me and said "Oh Wendy, I wanted to win so much--just so I could thank you." And I was so very touched by that.

Maybe I've been feeling nostalgic ever since.

A month later I was at the Farmer's Market in my hometown trying to pick out the best and freshest corn. This is not an easy task. The Farmer's Market in July is buried in corn. And local peaches. And blueberries. And toy John Deere farm equipment. But I spotted an old man in a bright blue trucker's hat. He only had two things for sale. Corn and "Hucky Berries." I bought his corn. The hucky berries were what my grandfather would have called huckleberries--small and I imagine a bit tart. It seemed to me that if all he brought was corn and hucky berries, both of them must be pretty good. It's been so dry in Central PA that lots of the corn is chewy. His was lovely. Small kernels. Lots of pop. Sweet.

From the Tony's to the Farmer's Market in the span of a month. It's having experiences like that bump up against each other that I think makes life awesome. Sometimes I try to make the juxtaposition mean something. Or tell a story. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it's just kitty litter embedded in the soles of $220 shoes and huckey berries.

Here are a few pictures from the Tony's. Warning, these are a lot of photos of me. I wasn't clever enough to have a bag to take with me (frankly I'm amazed I had an appropriate dress and shoes that semi-fit. A bag was just too much) so I had no camera at the event. I know. Idiotic. Anyway, I don't usually post a million photos of me but here I am. Not at the Farmer's Market.







I wish I had taken a picture of the sign that said "huckey berries." It would have been a better picture than any of those.

The Blush Off The Rose

New York is a lot of things. Gentle, it is not.

I was walking to my yearly GYN appointment (if you must know) which takes me all the way across Central Park South to the East Side. Central Park South is a lovely expanse of ritzy NYC real estate, stretching from the huge new mall at Columbus Circle to the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. But it also happens to be where all the horse-drawn carriages park while they wait for visitors to drive around Central Park. On a windy March day, Central Park South is eardrum-freezing bitter and yet still stifling with the smell of horse manure. With just a dash of horse urine for luck. A waft of cow manure makes me homesick for Central PA. Horse manure, on the other hand, does not. When I was pregnant and yarfy, this walk along Central Park South was like running the gauntlet. I am proud to say I never once puked on Central Park South.

So I was walking across the bottom of the Park last week. I take it as something of a compliment that the carriage drivers don't proposition me for a ride. Despite the LL Bean jacket, I guess after seventeen years maybe I do look angry enough to be a local. I'm walking by and they're all hanging out, some in grungy top hats. Some in baseball caps. Chatting and waiting. When all of a sudden one of the horses kicks over his feed pail, spilling a decent amount, but certainly not the whole bucket, on the street. And the driver grabs the bucket and yells, "F--- you, you f---ing idiot!" He yells this at the HORSE. And something in the way he yelled it was kind of dark. More like a wife-beater than a business partner. Reflexive and violent. And it just kinda made me wonder...

Oh it's soooo romantic...a carriage ride through Central Park....snuggling under the blanket with your sweetie....snapping pics of the forsythia and daffodils.

Welcome to New York City 2010.

Kinda takes the blush off the rose a bit, doesn't it?

A Barf Conundrum

Ok all you experienced moms. And all you people who, on occasion, walk on sidewalks. Here is my question:

What is your obligation to the universe when your kid throws up on a sidewalk?

I guess you could extrapolate this to any public puking, really. But for the purposes of this question, let's take the circumstances as they happened, and go from there.

It was very cold on Wednesday. The Bean has been, as I have stated, coughing so hard that she spits up diluted juice. Well, on Wednesday I was determined to take her to the park (read: leave the apartment before I was compelled to shoot myself), after stopping at Starbucks for the most absurd drink ever invented ever ever (a decaf, tall, soy, skinny, cinnamon dolce latte - Fat Flush compliant for my money). But when we arrived at Starbucks, the line was out the door, so we reluctantly turned around and headed directly toward the park. At which point the Bean started hacking. And hacking. And hacking. And ultimately, regurgitating small amounts of juice. Okay, with a little particulate matter to be totally honest. Several small puddles. And here's the really insidious thing: the puddles were small enough that really, that you could walk down the street and totally not see them--until it was too late. But they were definitely big enough to do damage. No doubt at all about it. As I urged the Bean to breathe deeply and try to stop coughing, I knew that here was just no doubt those puddles were going to be targets. I could see it coming.

But there I was. On the street. No caution tape. No orange cones. No flares. No hose. No mop. No wipes even. Not cold enough that the puddles would freeze. Not hot enough that they would evaporate. And nary a rain cloud in sight.

And for the record, let me say that I clean up my messes. I am courteous to others on the subway. I always wait my turn in line. And I have even been known to pile up all my dishes on the table at a restaurant and pick the crumbs off the floor when our family has made what I consider to be a mess larger than any stranger should have to clean up. So this is not an easy moment for me...this moment coming up.

Did I have a choice?

I wiped the Bean's mouth and sleeve with a tissue and jammed it in my back pocket. And I walked away from those puddles on the street. Knowing for certain that some poor person was inevitably going to step in them and be grossed out beyond belief when she got home. And it would be entirely my fault.

This, my friends, is why everyone in New York City doffs their shoes the moment they walk in the door.

Falling off the Wagon and Hitting a Waffle Truck

If you're in New York City, particularly in the area of the Upper West Side, and you're on some crazy diet...well my friend, you've come to the right place. I fell off the Fat Flush Wagon...I am trying very desperately to climb back on but it's not easy to avoid dairy, wheat and sugar when your kid has her first ear infection and coughs so hard she throws up diluted juice all over the hard wood floors...nonetheless, I confess that I fell off the Fat Flush Wagon. And I hit a Waffle Truck on the way down.

So in the interest of full disclosure here are the ways in which I have fallen off the wagon in the last two weeks.

The Waffle Truck - Good God has anything better ever been invented? A Truck? That sells waffles? It is quite simply divine. I managed not to eat the Bean's waffle too while she was sleeping in a feverish daze. Just barely. That would have been low.

The Mermaid Inn - I wanted the lobster roll. I should have had the broiled salmon. I compromised with the Grilled Shrimp Sandwich which was totally and completely beyond divine.

The Whole Wheat Chocolate Chip Scone from Silver Moon Bakery - Very nearly not falling off, right? I mean, it's so whole wheat that the wheat berries (are they like crunch berries) crunch in your teeth. But dang I could go for that right now.

So...considering falling off the diet wagon, yourself? Feeling like I did nothing to help you fight to go to bed hungry?

I remind you...baby girl coughs so hard that she throws up diluted juice all over the hardwood floors. That oughta do it.

Smarty Pants Preschool Update

Wait listed.

No joke.

My 2 1/2 year old daughter was just wait listed.

I wrote a comment about it on someone else's blog and actually typed "weight listed."

Think that means something? Not sure what, if anything. Maybe I'm putting too much weight on all this even though I keep saying it's crazy and doesn't matter and what the heck is wrong with New York.

Or maybe I just need to start the Fat Flush. Which I appear to be doing tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure that no one should be wait listed before the age of four.

The Difference Between Here and Ocean City Maryland

When we were on vacation last August we saw this show on Discovery Health called "Just Cook This." This dude, Sam Zein, who hosts it is a pretty unlikely host of a cooking show. He kept burning himself and dropping food. It was funny enough to get me and Doc Hubby both on board. On one episode we watched, he made a Mixed Mushroom and Goat Cheese Pizza that looked amazing. So we decided to try it.

We spent the next day playing arcade games in Ocean City, MD and stopped at a Stop and Shop or Fresh Pride or some equally massive food store to get the ingredients--a tabernacle to grocery shopping. A palace. A temple. A ziggurat. I needed an uncooked pizza crust, parmesan cheese, garlic, goat cheese, mushrooms, and one of those packages of prewashed, organic if possible, spinach. I hit the produce section first. Not a bag. Not a shred. Not a leaf of baby spinach. Not to mention organic baby spinach. Some limp nasty looking watery salads in a bag (with those inane zigzag cut carrots and radishes) were the only small greens. I had to buy a bag of the big nasty bitter spinach leaves and spend fifteen minutes removing every stem. All other ingredients hastily found. Goat cheese. Check. Surprise really. Pizza crusts? Took a while to find them in the refrigerator section, but once located, several different options. Pizza created. Delicious.

Cut to today. Superbowl Sunday. One year anniversary of Bean walking. I want to make the pizza again. I send Doc Hubby out for the ingredients. I figure, this is New York, so we will have many options of goat cheese and they will call it chevre and you can even get it low fat. Spinach for days. Prewashed. Organic. Indeed all is found. All...but the pizza crusts.Really? I eye Doc Hubby really skeptically. This is New YORK! I say to Doc Hubby. We have everything. Did you really look? He assures me he did. On occasion he can't find his own feet, so I am skeptical. Even a bit disdainful. Did you ask the guy? No need to revisit this tired and really not that funny joke. He hands me a Boboli. I scoff.

So I get all bundled up. I storm out the door and say I'm going to the ultra fancy neighborhood store "to get a pizza crust." After all we won't be watching "Extreme Makeover Home Edition" tonight. I want a yummy damn pizza. I go directly to the fancy gourmet joint about half a mile away. I pass three other grocery stores along the way. I stand in shock and look at the mini tart shells, whole wheat pie crusts, and filo dough. No pizza crust. I go to the next closest grocery store. The "big" one that's cheaper and not so fancy. Confident. I ask the guy. Strike two. I pass by the medium fancy grocery store that's only five blocks from home. Doc Hubby said he scoured it before getting the Boboli. I am starting to believe him. He has also checked the grocery store in the first floor of our building. There he got a mound of frozen pizza dough. "What will we do with that?" I exclaim in disgust? Do I look like I have a pizza stone??? Have you seen our cabinets?

I am ready to slink in and apologize. I buy jello chocolate mousse and Applegate Farms Hot Dogs as a peace offering. And then I remember. This is New YORK. The Italian Market. The fancy specialty shop two blocks closer to home. Doc Hubby was just constrained by his non-NYCness. Of course you check the specialty shop when looking for what turns out to be a specialty items. When you ask the man for the uncooked pizza crusts he will surely...frown and shake his head and not even speak. Yup. Friendliest city in the world.

I slink home. Five grocery stores. In half a mile. Not a single uncooked pizza crust. Are they too big? Do they take up too much valuable grocery store real estate? Or does everyone figure it's New York. Why the heck would you make a pizza when you can get a slice at five joints in the same ten block radius as the grocery stores?

I am using the Boboli tonight. Go Saints.

So that's the difference between here and Ocean City Maryland. That and there is no skeeball in my apartment.

So Lonely...

My baby girl is so lonely. She is so starved for friendship. She is so aching for any kind of human contact besides Mama...that every day she stands in the living room and points to the window and says "Up in the 'indow? See peoples?"

Desperate.

Simply to catch a glimpse of another human being besides myself.

That she looks out our fifth floor window, waaaaaay down to the street below, and yells "baby!" every time a stroller rolls by.

When the babysitter arrives...any babysitter arrives...she immediately stands next to her, looks up at me, waves, and says "bye Mama!"

So either I have done something really right. Or I have done something dreadfully wrong.

The Rotation of the Earth

So the thing about New York is, that on certain days of the year, when the sun bounces off the building across the street at just the right angle, and you walk into the kitchen at just the right minute to get a glass of ice water, sun actually streams in the window. Like it does at normal people's houses. And you can see, with staggering clarity, just how filthy the place is. I mean. Filthy. Caked-on goop on the side of the refrigerator...and the basket holding the takeout menus on the side of the refrigerator. Years of grime ground into the fridge handle. Nastiness caked on the front of the stove and the dishwasher. I couldn't actually bring myself to look down at the floor.

So what the heck is in those Mr. Clean Magic Erasers? They dissolve, themselves, and take the filth with them. When I'm done cleaning with them, my hands feel a bit like they've been dipped in bleach. I'm sure there's something on the box that says it's a good idea to wear gloves when you use them. Especially if you have hand mange like I do. They are effective, but man. They give me the creeps.

So instead of doing other things, I just spent about twenty minutes scrubbing, until my magic eraser had erased itself and some of the ick with it. And then the earth rotated and it's now dark as dusk in here. At 1:47 in the afternoon on a late July day.

My apologies to all of you who have stayed in this apartment over the summer.

And also, this post is totally not sponsored by Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. Which is a good thing since Mr. Clean might not like the part about how his magic erasers give me the creeps.

BTW they also take bird poop off the patio furniture. Even if the birds have been eating berries.

P.S. Holy-Crapola Here I Come

So there are two articles in the Times today about public schooling your kids in NYC. My baby isn't two yet, but I'm kinda already having palpitations about it.

The first one is The Sudden Charm of Public School. This article makes the point that given the economic downturn, lots of parents who were sending their kids to swanky NYC private schools, or who were planning to send their kids to swanky NYC private schools, are now trying to get them into public schools. And the high-demand, best-performing public schools now have a glut of applications and not enough slots necessarily, even for kids who live in the zones. And here's where it gets icky...people are even faking that they live in these zones to get preference. Either renting apartments there that they don't necessarily live in or "moving in" with family. Borrowing addresses. I knew all this was coming but....really??? YUCK!

The second article, Don't Move Until the School Secretary Says It's O.K. discusses many of the same topics, with the focus on making the choice to move into a zone that contains a highly ranked school. Resources offered for researching schools include other parents and the independent website InsideSchools.org. Also talks about people without kids choosing to buy in zones with good schools to up the resale values of their homes.

Now may I say, when we moved into this apartment we were planning to have children. But it never even crossed our minds to look into the school district. Let me repeat: never even crossed our minds. Can I have a rousing: Duh? DUH!

Not that it would have made that much difference. This apartment is great. We would have taken it no matter what. The neighborhood is great. The parks are great. There's a Starbucks within spitting distance. Really good bagels. But the neighborhood school is less than great.

What I realize basically, is that I am at the beginning of a big long journey. And if we choose to stay here in NYC (which for the time being seems likely) I am going to be taking on the full time job of my baby's school agent. Oh I can hire someone to do it for me. This is New York after all. But I'm pretty sure that's not gonna happen. Ok P.S. 1-2-Holy-Crap-What-Are-We-Getting-Into...here I come.

Pa Ingalls and My Responsibility Project

So there's this thing going on at right now called The Responsibility Project. Spurred by a Liberty Mutual commercial of all things, the site features a bunch of short films about personal responsibility. And I'm so on about that.

I hate it when I see kids litter in the subway. I saw a teenage boy hand a half-full can of grape soda to another kid right before getting off the train. The other kid, a girl, didn't want it, yelled loudly in response, and held the soda can very briefly like it was a dead animal. I'm pretty sure the boy had a crush on her and thought handing her his garbage was a good way to show it. Have I mentioned I didn't have a high school boyfriend? In retrospect, maybe not so bad. Anyway, the girl then put the can on the floor under a seat and got off at the next stop.

Not surprisingly, within minutes the can overturned, and a narrow, shallow, sticky river of grape soda began to run the length of the subway car. I watched it all happen, and I was so mad about it. Mad when I watched people having to step around the mess. Mad when I saw people step right in it. Mad when a diverging stream ran into the open-toed shoes of someone innocently reading a newspaper, not noticing.

Finally a woman picked the can up and exited the subway with it. And I wanted to get her email address and send her a thank you note. That woman exercised the kind of personal responsibility that germaphobic me was not willing to do (Pick up some kid's yucky, germy, discarded soda can after it rolled around on the subway floor? No thank you. I will just sit, watch it obsessively, and steam).

So will my baby girl leave half empty cans of soda on the subway when she's a teenager? Gulp.

As a parent, my inherent, goody-two-shoes, nerdy to a fault, Presbyterian, "follows-directions-well-ness" has kind of exploded. The sense of responsibility I feel towards this small person is kind of staggering. I think this feeling is probably why I have obsessively posted videos and photos about cutting her bangs too short--for an entire MONTH. She was fine. Then I took scissors to her and mangled her hair. Fairly harmless in the grand scheme of things. A spilled can of grape soda on a subway train. But when it comes to...you name it. Making medical decisions. Protecting her financial future. Keeping her from hurting herself. Even teaching her not to litter. Am I indiscriminately wielding craft scissors?

So, Liberty Mutual (and I am so not selling anything for them or getting paid by them...I just watched this movie after the link was sent to me) is sponsoring this film project to get people talking about individual responsibility. And I find it so refreshing. In this age--heck in this election month--where many are passing the buck, many are blaming our problems on everyone else, here's a company using film to raise the issue of individuals choosing to stop the buck.

Here's the movie I watched. It's called "Tony." I watched the whole 13 minutes of it, which is rare for me, and actually found it kind of touching. I'm a new mom so I guess that's not too surprising. I'm not sure about the end...but I've only been a parent for 14 months. Talk to me in a couple of years. And did the boy need to be sick to make the story work? I'm actually not sure about that either. Maybe yes. Again, talk to me in a few years.

But all this is really about me of course, and my penance for hacking the baby's bangs. My crazy sense of responsibility which is hitting me so hard that I feel the need to post photos for a month featuring very blatantly "the bad thing I did." So here's the latest, and let me say also the final, one.



And here's a sneak peek of the little bean in her Halloween costume. She's going to be Laura Ingalls (before the "Wilder" when she was still "Half Pint"). So how did Ma and Pa teach those kids to be so darned responsible? I guess they had no other choice. Everyone pitched in or they wouldn't have anything to eat after Plum Creek froze in November. Minnesota winters in a poorly insulated homestead slap some responsibility into you pretty quickly, I guess.



None the worse for the wear. Still the biggest responsibility project I've ever undertaken. And I love her.

The Elusive Icelander

They have begun construction on the next door apartment upstairs. I just left the sleeping baby (MIRACLE!) to go and check it out.

Last year at this time they began work on the apartment next door. It is a three bedroom...count em 1 - 2 - 3 friggin' bedroom apartment. Something so rare in New York that I am considering charging admission for people to simply peek in the door when the occupants leave for jogs. And as loud as the constant banging is upstairs right now, it was three times as loud last year. I guess...hard to say. It's pretty damn loud right now.

So yeah, last year our neighbors left (a very nice family who were sweet and friendly but seemed to have no interest in actually becoming our friends) and men began systematically dismantling their apartment. They stripped the place. Floor to ceiling. Removed molding (lead paint fears I guess), appliances, floors...caused teeny tiny nasty piles of toxic dust to seep under cracks in the molding and form inside our apartment.

But I was actually kind of excited. A small family had left, I could only imagine a small family would be moving in. After all the apartment has (have I mentioned) three bedrooms! Maybe they'd have two kids. Maybe we'd end up watching "Project Runway" together and sharing babysitting. Maybe we'd actually have friends next door.

So after months of wall-shaking banging and floor vibrating sanding and nauseating noxious odors, the apartment was done. And the guys who work in the building confided to me that it's all top of the line! Stainless steel appliances, fancy light fixtures, custom everything. I was flipping ecstatic when I got to choose the paint colors in this place. And then didn't have to paint them myself. But no one was offering me granite countertops, believe you me.

And the people who moved in? A young couple. I have seen the husband maybe three times in the last year. The wife I have never laid eyes upon. So far as I know. The university which offers us this housing (not for free mind you) apparently thought that his coming here from Iceland merited a complete overhaul and three months of constant noise. And possible lead paint exposure. So he and his wife (? I assume) could spread out their Icelandic stuff over three bedrooms.

So is it just sour grapes? I mean, no shared babysitting. No pizza and reality TV. No friends. No sightings even for months on end. Which is the truly amazing thing about New York. For as much as we live in each others' laps...we never ever ever lay eyes on our neighbors. Ever. We smell noxious things from their apartments wafting through the walls (don't get me started on the lovely Asian couple who cooked some kind of cabbage stuff daily while I was so "morning" sick that I couldn't leave my couch for weeks), we see their strollers in the hallway, but we never actually see them. Let alone exchange holiday gifts.

And it's kind of sad and lonely.

So (and now the baby is awake and chattering in her crib) I now have to put up with months more of deafening noise while they renovate another presumably gigantic apartment (it's directly over the one next door) for another person? couple? family? who I will most likely not lay eyes upon.

I miss seeing people in the driveway or working out in their gardens. I fantasize that if I lived on a regular street I would exchange plant clippings and invite them over for bbq. Rather than simply say (if I do happen to lay eyes upon my neighbors) "oh we should really get together sometime."

Because we never ever do.

The baby is totally awake. And it sounds like the guys upstairs are jumping around on pogo sticks. It's gonna be a long couple of months.

Project Subway Platform

So I was at 34th Street on the subway platform waiting for the 1 train a few weeks ago. And I saw this dark-haired guy standing there waiting for the train. And I thought to myself, hey I know that guy! Where do I know him from? Did we do a show together? He was small and bearded and kinda theater-y looking. So I smiled a big, dumb, goofy smile. And he looked right past me.

Which made me feel kind of lousy for a second. And then I realized. He's that guy from Project Runway. Kevin, from Season 4. Not the one who cried all the time. That was Ricky. The other guy. Kevin. I liked him. That's probably why when I saw him, I assumed he was my friend.

What a strange thing it is to be a reality TV star. Because when it ends, unless you "win", you're back to riding the subway. The money's not that good, I don't think. If you don't win. I mean, it's better than waiting tables. But you know, you're not gonna retire on it. So unless you "hit" somehow... either win the whole thing or become the breakout story, you're back on the 1 train, pounding the pavement, scrambling for work.

Kinda like what it is to be just a person living in New York.

And note, I still ride the subway every day.

Taking the A Train With My Baby

My baby loves people. I mean LOVES them. We are actually able to go out to eat all the time because she is so happy to flirt with everyone around her. Busboys to hostesses, patrons to chefs. My baby loves them all. More than once I have seen people grimace when they catch sight of the high chair on the opposite side of the restaurant. Then Baby Girl smiles at them. Then they smile back, delightedly. And then they are unable to finish their lunches because my baby demands their attention for the next 45 minutes while I eat my omelet in peace.

I live in post 9-11 New York City. I have been here for fifteen years. I am well aware of the need to be cautious. But I am staunchly opposed to the culture of fear.

Lots of people have responded with outrage to Lenore Sekazy, the woman who allowed her nine-year-old to ride home on the subway alone. She wrote a column about it, appeared on the Today Show, and people came out of the woodwork. Many of the people who oozed through the cracks have never set foot in Manhattan, let alone on the D Train. I live here. I ride it every day. Since my baby was born, I bring her on the subway too. Which is a challenge for me, as a bona fide germaphobe. I took her on a 1 Train this morning that was far too crowded for 10:15 (what the heck is the problem with the trains these days...they are getting insane) and whipped out my hand sanitizer five times between here and 14th Street. I suppose there are some who would criticize my decision to take my baby on a crowded subway in the first place. Think of all the risk factors--terrorists to muggers, germs to track fires.

However, you want to know what my experience riding the train with my baby has been like? Kinda amazing. People offer me seats a lot. More than when I was pregnant. Though frankly I think people are too afraid to risk offending someone who might not be actually pregnant by offering her a seat. (And honestly, I'd rather stand on a crowded subway than sit--more distance between baby's face and coughing passengers. I told you I was a germaphobe.) Several months ago a rowdy car full of teenage boys noisily and colorfully told each other to shut up because a baby was sleeping. And then, I kid you not, sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her. She goes looking for friends, there's no doubt about it. But not a ride goes by that she doesn't succeed. And that makes the time pass more easily. And it makes her giggle.

She is a trusting soul.

I want her to be like that. I want her to believe in people. I want her to have a little dose of Anne Frank's optimism about the essential goodness of others. I love it that busboys will line up to spin dishrags on their fingers so she will laugh.

Maybe the guys at the Toyota Place are jacking the service fees up and doing unnecessary repairs on your car...but maybe they're not. Maybe your breaks actually need to be replaced. Perhaps that crazily bearded guy in the plaid shirt who is always lurking in the parking lot of the grocery store is a dangerous wacko. And maybe he's just a little lost and a little bit sad and lonely. Maybe the Middle Eastern guy sitting next to you on the plane is a terrorist. And maybe he used to be an engineer in Pakistan and now has to drive a cab to support his wife and kids in Queens. I choose to believe the latter until proved wrong.

I asked my friend Sarah who grew up in the city how old she was when she started riding the subway alone. She said she was in fifth grade. And this was in the early 80's -- pre-Giuliani, pre-Disneyfication of Times Square, pre-metrocard. We used to sell Girl Scout cookies to apartment complexes full of college kids when I was that age. Our parents dropped us off, and we went door to door. No one thought we would get molested. No one did get molested. And we sold a hell of a lot of thin mints.

So at what age will I let baby girl ride the subway alone? Hard to say. I'm inclined to say that nine is a bit early for us. But who knows? At some point I know I will need to talk to her about stranger danger. About trusting her instincts. About listening to the voice in her head that's telling her a situation might not be right and it's time to leave.

But until then, my baby is growing up in a world where people go underground and sit next to other people of every size, shape and color. She can smile at them, even if her Mama doesn't speak the same language they do. And they will smile back. And that's nothing to be afraid of.

Why I Hate The New York Post

Yesterday a dear friend of mine died when he fell from the balcony of his NYC office at Beth Israel Hospital.

The "New York Post" splashed "Doc in Death Plunge" atop their web page. I haven't seen if there's a story to match it in the regular paper. I have never actually picked up a copy of the Post. Rest assured I never will.

I always sort of avoided "The Post" because it seemed sensational and sleazy. But I never really thought about the people behind those lurid headlines. The friends. The coworkers. The families. The victims.

This man who died was one of the the kindest, gentlest, most thoughtful men I know. He went to Macy's and picked out two pink dresses for my baby daughter when she was born. He was very simply a good doctor. His loss is not only a loss to those of us who were lucky enough to be his friends. It was a loss to all the patients who will never receive care in his hands.

The paper made insinuations as to what happened. With no proof. This story is what people will remember. Yet we will probably never know the truth. And those of us who knew him will never believe what the reporters suggested.

So here is the headline Doug deserves:
Caring Friend, Wonderful Doctor, Sports-Fan, Uncle, Son, New Yorker--Lost to the World in Tragic Accident.

May he rest in peace.