Ah, Brooklyn: where it’s expensive; where there’s no parking; where it’s nasty full of hipsters and their statement facial hair; where we all have dog envy; where the grocery store sells yogurt that finds it necessary to bill itself as “artisanal,” “organic,” and from “Vermont,” all in one label; where astroturf is a symbol of class warfare; where you have to know from ice cubes in your $20 cocktail; where a woman I met at a bar can tell me that my son might miss out on Harvard (say it with awe) because–at three–I haven’t had him tested for a gifted and talented public school program; where, where, where….
You simply have to love it, or you wouldn’t live here (although federal law requires all mid-career writers to live in Brooklyn or below 14th street in Manhattan. It’s true–look it up if you don’t believe me).
One nice thing about Brooklyn, however, is that we got kids. Lots of em. Loads of babies and toddlers and tots and teens of all shapes, sizes, colors, and flavors of Ipod worship. We raise ’em, we hang out with them, we teach them about good cheese, we take them to our yuppie parks to sled.
We also take our kids around on the street, in big, expensive, obnoxious strollers, and occasionally, some of us don’t strap our little one in tightly, or in some cases, at all. And when said stroller hits an icy patch or a big bump in the sidewalk, and the kid goes flying and bangs her cute little head on the sidewalk and starts crying, and you see the mom freaking out, it’s okay, we’ve all been there because we all have kids, and the mom is grateful that you stopped to help, and she smiles, and the kid is all right, and the sun is shining, and it’s Brooklyn and we’re all lucky as hell to live here and the public schools, well, they are improving, or so they say.
Note to my ex-wife: I always strap JP securely into the stroller. Any indication that I had failed to do so was in jest.