New York City Girl

The world seemed glorious when we left the hospital with Claire for the first time. Truly, the sun greeted us more warmly, the breeze more gently, the ground held our feet…"Wait, what’s up with all the litter on the street? Ridiculous amounts of trash…"

As a parent, both good and bad seem more magnified. As a long time New Yorker, I used to be able to tolerate the city’s many bad parts. Parenthood has literally made me want to run for the hills (or just complain more loudly about NYC being loud).

I often wonder why we are raising a daughter in an over-populated, polluted place, short on greenery and civility. Our lack of square footage makes it tough for our newly walking daughter to get up enough steam before having to turn around and run the other way. I regularly detect marijuana smoke coming from the apartment down the hall. Claire learned the sound of a car horn before the tweet of a bird, the color of a school bus before a bee. I won’t bore you with my litany of complaints about the subway.

But speaking of the subway, let’s not forget about New York City and serendipity...

Yesterday, Claire and I hustled our way up the subway steps, and Malang Jobateh, Kora player, happened into our world. Breaking from the rest of the restless masses, we stopped to listen to him play. I had the good fortune of hearing the music through the innocent ears of a baby. Claire was mesmerized, eyes wide open, fully present. She even jammed to the beat a bit! 

I have waited 45 years for an introduction to the musical instrument, the Kora. Claire has beaten me by 44. She has also listened to mandolins, accordions, violins, flutes, guitars, drums, harps, cellos, basses and saxophones. She has danced with the Hare Krishnas, protested with the Falun Gong and partied with Puerto Ricans. She has rocked out at a punk rock concert at the Hudson Piers, and watched men and women dance to traditional Polish music in Central Park.

In true NYC fashion, we have planned for none of these experiences. Each performance, each gathering has been a happening. We have been spontaneously invited to join in the merriment by those caught up in celebration.

“Only in New York” is an ecumenical phrase. It can refer equally to the numerous nuisances of New York, as well as its many nuances. The challenge is remaining open to the contradiction of it all. A great place to start is by being in the moment -- something babies do very well.


Connect with: Bloglovin', FB, Twitter, G+, Pinterest

Guitar Heroes

I asked a mother at Claire’s music class today to share her baby’s name. She curtly replied, “Annabelle” and then ignored me. My non-starter of a conversation starter is an example of why I never seem to enjoy music class with Claire. Each class has had an unnerving vibe, and I’ve been struggling to figure out why.

Yes, competitive mothers who eye you and your baby up and down make for a frosty 45 minutes together. And the mom who thinks it’s cute when her unruly child head butts a much younger baby is worthy of an eye roll or two. Of course, the nanny who doesn’t give a crap when her charge hurls a maraca across the room over and over again is unbalancing at best. But these things seem rather expected. What I hadn’t counted on was the creepiness of the people who run the classes.

It does make sense really. No one ever grows up saying, “I want to make a nominal living leading children in song.” It’s kind of like saying you want to be clown. These jobs are surely a detour from much grander ambitions -- especially in a place like New York City, where Julliard graduates are a dime a dozen. So it should come as no surprise that, along our musical journey together, Claire and I have encountered several distinct types of ersatz song leaders.

The first is the singer/songwriter who takes the kiddy job because, while his singing and songwriting worked like a charm at getting the ladies, now that he has a lady, he needs to feed a family and that’s not happening with the singer/songwriter career. Each week, he’s way too happy to see you, like “thou dost protest too much” happy. When he sings “The Potty Song”, his crooning is a little too good and reminds you that he is in fact a singing/songwriting ladies’ man. You find it embarrassing, although it’s clear from all the mommy groupies flocking around that you’re the only one cringing. He flirts with them just enough to reassure himself that he’s still got it, and to keep the mommies coming back for more. Between songs, he strums chords from rock and roll songs without looking at his fingers, because that’s just what he does when he has a guitar in hand. Oh, and did I mention he’s a singer/songwriter?

There’s another singer/songwriter, but she’s of a different ilk. She’s twenty-five and this job is not a detour for her but, rather, a way station before she really hits it big, or so she believes. She’s not much different from a waitress or an au pair with a thinly veiled disdain for a job that’s beneath her. You become paranoid that she’s stoned, drunk or hungover, because she’s really not very present. Perhaps, she’s dreaming of her big break at the Knitting Factory. She scares you the most of all the various song leader types. Her classes hardly have order at all. She doesn’t care if the child hits your baby with a maraca. She’s just a gun for hire. If you don’t come back, there are fewer children for her to deal with. Unlike singer/songwriter number one, she doesn’t need to tell you a damn thing about herself, because who the hell are you? You’re just a mom with a brat who surely can’t help her with her career.

There’s also another gentleman with a family to feed. He went to conservatory but an injury ended an illustrious career that was on the fast track to Carnegie Hall, or that’s how he likes to remember it. You know this fact about him because he shares his life story with you. He thinks that you spent your hard earned money on the class to listen to all his problems, particularly his different weekly physical ailment. He takes himself way too seriously and spends a lot of time explaining to you why his class is superior to the other music classes out there. One reason is the weird, esoteric Israeli bodywork that is incorporated into a music class for six month olds (complete with lots of homework for you and your baby).

The last type takes singing to kids way too seriously too. It’s because she’s the only one who actually wants to be singing to kids for a living. She derives way too much of her self-esteem from being a self-described expert at singing to kids. She gives you a lot of orders about how to sing to your kid. You end up wanting to say, “Can you just let me sing to my kid?” Other than that, she’s not too demanding. She’s just happy if you continue to show up from week to week to sing to your kid.

Intellectually, I know I should feel for these people, and shame on me for roasting them in this blog. But I can’t seem to drum up either patience or sympathy. I know why and George will concur. I’m cheap. These classes range from $15-$25 a pop. I think that’s expensive and I want to get what I paid for and get out. What I didn’t bargain for was the added subtext. But Claire seems to enjoy herself, so we’ll keep going. I’ll just have to content myself with complaining about it to George. And writing about it. Thanks for listening!

Photo Source: Figurative, Deviant Art

Smiles, everyone, smiles!

The same woman does all of the voice-overs for every musical toy on planet earth. Her voice is cheery and chipper, and probably of much better quality than the tinny toy speakers make it sound. She sings of incessant happiness and eternal sunshine. If by chance it did rain, I’m sure she’d be happy too – especially when she’s with you. Often times, she’s backed up by steel drums, in Caribbean-style arrangements of popular children’s songs. It’s as if life’s a perpetual vacation. If I weren’t breastfeeding or didn’t find the stridency so weary, I’d have the urge to join in with a margarita or two. Not really the vibe I want for my child. Right now, Claire doesn’t understand the words anyway. When she does, we’ll be sure to counter with Grimms’ Fairy Tales and some Billie Holiday.

On Repeat

It’s 3:30AM, post-nighttime feeding. My weary head hits the pillow. Instead of sleep comes a melody similar to “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round”:

Ella is the girl with red pajamas, red pajamas, red pajamas
Ella is the girl with red pajamas
She wears them all day long!

Claire is tickled by this CD. This particular song is on perpetual repeat in my head. George sings a variation that substitutes Uber-hip names like “Brooklyn” or “Anvil” for “Ella”. Then there’s the mobile she loves that plays Classical music. Even Mozart and Bach are now on George's shit list.

I couldn’t be happier that Claire likes music. It’s one of the great joys about being little. I remember spending the summer with a friend in Colorado as a kid. We played the soundtrack from “Annie” over and over again. “Tomorrow” could not have come sooner for her family. I’d like to replay that scenario one day with Claire -- with one difference. I hope I join in and sing along with her for the thousandth time.