Scootering

It's finally getting warm up in here.

After Bea woke up from her second nap (woe woe woe shall be me the day she's down to one), Harper and I took turns bouncing on Rody to make her laugh and then opened the window because whew -- heat on full blast and sweat was dripping. We heard some squeals and yells and all three peered out the window to see our little dead end circle filled with kids! on bikes! and scooters! without mittens! It's rare that Harper is so quick to run outside and join in, but this time she was on it.

Threw Bea in the (Craigstlist!) Bugaboo (hid that thing all winter long in the closet, then remembered it and er, hello it's an awesome chariot of fire) and some sweatshirts and shoes and helmet and zip zip down the elevator!

Five other kids and their respective caretakers (nannies, grandmas) were out there, zooming and bumping and generally blissing out. I couldn't believe it was 4:30 and warm enough to stand in my cardigan, Bea hatless and munching on a TJ's cereal bar while she watched the big kids.

One woman, about 70, was watching her granddaughter bike. She's been living in Brooklyn Heights for 50 years, since she moved here to be a secretary and lived in a boarding house with a girlfriend -- two meals a day, maid service and a cute room for $99 a month. Sold! She pointed up to the apartment she lived in to raise her two kids and how back then they'd just send them down the elevator to this same dead end to play in a huge gang all afternoon. "I don't know. They just kinda all watched each other."

Let's not get too weepy here, but I did have a Grinch heart growing two sizes moment when I pictured back to the 60s, the same circle filled with kids looking out at the ferry boats and sun setting behind Manhattan. Squealing at their bare hands, kick the can and bikes, running back up the same stairs for dinner and tubs and baths. I love city life for all this -- the rhythms and the routines, the forced community and shared histories.

I make friends much easier here, find people are quicker to share their story and offer a hand or a phone number or a playdate. It feels like we're living in a different calendar, where kids run across the hall for playdates and all the neighbs know each other and hug each other in the elevator after holidays apart. I tell them my story without hesitation and they accept it with a look of understanding and acceptance. It's the city, dear -- it's all happened here before and it'll all happen again. And so it goes. Back up the stairs for dinner and tubs and baths.