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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 Highwayin 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.
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