I am a bit of a phony.
It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it. There is something, to me, satisfying about convincing a city full of locals and tourists that I am a native. I relish in the moment some one from out of town would walk up to Jack and I and ask for directions. All it takes, apparently, is a well-worn Yankee cap, not carrying a camera around your neck and a common sense approach to moving around the throng of people that inhabit every square inch of Manhattan.
So, it’s not secret now that we all relocated to New York City for most of the summer. What is a secret is how we endured it. I know, the terrible first world anxiety of being (rent free) in an apartment a block away from Columbus Circle is enough to drive any person mad. If I believed in their worth, I’d hashtag SARCASM on that last sentence. Regardless, midtown Manhattan became the playground of Jack and George. We went to the Central Park Zoo. Central Park was a daily lunch stop. I know New York well, having grown up 15 minutes across the George Washington Bridge. However, I was absolutely delighted for Jack to take it all in . And man, did he ever. The taxis, the people, the huge trucks, the park, the buildings, the heights. My son became a bi-coastal inhabitant. This is something that I’ve always longed for myself. To spend most of my time in Los Angeles, but be able to stay in New York for a few months a year has always been a dream of mine. And here it was coming to fruition through the eyes of my son. That’s what it’s all about, right? Our eternal hope is that we can give to our children more than we ever experienced.
Jack will be one year old in a week. He has already flown cross country four times. That is more than I did in my first 22 years of life. He’s got a decent head start.