Lamb pies on the curb at the Glenwood Farmers Market.
Photo by Nalin Bhutt.
Before we had kids and while on a road trip to somewhere I don't remember now, Nalin and I listened to a fabulous book on tape of Family Man, by one of my favorite writers, Calvin Trillin. By that time, we were already living in Chicago and had settled into a fairly urban existence. And, although I don't recall my exact thoughts that day we listened to Trillin's words, I'm sure I nodded my head and smiled while listening, imagining that we too would raise our children in the hub of a thriving metropolis and attend raucous Halloween street parades just like his two daughters did, growing up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Well, our most raucous Halloween event with our children was a quite sanitized neighborhood kids fest in the heart of Rogers Park when Ettu was one and dressed like a monkey; but hey, you have to start somewhere.
There are a lot of reasons I love Calvin Trillin, not least of which are his Kansas City, Missouri roots. A Midwest boy transplanted to that strange and venerable island called Manhattan. His humor is so familiar and embracing and yet utterly new. It has been a long while since I read that book, but I'd love to revisit it now that I am parenting two children in the city. The questions of whether to stay in an urban environment or move outside the city constantly creep upon us. When we go to the museums or hang out listening to live music at the Food Truck Social with our kids dancing like crazy in the open streets, we think, yes, this is the place for us. When we visit friends or family with bigger homes and yards and open space, we see the glee and wonder in their faces and think, yes, this might be the place for us. But for now, we are where we are. My children are learning to skip rocks in the crater-like potholes in our alley that fill with water after a good rain. They eat hot, handmade goodies on the curb of the farmers market on Sunday mornings while waiting for their parents to scavenge for eggs, greens, and tomatoes. They grudgingly adhere to our admonishments to please not run so loudly down the hallway of our second floor condo. They barely flinch at the sounds of loud trains and sirens that pass them. They know every park within walking distance by name.
Wherever we go or remain, I hope that these days and experiences are shaping them to be flexible, tolerant, and inquisitive young men. All of us parents are in this same, crowded boat together, though. And we all do the best we can. As Trillin states in plain and simple words, "Your children are either the center of your life or they're not." And wherever we are, I suppose that pretty much sums it up.