Nostalgic for Home

If you know me, you know that if I had the opportunity to live ANYWHERE in the world I would not hesitate to go back to my hometown of Astoria, NY. It's my bit of heaven. And even with all its current gentrification 'upper ditmars' will always be where I consider home. Just being there gives me a sense of calm that I cannot even explain. In minutes your in Manhattan, you can manage to get whatever you are itching to get at whatever hour it is you wish to get it. You don't need a car. You actually *GASP* WALK places. I miss all of this. It's diversity, it's convenience, it's neighborhood-ness as although it is in New York City - it has that small town warmth to it.

Yet I'm about 20 miles away. Close enough to be close but far enough to miss it every now and again. And I read this article and it really resonated with me.

Bad mommy - My daughter prefers the suburbs to NYC—where did I go wrong?
Time Out New York Kids / Issue 31 : Apr 15–May 15, 2008

As a third-generation Lower East Sider, I’d long been mystified by the mind-set of couples who moved out to the suburbs once the kids came along. But one marriage proposal later, I too packed up my apartment and bought a big fat house on Long Island. I even traded in my ten-year-old city beater for an Infiniti, the luxury car of the moment.

Once the Chicklet arrived, the time I spent on Sunrise Highway in my J30 lost its romance. Schlepping baby gear in and out of the car, I began to secretly yearn for Manhattan, where it seemed all a parent had to do was throw the kid into a stroller and go. Anything you might need, from Goldfish crackers to a single diaper, could be picked up at a bodega or Korean deli. It didn’t help that my marriage was coming to an end.

Then came the final straw. Actually, it was a giant oak tree, which fell on my house. With no super to call, I dialed 911 and was educated by the local emergency operator about something called a tree surgeon. It made no sense to stay and acquire more suburban vocabulary, so I decided to raise my preschooler back in my hometown.

I talked up our move to the Big Apple for weeks. It was a bright fall morning when we returned to Grand Street. As we emerged from the clunky old Chevy I’d gotten in trade for the Infiniti (a deal blessed by my father, who swears that anything shiny parked in Manhattan will get broken into), a fire truck blaring its siren zoomed by. “It’s loud,” my daughter winced, shielding her ears.

Before I could give what would become the first of many apologies for the city’s shortcomings, another engine went by, followed right behind by a third. My acquired New York obliviousness to such rackets was still with me; all I heard was the welcome wagon. But the Chicklet reacted to the din as a kind of sensory punishment—which, come to think of it, was exactly how I felt about the tranquility of the burbs.

Since the days of The Exorcist and Jason Voorhees, I’ve had a subconscious belief that demons and psychos emerge from suburban backyards and basements when all is otherwise placid. On Long Island, the only sounds were crickets and something called “settling.” As in, “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. That’s just the house settling.” To this day, I don’t understand how a house built in 1948 can still be settling. Is the Dakota or Trump Tower settling?

I tried to lift the Chicklet’s spirits with talk of Halloween. Trick-or-treating in a warm Manhattan apartment building sure beats the misery of trudging from house to house in a winter coat that hides the all-important costume. Then, on October 30, a memo came informing new tenants that trick-or-treating was against co-op policy. Appalled at this edict, I defiantly took the Chicklet around the building. But our efforts yielded only a couple of fortune cookies, a handful of pennies and a can of soda. Yet another blow to my “I heart NY” propaganda campaign.


Still, all was not lost. The Chicklet’s first New Year’s Eve in Manhattan was a big one: 1999!I figured 10am was a reasonable hour to take a tot into Times Square. To commemorate the occasion, I gave my camera to a cop for a quick Y2K shot of us by the ball drop. Right before he snapped the photo, my daughter turned her back to the camera and dug her face into my parka. The crowds and chaotic revelry were not her style.

At bedtime that night, as random firecracker blasts went off around the neighborhood, I tried to distract her with a discussion of New Year’s resolutions. By way of example, I told her I wanted to exercise more. She didn’t have to think long before stating that she wanted to move back to the suburbs, where it’s quiet and you get candy on Halloween.


When midnight came, I watched the fireworks from my window and thought about how lucky I was to be back in the city. The local TV news serenaded my solitary moment with “Auld Lang Syne,” followed by the requisite “New York, New York.”

“If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere,” belted out Old Blue Eyes.

And then it hit me.

Sorry, Mr. Chairman, but that’s just not true. I can’t make it anywhere but here. However, my daughter may decide to take her chances one day.

I can only hope to instill an appreciation and love for the city into my kids from the short distance of 20 miles. I wish they had the opportunity to grow up in the kind of atmosphere I did. I will just try my best for them to get a taste of it.


Pictures from Mother's Day
We went to central park to walk around and just hang out.











If you look in the background of the last one - you'll see Rob and Ari.