Before I Was an NYC Parent...
When we procreators see evidence of our lives pre-children – be it a picture, memento, or some sexy underwear – we give it the same reaction The Winter Soldier gives Captain America when he first calls him “Bucky.”
You do become a different person when kids enter the picture. And you certainly become a different New Yorker. This happens in a number of ways, and it’s a shift in outlook that I’m feeling acutely, as a nyc parent (newish father ) of a tiny Brooklynite.
Alas, before I was a NYC parent…
Courtesy: Unsplash
I barely acknowledged crosswalks. Now, crosswalks are sacred.
Like any native New Yorker, crosswalks used to be optional to me. A suggestion. A friendly, but futile, reminder of a safer path.
Now, as a parent pushing around the most special-est little fella in the whole wide world, a crosswalk has become sacred ground. It shan’t be defamed, defiled, blasphemed against or blocked by a Uhaul. When I’m crossing at a walk sign and a driver stopped at the light impedes those white stripes, it’s on. That driver will get a look. Depending on my mood, it may even be a sneer. And forget if you’re a non-baby wielding human obstructing the little ramp back onto the sidewalk. Lord help you then. That reaction scale ranges from a you-should-know-better glower to a gruff “excuse me” dripping with bitter sarcasm. That’ll learn ya!
Courtesy: Unsplash
I hated baby strollers hogging up the sidewalks. Now, I am one.
The rolling, armored, sometimes-Scandinavian monstrosities that have come to dominate many New York neighborhoods used to be something about which I felt one of two ways: annoyance or scorn. Fran Lebowitz would’ve been proud.
But now I’ve joined the dark side. And I see that same contempt in the faces of people walking past me. I’ve become one of those monstrosity drivers, taking up curb space, dominating gelato storefronts, and squeezing into 99-cent store aisles not built for the robust likes of UPPAbaby. Thing is, I’m unapologetic about it, even entitled. I deserve this space because I have a baby. What are you burdened with, rudderless passerby? A cafe Americano? Some dog-eared paperback? Please. Out of my way.
It’s not the person I like but it’s the person I’ve become. Which makes me wonder: is free will even a thing?
Courtesy: Pexels
I worried constantly about my growing middle. Now, I accept it for what it is.
I used to wrack myself over my premature dad bod. The ever-growing middle part of me seemed immune to the effects of brisk walking, lean proteins, and self-shame. Finding the right shirts were a hassle, and finding good pants were a form of CIA torture.
These days, as a father, comfort is king. It rules over me like a benevolent sovereign. The state of my expanding gut is now only like the eleventh thing on my mind each day, and dropping like a DaBaby song on the Spotify charts. It’s a mindset that’s liberating, relaxing, and very much non-FDA approved.
I used to ignore NY1 in the background. Now, for some reason, I pay attention.
I’m not sure how this correlates to being a parent, but I’ve been watching more NY1 since having a kid.
Courtesy: Unsplash
Playgrounds were once innocent urban backdrops. Now, they are a minefield of parental judgement.
When I bring my kid to Park Slope playgrounds, I am entering not the oases of my youth, but a tacit minefield of parenting paranoias. It’s paranoia born out of the judgment from a certain type of figure around me: The Park Slope Parent (PSP).
In my neurotic mind, the PSP will never admit they are judging you. They will go along on their merry way, chasing their children around with fortified snacks, gingerly chiding them when they’ve done something wrong. But all the while they are watching you, sensing you, sizing you up as a nurturer of the future generation: Is that really your child’s first name? So, you’re not a nanny? Is that how hard you push your child’s swing? Is that how soft? Which French day care are they enrolled in? Don’t tell me… is that… screen time??
And, in turn, I feed into the paranoia. Sure, I have one eye on my child at all times. But I have my other eye on the thousands of other eyes that I know are digesting my every caretaking move. Don’t deny it, eyes!
Perhaps this is just a product of being a first-time parent. You get over-absorbed in the trying, you imagine the entire Earth is grading your nurturing abilities, you think that other people actually care that you’re a parent. (They don’t. A baby is born every four seconds. There are 2 billion mothers on the planet. It’s objectively not a special thing.)
I thought I was a grownup. Now, I know I’m a grownup. And it’s the scariest thing in the world.
Er… the boldface pretty much covers it.
Courtesy: Unsplash
