Loving NYC

Loving NYC is not something that comes easy to me; it takes constant convincing and regular collecting of proof positive that this is where we should be. I list the good often, like a mantra to a happy life, but still find myself nursing questions and concerns about the life that has taken shape around us.

Perhaps it is this little life kicking inside me that has my heart swinging a little higher and lower than usual. More often than not I find myself looking through a swell of tears. There is elation and despair, with little ground in between. It is easy to disregard the elation as only a sweet perk of pregnancy, but the despair has a firmer grip. Doesn’t it always? How many times do we dwell on how wonderful any given day may be? Its the humdingers that get the attention. Sad feelings are demanding, they need to be taken stock of, tracked back to their origins and schemed against. I like to blame the city if and whenever possible.

Maybe hormones play a role in it, but pregnancy is a natural time of reflection, and the questions that arise are nonetheless valid. There is something miraculous occurring, out of sight, and yet just under the skin. Growing a new life brings one’s own life up for a little ruthless scrutiny. What will we bring this baby home to? How can we elevate our lives to the level of perfection that is every newborn’s birthright? Is it even possible?

Recently Papa had a close call with a side of the city I prefer to believe isn’t a reality, not for us. He was mugged. He came home out of breath and bloody, and the farce was up in a flash. It is a reality, for everyone. He was ok, a couple scrapes, nothing stolen, but that question rang in my ears like a bullhorn, why are we here? But more realistically, where can we go where this would never happen again? I resent the city for filling me with fear, making me constantly check over my shoulder, hold Uta’s hand a little tighter, judge every stranger I encounter with a harshness that feels more criminal than what happened to Pop.

And then there is Uta's reaction. He says the only thing that matters is that we are all alive. How does he know that? We all ‘know’ that, but how many of us ride that wave as the only one we need? Yes, I think, forcing his words down to my sore heart. Yes. We are all alive, and in that very fact is all we need to be happy, to have a perfect life.

And then he adds, “Mom, I love you more than popcorn popping in a tree.”

My sweet boy. What more can I want? My life is already perfect.