How to Raise a City Kid

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How to Raise a City Kid

Years ago when our son was a toddler many of our friends began fleeing to the suburbs.  They couldn’t imagine raising a child in Manhattan with all the dirt and crime.

“But think of  the culture!”,  I would say.

At the Met Museum five-year-old Noah,  wide-eyed at Arms & Armor,  or perched spellbound on the grand staircase watching a stonecutter etch a donor’s name on the marble wall.

And making Purim masks at the Jewish Museum,  and model dinosaurs at the Natural History,  and reading the night skies at a kids’ astronomy class at the Planetarium,  and delighting when Red Grooms took over the Whitney.

And at a Chagall exhibit at the Guggenheim when he was three or four,  Noah pointing up from his stroller to ask incredulously,  “Another cow who’s FLYING?”

And theater and concerts –  children’s shows at the Beacon,  and Dino Anagnost’s wonderful Little Orchestra,  and The Paper Bag Players and Mummenschanz at the 92nd St Y.

”But we can bring our kids into the city for all that!”,  our smug suburban friends would say.

“Ah yes,”  I would say,  “but if you needed a taxi in the rain,  and the wind was blowing your umbrella inside-out while you were trying to fold the stroller,  would your four-year-old raise his arm and yell Checker?”

Carl Schurz Park,  NYC ,  1978

– Dana Susan Lehrman

My Own Worst Critic

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My Own Worst Critic

Let’s be honest, folks. We all have that voice in our heads. The one that whispers (or sometimes shrieks) insecurities like a malfunctioning smoke detector. This eternal internal tormentor, for lack of a better term, is what I like to call my own personal Jiminy Cricket.

Imagine, if you will, a tiny, gremlin-like creature perched on your shoulder. It wears a sensible pantsuit and carries an umbrella while perpetually displaying a frowny face emoji. This is Jiminy, my personal brand of self-doubt. Jiminy specializes in passive-aggressive critiques delivered with the saccharine cheer of a customer service rep keeping me on hold for 45 minutes.

I just finished that presentation? “Wow, you managed not to trip over the projector cord. Baby steps!” I aced that big exam? “Well, at least you didn’t get a failing grade. Participation trophy for you!” Jiminy is the master of diminishing returns, turning victories into lukewarm consolation prizes.

But here’s the thing: Jiminy is not entirely wrong. My memory, for instance, resembles a particularly cluttered Tupperware drawer. I once spent 20 minutes searching for my phone while holding it in my hand, mid-conversation. And let’s not even get started on the time I accidentally signed up for a clown college email list because, apparently, “juggling for beginners” sounded like a good life skill. (Honestly – I still believe that could be possible.)

The problem with Jiminy isn’t his occasional valid point, it’s his relentless negativity. It’s like having a tiny Gordon Ramsay permanently stationed in my brain, critiquing my every move with withering pronouncements like, “Those mashed potatoes are a flavor catastrophe!”

The worst part? Jiminy thrives on my silence. Leave him to his own devices and he’ll happily turn a minor setback into an existential crisis. Spilled my coffee on my shirt before a date? Jiminy throws a confetti parade of “See? You ALWAYS ruin everything!”

So, how do I deal with any internal Negative Ned? Here’s my strategy, folks: externalize the gremlin. Give Jiminy a voice, a name, a small umbrella and a truly terrible pantsuit. By acknowledging his presence perhaps we can take away some of his power.

Next, let’s re-frame the narrative. Instead of Jiminy’s “you barely scraped by” monologue, let’s create a more constructive counterpoint. Did you trip over your words during that presentation? Great! Not a problem, now you know to practice more next time. Did you almost enroll in clown college? Thankfully, a near miss! Fantastic! Now you have a hilarious anecdote for your next party.

Look, I’m not suggesting I should banish Jiminy entirely. A healthy dose of self-criticism is important for growth. But the key is to change him from a nagging gremlin into a helpful – albeit slightly less judgmental personal life coach.

Remember, folks, we are all human. We are all going to mess up, stumble, or occasionally trip over projector power cords. But by acknowledging our inner critic and learning to laugh at him or her and maybe ourselves, we can turn those stumbles into stepping stones, and those spilled coffees into (hopefully) funny stories for Retrospect. Just don’t tell Jiminy I said that. He might try to trademark the phrase.

–30–

Joy and Addis

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Joy and Addis 

I’ve written about the memorable time in the early 1970s  when my husband Danny was working in London for a year and we lived in a rented flat in Chelsea off the Kings Road.   (See Laundry Day in London,  Kinky Boots,  Valentine’s Day in Foggytown ,  and Intro to Cookery)

And I’ve written about the unforgettable British friends we knew there.  (See Inks and Derek: Art and the Cricket Scores and Munro)

Joy and Addis,  who were our upstairs neighbors at 20 Royal Avenue,  are two more who became unforgettable,  life-long friends.

New York born,  Addis was 20 or so years older than us,  and during WW II had supervised the construction of fighter aircrafts.   After the war he settled in Los Angeles and co-founded the Nervous Nine,  a progressive Democratic fundraising coalition,  and went on to be a Southern California manufacturing entrepreneur.

By the 1970s Addis was serving as a management consultant to major American and European companies,   and while working in England met Joy by serendipity at the Coventry railway station,  a sweet story they relished in telling.

Joy was British and about my age,  and when we became their London neighbors she and Addis,  like us,  were newly-weds.  Theirs was obviously a May – December marriage,  and a most loving and devoted one.

Joy was a marvelous cook and the first time they invited us to dinner,  I went up to their flat early to watch her make her specialty – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

Danny was a business newbie then and gradually came to consider Addis as a business mentor and they stayed in touch after we returned to New York.  And a few years after that  Addis’ London stint was up and he and Joy left Britain for Malibu,  California.

There over the years we visited them in their beautiful home on the Pacific Coast Highway,  stayed in their guest house,  and swam in their wonderful pool.   And we were intrigued to learn that the artist David Hockney was a personal friend of theirs,  who like Joy,  was a British transplant.  Known for his many iconic swimming pool paintings,   the artist,  they told us,  had painted their pool.   Hearing that,  our young son Noah opined that they first had to drain the water so the guy could get in to paint it!

Years later as Noah’s bar mitzvah approached,  we invited Joy and Addis,  and to our delight they flew to New York to celebrate with us.  Over the years Addis continued to be a trusted business mentor to Danny,  and we were heartbroken when in 2005 we got the sad news that our old friend had died.

We stayed in close touch with Joy,  and when Santa Monica friends invited us to their daughter’s bat mitzvah I called Joy to say we’d be in southern California for a long weekend.  In order to spend as much time together as we could,  Joy took a room at our hotel.  When my Santa Monica hostess learned that,  she thoughtfully invited Joy to the bat mitzvah and luncheon.

Since then Joy’s health has been failing and we hope to get to the west coast to see her again.  But I’m so grateful for that last lovely California weekend we spent together!

David Hockney,  Pool with Two Figures

– Dana Susan Lehrman