I’m a little woozy from my glucose tolerance test this morning, so I’m taking the liberty of reposting yet another old post. Trust me, it’s better than anything else you’d get out of me today. Why is the GTT The Devil?
Last week, under the guise of ‘œbusiness’ Daver took Ben and I to NYC. Having never been there, I found myself to be utterly un-enthused in the weeks leading up to our departure. I’ve been in Chicago all of my life and was never as turned on by the city as some. And having to go with child in tow, despite Dave’s assurances that ‘œwe would be fine’ alone all day by ourselves DID I MENTION ALONE AND BY OURSELVES in a city we’ve not been to, I was even less thrilled.
But the minute we got off the plane, amid Ben’s pleas to get back on the airplane, my mind was changed.
It took physically going to New York for me to realize that this was where I belong. For some people, going to Paris or London or even Australia is where it’s at. My own personal mecca, unbeknown to me, happened to be NYC.
It’s the place where everything HAPPENS. Everything that’s anything comes straight from NY, fashion, food, style; it’s all there. It’s glamorous, it’s busy, it’s FABULOUS. Plus you can get knockoff purses at every street corner ALONG WITH HOT DOGS! I LOVE HOT DOGS. NOM, NOM, NOM HOT DOGS.
Now you might be saying to yourselves, but how was traveling with a four-year old? You still have a kid, how cool can you really be?
The answer is NOT VERY. Bringing Ben to NYC I like to liken (hehe) to taking a bath in hydrochloric acid with a little bleach mixed in for good measure. He wasn’t BAD by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s a busy and active little boy; the kind who DOESN’T want to have his hand held because at 4, he’s too COOL, and only has to urinate when it’s the most inconvenient time and place possible. Like the airplane. I swear that there were times when I could physically FEEL my uterus trying to crawl into the most hidden crevice of my body cavity.
Perhaps behind my spleen.
And I couldn’t blame it. I wanted to crawl in there myself.
Especially after I realized that although I had stocked up on Mother’s Little Helper I had foolishly neglected a stroller. Normally Ben will react to being confined to a stroller (you know, I’ve always seen those kids placidly riding in strollers, while mine insisted upon walking at 6 months old. It’s pure jealousy, let’s be clear here.) with sheer anger and arched back like a cat in a patent leather bikini, but in NYC, I could have cared less. I could have probably given him to the gypsies like I’ve been threatening for years, BECAUSE I’M SURE I COULD FIND SOME.
I looked high and low for strollers, but 5th Ave apparently is fresh out of strollers. Except for the $150 one from FAO Schwartz. Which, by the end of the trip, I was cursing myself for NOT buying. It was a matter of perspective that made me realize how CHEAP $150 was.
I have spent the time since returning home trying to devise a plan for Ben to get a job with a decent income so that we can totally move back to NYC. It’s totally where I belong. Any kind of food delivered at any hour of the day. Hustle and bustle of the crowd going to and from wherever it is fabulous people go. HOT DOGS!
Four years old isn’t too young to get a job, right?