Mermaids . . .

That's my little mermaid over there, preparing to take a dip in the Atlantic in her finery and drawing pictures in the sand.


And these mermaids were the ones on parade. Photography courtesy of Primo, budding shutterbug.

Freaky. Franky Father's Day

On Saturday morning, I asked David if he wanted to go to Home Depot before I headed into the city with Primo for the exciting conclusion of the avant-guard Pinocchio theater workshop for children.

“So I guess you haven’t planned an exciting getaway for us this weekend, then?” he replied.

“What?” I asked.

“Here I’ve been thinking you’ve haven’t said anything about what we’re doing on Father’s Day weekend because you were busy planning a big surprise,” he said, “And actually we’re just going to Home Depot."

“Oh, wow, sorry to disappoint,” I said, “We don’t have to go to Home Depot if you don’t want to. But yes, by now it must be apparent, no getaway. However, I have left tomorrow WIDE OPEN and we can do anything your heart desires!”

I’m not sure if it was everything his heart desired but we had a nice Father’s Day in the great Island of Coney.

We missed the Mermaid Day Parade which was on Saturday, but Sunday was a beautiful beach day – slightly overcast, not too crowded. We beat the crowds at Nathan’s by eating at 10:30am, indulging in what David has termed the hot dog breakfast – not an “everyday treat” I told the kids, but since it was Father’s day . . . Then off to the beach where the kids played merrily together for a half hour - incredible! I guess the universal appeal of sand can bridge all sibling difference. It took at least that long to get the sand off of Seconda, who is fond of doing headstands in wet sand. Then off to Deno’s where the kids got to ride Dizzy Dinosaurs, the flying elephants and – my personal favorite – the motorcycles! The sight of those motorcycles, the lurching sound of them, the feel of the scorching metal, takes me way back to my childhood days.

And then, as a special Father’s Day treat, Seconda agreed to ride the Wonder Wheel with David. This is momentous. We are a couple who love the Wonder Wheel, but our kids have never been old enough to take a ride. Or they were old enough, like Primo, but were just too freaked out to take the leap. We couldn’t convince Primo to go on this time either, so I stayed earth-bound with him and David and Sec took to the skies.

Oh, dear sweet island of freaks and franks! One-stop shopping for summer fun.

Then, in the evening, I did take David on a mini-surprise date, out to dinner at this new gastro-pub he’s been wanting to try. It wasn’t a weekend at the Riviera but the burgers were tasty and we got to hold hands on the walk over.

The War against Swine Flu Begins in Coney Island

Remember a few weeks ago, when I was all gung-ho about the H1N1 vaccine, a veritable cheerleader?? Go Vax! Ra Ra Ra! and all that? That was before I actually tried to do it. I mean, I stand by my position, I just understand now that it is easier said than done, at least if you live in New York, and if you have a kid who’s too little for public school.

In my ongoing effort to avoid complaining and to accentuate the positive (thanks, David for giving me a complex) I would like to offer an alternative title for this post, and that is

How spending all day at the flu clinic allowed me to watch the sunset over Coney

Here’s how it went down:

After a few weeks of calling our pediatrician asking whether they’d procured the swine flu shot, I finally resigned myself to the fact that they were not getting it, at least not before swine flu season was over. I started calling clinics and wellness centers and every other phone number that the nyc.gov website gave me. A lot of the places didn’t have the injection version, which Seconda needs, a lot of the places didn’t have any appointments for a few weeks, and a lot of the places didn’t know what they had or when they could give it to us. Then someone on ParkSlopeParents posted about how they’d had a good experience at a clinic in Coney Island, no appointment necessary, no long waits. Sounded perfect.

I told my Dad friend, Ethan, about the place and he said he’d like to join with his two year-old Lily and offered to give us a ride in his capacious mini-van. Sold!

We walked into the place a few minutes after 1, when the flu clinic was supposed to open, and there was already a crowd. There was no sign-in sheet or any numbers to take and when I inquired how we were keeping track of the order, a little old lady who was the first in line explained, “We’re doing it the honor code way/”

Hmmmmmnn. Honor code way always makes me nervous. I certainly don’t feel deterred from dishonesty simply because of the honor code; I need an incentive, like public disgrace or a fine or threat of an angry mob to keep my honest, and I know there are many less honest than I. But hey, who am I to barge in and question everyone’s honor? I sat down and waited.

Thirty minutes later, the door to the flu clinic room was still closed. Apparently, the nurse who was supposed to man the clinic was running later. Not long after that, it was clear that she wasn’t showing up at all.

We waited. I had brought plenty of provisions for the kids, who were playing more or less happily, if not quietly, in a corner of the room. When they tired of drawing pictures and playing with trains, they found unending delight in rolling around on the filthy, germ-infested clinic floors, literally lying on their bellies and dragging their bodies from one side of the room to the other. It occurred to me that if Sec didn’t get the shot soon, she’d probably pick up something significantly worse form the swine flu from this waiting room.

People started to get restless, but eventually the clinic shuffled things around to get people to cover for the absent nurse and soon someone was registering people in the computer. Then a woman announced that they only had a few shots left for children and they didn’t have enough pediatric nurses so only the three kids who were already here were getting shots, and anybody who came later would be out of luck.

Not long after that, it was our turn for the shot. On our way to the exam room, I saw my Mommy friend Grace, who I’d invited to come along, and who had just arrived from the Slope. I told her about the shot shortage but said I’d put in a good word with the nurse. You know, pull some strings.

Sec, for her part, was in marvelous spirits, simply thrilled to get a shot. That kid just loves attention, no matter how she can get it. I am worried for the adolescent years.

“Can she give ME the shot now?” she begged.

The nurse was impressed. I exploited this by poking around a bit, asking if they had enough shots, if she’d be there awhile and she said she could give a shot to the kids who were here now, waiting. So I called my friend Grace on my cell and told her as much.

“Yeah, they totally have enough shots. The nurse just told me so.”

In retrospect, I should have leaked this info in a more clandestine manner, say a text message. But since I am secretly an octogenarian, it takes me an hour to type two words on my phone.

The nurse got piiiiissed at me: She actually made the tsk tsk sound, like my grandmother. She was covering and wanted to get back to her regular duties. I get it. But she gave Sec the shot and Lily too, and she even relented and gave Grace’s kids the shot, though none too happily. What can I say? One for all and all for one!

The whole shebang took about four hours. When we walked out of the clinic, the sky was already darkening. And we all figured since it was dinnertime, we might as well get a Nathan’s hot dog. Can’t come all the way to Surf Avenue and not eat a dog. And really, for that matter, you can’t come all the way to Nathan’s and not make it onto the boardwalk. And once you’re on the boardwalk, well, it’s be a damn travesty not to let the kids run on the sand and watch the sun descend into a sky striated with fuchsia and lavender. Just a travesty.

And that’s how we merry band ended up watching this spectacular sunset over the Parachute Drop on a perfectly lovely November evening.

Franks and Freaks

Nothing says summer like a day at Coney Island. Eating franks and shooting freaks. Handing over your ticket for the ride. Sipping ice-cold lemonade. I heart Coney. We all heart Coney. How could you not?

Of course with the new development that’s underway, it may not stay so easy to love. But when we went yesterday, we were relived to find that though there were some absences – the go-kart places an batting ranges which used to be on Stillwell Avenue have been pushed out to make way for Thor Equities’ Festival by the Sea – most of the Coney faves were still standing, for now.

Since Primo is suddenly anti-sand, David and he stuck to the boardwalk while Sec and I got gritty. She played in the sprinkler on the sand for a while and then on the playground, where she removed her hat and dumped an entire pail of sand on her head.

“Let’s run to the ocean!” I said, fun-loving, footloose mama that I am.

And we ran, me and the girl holding hands, and splashing in the freezing water and laughing. I was literally in the process of thinking, “Why does everybody complain about this beach? It’s clean! It’s totally clean!” when a Park department guy wearing an orange shit blew his whistle at me.

“Get out of the water!” he yelled.

“Me?” I asked, incredulously.

“Yeah, you,” he replied, with an unspoken, but crystal-clear “knucklehead” implied.

“We can’t go in the water?” I pressed the point.

“It’s contaminated,” he replied, no beating around the bush.

Oh,” I said, surprised, “With what?” It didn’t make a difference what the answer was really -- contaminated is contaminated and I wouldn’t have let Sec stay in if the risk factor was sewage rather than a deadly parasite. Still, I was curious.

But the man was already blowing his whistle at someone else.

So I dragged Seconda out, literally kicking and screaming and we headed over to meet Primo and Pops at the kiddie ride area, where Prim was riding Dizzy Dragons.

My son is the most serious-looking amusement rider you will ever encounter. He loves to ride, he thrills to ride, he can’t get enough of rides, but if you saw him on a merry-go-round, or sitting in the belly of a spinning clown, you’d think he was trying to figure out the theory of relativity, he is concentrating so hard. I mean, his brow is actually furrowed.

When he’d used up his three allotted tickets, we left the rides and treated ourselves to “freshly-squeezed lemonade” on the boardwalk, in the spot where the fabulous Lola Staar boutique used to stand (you can find her now at the Brooklyn Flea).

“We’ll take a small.” I told the kid behind the counter.

“For two dollars more you can get a large and get free refills,” was the counter offer.

But I’ve been to a movie theater or two in my lifetime and I know how to decline the up-sell.

“The small is fine,” I said, handing over $3.

The kid placed a small cup under a metallic hand-cranked juicer, where a half-lemon was pre-placed. He pulled the lever and a few drops of juice accumulated in the cup. Then he poured these driplets into my cup, placed it on a shelf beneath my sightline, and then, five seconds later, handed me a full cup of “fresh squeezed lemonade” which tasted suspiciously like Crystal Light.

“Everyone is a shyster on the island of Coney,” concluded David.

Shysters or not, nobody nowhere nohow makes a frank like Nathan’s. So we chowed down, David with his Coors and chili cheese dogs, the kids with their corn on the cob and me with fries on a pitchfork. The Beatles were right. Happiness is a hot dog. Yum yum chomp chomp.

Lost and Found

I know you Slopers have been waiting with bated breath to receive my newest Dispatch from Babyville. Well, today is your lucky day. The Spring '09 Park Slope Reader is out, so head to a coffee shop near you and crack it open. And for those of you who enjoy a more instant kind of gratification, just keep reading.

Lost and Found

I’m a loser. Literally. As my mother is fond of noting, I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my body. So thank God for necks. And thank God, too, for New Yorkers. Because almost every time I lose something of value, my fellow city dwellers deliver it right back to me, even when the delivery is of considerable inconvenience to them. Contrary to what the rest of the nation might believe, we are a friendly, helpful bunch. Sure, we steal taxis and take other people’s umbrellas, and wouldn’t hold an elevator for the Dalai Lama. But if you were to, say, drop your wallet on the train platform at 116th street, you might find it on your doorstep in Park Slope by the time you got home, shepherded there by a stranger who happened to live two doors down. If you were to forget your cell phone in a cab one night after one too many cocktails, you might find it in an envelope in your mailbox only a day later. And if you were to leave your stroller on the boardwalk in Coney Island, you might just find it waiting for you in the men’s bathroom. Really.

This last strange turn of events occurred last August. Summer camp was over, and I had both my 3 year-old and my 18 month-old all to myself for a whole, long, hot month.

After a week-long blitz, the thought of entering our local playground made me want to knock myself unconscious. So I decided it was high time for me and the small fries to exploit the riches of NYC. Be advised that this sounds like a lot more fun than it actually is. And so it was that one August morning we found ourselves on the Q headed to Surf Avenue.

Since my little sister Courtney was home from college, I roped her into coming along, a decision she soon came to regret. Who could blame her? Our subway ride consisted of Sec pulling the hair of fellow riders and tossing her Goldfish on the floor before shoveling the tainted snacks into her mouth while Primo sang “What do you do with a scurvy pirate?” at full volume. By the time we got to the boardwalk, we were thoroughly knackered. We peeled off our outerwear, stashed it in the stroller basket and the kids ran towards the ocean with delight.

“What are we going to do with this?’ Courtney asked, pointing to my Maclaren stroller. I’d bought the stroller three and a half years earlier, on sale, and it had dutifully served both my kids since, bearing my son’s forty-five pound heft like a trooper, even tolerating the tonnage of Primo with Sec on his lap (not an approved usage, I might add). But lately, Old Faithful had begun to show signs of wear and tear, namely the squealing noise it made when you pushed it, the tendency of the front wheel to roll off without warning, and the fact that the mesh seat was so saggy my kids’ knees touched their chests when they rode. Not what I’d call a hot commodity.

“Just leave it there, next to the boardwalk,” I told my sister, “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she warned. “What if someone takes it?”

“Nobody is going to take that piece of crap,” I said over my shoulder, as I chased the kids across the sand.

An hour or two later, covered in sand, we headed back to the boardwalk.

“Uh oh,” said Courtney, “where’s the stroller?”

Because, of course, the damn thing was gone.

“Maybe this isn’t where we left it,” I ventured.

But a quick scan of the boardwalk made it clear that there was no stroller anywhere, as far as the eye could see. I knew what was coming.

“What did I tell you?” began Courtney, who is prone to acting freakishly like our mother when there’s an “I-told-you-so” to be dealt, “I knew someone would take it!”

Meanwhile Primo rattled off his list of complaints, an extensive list which included more or less every discomfort that could afflict a child: “I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. I’m hot. I’m itchy. I have to do pee-pee,” he whined. And then, for no apparent reason, he fell onto the sand and began to howl, “My foot! My fooooooooooot! It hurts!”

The which startled the baby who began to bawl so hard huge strings of drool fell from her mouth onto Courtney’s shoulder, which set Courtney off on her own whining streak.

And so, with everyone crying and whining and half-nude, since our clothes were in the stroller, we proceeded into the women’s bathroom. A real traveling circus.

“How are we going to go home with no clothes or shoes?” Courtney wanted to know, as I irrigated Primo’s invisible injury.

“And are we supposed to carry this kid all the way back to your house?” she asked of screaming Seconda.

“Maybe there’s a lost and found,” I said optimistically. Courtney shot me a “Yeah, right” look.

And sure enough, she was right, as the bathroom attendant confirmed.

“No, we’d don’t have nothing like that,” she said, and then, to a mother and child in a stall she bellowed, “Hey! There’s no changing in here! Read the signs! NO CHANGING! Says right there.”

We were just creeping out when she asked, “You lose something?”

I explained that we were missing a stroller and she sucked in her lips a little.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, “That’s your stroller?”

“Do you know where it is?” I asked, hopefully.

“ANGIE!” she shouted, and a much younger woman wearing a Parks Department vest joined our conference.

“You know that stroller we saw?” the attendant told Angie, “That’s this lady’s.”

“Yeah, OK, I know what you’re talking about,” Angie said confidently, “It belongs to you?”

I nodded.

She led Courtney, the kids and me across the boardwalk to a middle-aged homeless man sitting on a bench.

“Henry, this lady lost her stroller,” Angie explained, “You know where it is?”

Henry thought about it for a minute and then smiled.

“That’s your stroller?” he asked.

“Yes,” we all replied, in chorus.

“I got it right here for you,” Henry said, standing. “I knew you’d be back for it so I put it away. You know, somebody will just walk off with something that that.”

“That’s what I said,” Courtney piped in.

We followed Henry back to the bathroom area where, I figured, there was in fact a lost and found, or some kind of stroller parking area I hadn’t noticed.

“I got it right here for you,” said Henry reassuringly, “Right here.”

And then he walked into the men’s bathroom and came out a minute later, pushing my stroller.

“Mommy why was our stroller in the BATHROOM?” Primo asked.

I ushered him into the stroller and turned to Henry, “Wow, thank you. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

“Well, like I said, I didn’t want somebody to take it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I consented.

Then we stood awkwardly for a minute, while I tried to figure out if some kind of reward was in order. I mean, was this a thwarted grand stroller theft I was dealing with here or just a Good Samaritan who, like my mother, was fond of doing “helpful” things that made life much more complicated for me? Did Henry figure I’d just know somehow to ask the bathroom attendant about my stroller’s whereabouts? And in the event that he was a straight-shooting do-gooder, was it insulting to tip him? Should I send him a fruit basket instead? How the hell do you respond to a guy who takes your stroller and puts it in the men’s bathroom of Coney Island for safekeeping?

“Thanks again,” said my sister, pressing a few dollars into Henry’s hand. And just like that, we were on the road again.

Over cheese dogs and lemonade, we discovered that not only were all our belongings still in the stroller basket, we’d even gained a few things -- a mostly-used tube of sun block, a distressed baseball cap and a woman’s flip-flop.

“Only in New York,” Courtney marveled.

“What is only in New York?” asked Primo.

I considered a moment, chewing some waffle fries.

“The best things in life,” I replied, forking him an extra-cheesy bite. “The best things in life are only in New York.”