Beatrice and Lucifer should know what a non-cartoon deer looks like. Not because it’s a graceful woodland creature, but so that later, while they’re driving a ZipCar through Rockland County on their way to Storm King for a weekend away because the city “is just too much right now”, they’ll know that the brown furry thing on the side of the road may SPRINT DIRECTLY INTO YOUR CAR FOR NO EFFING REASON. You can’t learn defensive deer driving at the Bronx Zoo.
On a borough-by-borough basis, I don’t want to raise my kids anywhere near this place. I’m a pretty bad writer, so I’ll never have a prayer of affording family digs in Manhattan. Ditto for Brooklyn, plus I don’t want BeeBee and Big L to spend their early years drenched in kombucha and ennui. In Staten Island, they will inherit The Wu-Tang Clan’s latter-day shortcomings as their own. Should they take their first steps in the Bronx, I’ve condemned them to a life of small talk with out-of-towners about how bad the Monkey House smells, a fate far worse than smelling the Monkey House. If I raise them in Queens, they’ll root for the Mets.
I won’t raise my kids in NYC because I love the subway system, and I want to keep loving it. While I have all sorts of respect for the parents that sherpa strollers up and down steep station stairs, I’m currently in terrible shape and have no plans to make major fitness improvements by the time I sire offspring.
Bagatelle does not offer paper tablecloths for doodling.
Speaking of trains, I know I’ll have to make sacrifices for the gift of parenthood. Namely, commuting. I’ll rise at the asscrack of each weekday morning to catch a carpool to catch a train that arrives in Manhattan’s steaming bowels precisely at rush hour. I’ll remember I forgot my umbrella in the mudroom at home right as it starts to pour. I’ll skip happy hour with my coworkers EVERY GODDAMNED THURSDAY AT THE BLARNEY STONE just to hop back on that train to get back in that carpool to see Beatrice & Lucifer before bedtime. I won’t even drink four tallboys on the way home, like all my fellow commuters who don’t have kids.
While we're on the topic of drinking: behind .GIFs of puppies curing cancer on tricycles, and, like... money, there is nothing better than bottomless brunch. I shalt not blaspheme its altar by bringing my children to pierce hangovers with their hysterical squeals. Elsewhere, restaurants are huge. I will ask them to seat us far away from other customers, and request crayons to keep their nimble young minds quietly occupied. Last time I checked, Bagatelle does not offer paper tablecloths for doodling.
On another note, have you even SEEN Kids? Q.E.D., breh.
NYC’s Winters suck, and when I have kids, I want to spend that season comfortably ensconced in some suburban den with a roaring fire while they make lopsided snowmen in the yard. I want Beatrice & Lucifer to know the majesty of the season, not Daddy’s unbridled rage because he sunk to his shins in a slush puddle. I want to come into Midtown to see the tree at 30 Rock, then get the HELL out of there. If they eat yellow snow, I pray that it is their own creation.