When you live in New York there isn’t much time to slip back into your daily routine after vacation. Basically the city kicks your ass back into gear – and it’s usually a high one.
There's school, after-school programs, full time work, part time writing, working out, pick ups, drop offs, orchestrating every moment of my son’s day, cooking, housework, looking for a new home - it goes on ad infinitum. Somewhere in there I manage to squeeze in sleep, reading, sex and using the bathroom.
Family memberships at New York museums are a sound investment in your sanity. We can bring Ben to MoMa along with a little friend and feel absolutely no frustration as they go zooming from gallery to gallery as they did yesterday, shouting comments like "look at that picture. The guy has a butt on his head!"
The pinnacle of our visit came when Ben realized he left his drawing pad and pen at home. We told him to tough it out and that we’d bring it along next time. That wouldn't be my standard response to a boy that spends half his day drawing but after two hours of playing prison guard, my empathy level was low.
Later he took me aside and with clenched fists and tears in his eyes, he quietly explained his position to me:
“Mommy, I am an artist. I love to draw. I draw all the time. Drawing is what I do. It’s who I am. You can’t bring me here to look at all this art and sculpture and then expect me not to want to draw what I see. I NEED to do that. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? I can’t stay in the museum if I can’t draw what I see here. That’s who I am!”
“Good Point” I said.
And we split.
As I write this post there is a punk rock show going on in the park lulling me to sleep.
Say a prayer for the souls lost on 9/11 if you have a chance.