Yup. I predated this to look like I posted it in June 2014. Suckers.
First, I must brag about our Father’s Day gift. Henry and I MADE Tim a book. Here it is:
We made Tim breakfast:
I have not updated this blog regularly. I am going to work on “filling in” the missed time and be better at updating. I know a lot of people love Henry. We love you too.
I brought the camera, took what I thought was a ton of pictures (it was not) but luckily enough to share. No pictures this year of the table, but I did take a picture (after we got home) of the sign we hung on the table:
If you can’t tell what it is, too bad, Henry knew and was very excited. (Sorry, MTA, for going off-brand; I can’t freehand helvetica.)
Henry spent the day trying to escape from the confines of a very large, open field,
figuring out his new bubble shooter,
ditching his party for the playground,
kissing people he loves,
and eating cupcakes.
Happy birthday, Henry. You’re the best.
This week’s New Yorker cover illustrates an exact conversation Tim and I (and, clearly, others) had the other day as I bounced Henry over solidified snow piles, slipped on blocks-long sheets of ice, and, yes, plowed through thick new snow (just without a plow).
Thank God for the sweet jogging/off-roading stroller my co-workers pooled together and got me. It’s been used almost every day of Henry’s life so far. In New York, we walk. Even in the snow.
We’re starting to let/make Henry walk to more places with us, but a 3 mile daily commute is still a bit much for a 22-month-old. So he stays warm under his stroller cover and we slog. (And sometimes take the subway when it’s really cold, but I much prefer walking.)
When Tim saw this week’s cover he said: a snow plow would be more effective. But probably much less safe. So kudos to Otto Steininger for this week’s cover. We take total credit for the idea.
As I passed the library this morning on my walk to work I thought, “It would be great if the library also lent toys.” What we don’t need in a small apartment (or even if we lived in a huge house) is a bunch of unplayedwith toys in a box/on a floor/under a couch/jammed in a closet taking up space. We could play with them for 14 or 21 days and give them back to the library! Which has lots of space! And we can renew the ones we like!
Turns out my idea isn’t even a little original:
Or, for a fee, you can rent toys:
There are other local rental companies in the United States, and this option is available worldwide. This Travel Mamas post has a comprehensive list.
Maybe we’ll try one out …
Maybe I have Dutch ancestors who lived here. Maybe it’s just my American heart. But so much about Harlem feels important.
These photos are part of the Museum of the City of New York’s photography collection, which I discovered via Harlem Bespoke. Looking through the photos, so much looks the same. Is this good or bad? Probably both and neither. Enjoy the photos and your visit to our home.
Goodbye, old apartment. We will miss you.
My commute from day care to work (and vice versa) is through our old neighborhood, where I lived on Friday – and every day for three years and two months before that. This morning I walked through
our the park and by Henry’s the playground and for the first time felt like a visitor.
On Sunday as my mom and dad packed up our final boxes, I walked from
home the old apartment to the drug store and saw only new faces. Even the drug store was having a grand reopening after a recent total makeover.
It’s easy to succumb to nostalgia when you are sitting, eating, sleeping, playing, living in the awkward spaces between half-unpacked boxes and you haven’t played at the new playground or shopped at the new grocery store or bought beer from the corner bodega or stepped on a stray bunny graham or read any New Yorkers by the new window under the new light at your new apartment.
I’ll post soon about what I like about our new home, but for now I lament the loss of bottomloss brunch and one-pound cookies a block away, of hearing the building’s front door open and knowing the person coming inside, of the group of older women who always asked Henry how his day went as we passed them sitting outside their apartment complex on the way home each day, of our walk home through Central Park, of our previous proximity to Central Park, of how close we were to Central Park, and of the short walk to Central Park.
With the grandparents down this weekend needing a place to sleep and the current disorganization of Henry’s room, Henry’s been sleeping in our bedroom so far, and maybe for one more night. Then the real move will begin.