By Dad
Kids across America are finishing up their summer camps and saying they've had a great time.
Dora (14), Penny (11) and Cathy (7) are finishing up their summer schools and saying....
….well, they're not quite as effusive as the summer camp crowd.
“You’ll thank me when you’re older,” I tell them.
“Thank you for what?” Dora says. “Stealing our childhoods?”
This is a conversation I’m never going to win.
Sure, I could say that summer school will help them land a great job, and give them a shot at being financially secure before they’re 35.
But they'd listen to that about as intently as subway riders listen when some car-hopping panhandler asks for money because he's "not robbing you."
If the kids answered at all, it would be to say that future job prospects don’t make for very exciting Instagrams.
As for thinking about being 35, that’s off their radar given they're still celebrating birthdays with cakes sporting the same number of candles as their ages.
So forget all the child-psychologist blather about “dialoguing” with your kids when you want them to do one thing, and they’ve got their eye on something else.
By the time you get their agreement, they’ll be parents themselves.
Far better to play the role of benevolent dictator and set stringent new routines focused solely on your plan.
As for thinking about being 35, that’s off their radar given they're still celebrating birthdays with cakes sporting the same number of candles as their ages.
So forget all the child-psychologist blather about “dialoguing” with your kids when you want them to do one thing, and they’ve got their eye on something else.
By the time you get their agreement, they’ll be parents themselves.
Far better to play the role of benevolent dictator and set stringent new routines focused solely on your plan.
Anything less and they'll think there's a chance they could be doing the "something else" that's on their mind.
Our summer routine sees me taking the kids anew to schools in Manhattan’s Chinatown, which has a concentration of summertime learning to meet demand in the Chinese immigrant community.
I escort the younger two, while Dora, whose classes start in the afternoon, travels there alone.
I quickly learned that Penny and Cathy were paranoid about being spotted by their friends in our Upper East Side neighborhood. As Penny put it, “They’ll think we’re dumb if they see us going to summer school."
Really? So kids outside the Asian community (as are mine) think that summer school is mainly for catching up rather than for getting ahead.
No wonder students of Asian families – who see summer school as an opportunity to advance – account for more than 60 per cent of enrollment in New York's select Specialized High Schools.
Anyway, to address Penny's fear, I ended up being more benevolent than dictator as I found myself carrying both kids’ backpacks until the subway.
To make the charade more believable, the girls insisted I also walk several paces behind them.
For sure the spectacle of a seven- and 11-year-old walking without apparent adult escort along a busy city street would, in most parts of America, see some Good Samaritan rush to their side to ask if they'd lost their mommy.
In Manhattan, it's all the kids can do to save themselves from being trampled by the cavalcades of commuters with eyes fixed on hand-held gadgets rather than what's in front of them.
But it's not just the high-tech crowd who pose dangers. There are low-tech terrors too – like building maintenance workers hosing down the sidewalks at the height of the morning rush hour.
These "hosers" (Canadians and U.S. fans of the Bob and Doug McKenzie skits of the 1980s will get the double entendre) create veritable flash floods right in the middle of Manhattan.
Their cascades continue even after they switch off their hoses, which they never do until you're a split second away from entering the area they're spraying. (If you're lucky, you'll come across a hoser who doesn't halt the spray. Sure, you'll get soaked, but you can now sue the building for a large amount of cash because, of course, you were wearing Savile Row.)
Anyway, the flowing water is fine when you have adult legs and can step over the multiple rivulets. But the kids have to wade through them, turning each day's trek to the subway into a lesson on the hardships of traversing the Oregon Trail.
All that's missing are the Indian attacks, but even they could be simulated if I were to take my mother's advice and arm the kids with water pistols to hit back.
You can't say a thing to the hosers since many operate on the same level of arrogance as post-9/11 security guards: "Hey, I'm doing this for you!"
Doing what? Leaving my kids with soaked summer shoes and dirtied calves from the dust-infused droplets kicked up by their heels?
I'd like to know why the hosers feel the sidewalks need an 8 a.m. cleaning as opposed to one at 10 a.m., when there are fewer passers by.
I doubt Freud ever pondered this circumstance, but I note that they're firing gun-like device on a crowded street, and no one gets killed.
That's it! They're all auditioning to be stars in some New York City cop show.
Or maybe they're just clueless.
Which brings me to another mentally challenged group when it comes to scheduling the service they offer: dog walkers.
They're out there during the morning rush hour with anything up to 10 dogs on leashes streaming in all directions. It's a tangle waiting to happen for kids in their path.
Despite the hazards, the girls stick to my benevolently dictated routine. We arrive each day at the subway, where I return the backpacks to the kids ahead of our next task: squeezing ourselves and the bags into already packed cars.
For this, I recommend dressing oneself in business attire. Doing so gives the impression one has all the professional responsibilities of the other commuters – plus the added burden of two young charges.
More commuters than you might think react to this little white lie by giving the kids seats.
With commuters who are taking up more than their fair share of space, I find that being politely obnoxious is the way to go. I’m talking about riders who take up two or more seats thanks to their ample girth, or overfull bags, or bicycle, or shopping cart, or mobile food stall, or pet carrier, or craving for space to sleep, or batty behavior – or even their pungent smell.
I escort the younger two, while Dora, whose classes start in the afternoon, travels there alone.
I quickly learned that Penny and Cathy were paranoid about being spotted by their friends in our Upper East Side neighborhood. As Penny put it, “They’ll think we’re dumb if they see us going to summer school."
Really? So kids outside the Asian community (as are mine) think that summer school is mainly for catching up rather than for getting ahead.
No wonder students of Asian families – who see summer school as an opportunity to advance – account for more than 60 per cent of enrollment in New York's select Specialized High Schools.
Anyway, to address Penny's fear, I ended up being more benevolent than dictator as I found myself carrying both kids’ backpacks until the subway.
To make the charade more believable, the girls insisted I also walk several paces behind them.
For sure the spectacle of a seven- and 11-year-old walking without apparent adult escort along a busy city street would, in most parts of America, see some Good Samaritan rush to their side to ask if they'd lost their mommy.
In Manhattan, it's all the kids can do to save themselves from being trampled by the cavalcades of commuters with eyes fixed on hand-held gadgets rather than what's in front of them.
But it's not just the high-tech crowd who pose dangers. There are low-tech terrors too – like building maintenance workers hosing down the sidewalks at the height of the morning rush hour.
 |
| Water silly time to wash the sidewalk |
Their cascades continue even after they switch off their hoses, which they never do until you're a split second away from entering the area they're spraying. (If you're lucky, you'll come across a hoser who doesn't halt the spray. Sure, you'll get soaked, but you can now sue the building for a large amount of cash because, of course, you were wearing Savile Row.)
Anyway, the flowing water is fine when you have adult legs and can step over the multiple rivulets. But the kids have to wade through them, turning each day's trek to the subway into a lesson on the hardships of traversing the Oregon Trail.
All that's missing are the Indian attacks, but even they could be simulated if I were to take my mother's advice and arm the kids with water pistols to hit back.
You can't say a thing to the hosers since many operate on the same level of arrogance as post-9/11 security guards: "Hey, I'm doing this for you!"
Doing what? Leaving my kids with soaked summer shoes and dirtied calves from the dust-infused droplets kicked up by their heels?
 |
| Bob and Doug McKenzie: "Those hosers are real hosers, eh?" |
That's it! They're all auditioning to be stars in some New York City cop show.
Or maybe they're just clueless.
Which brings me to another mentally challenged group when it comes to scheduling the service they offer: dog walkers.
They're out there during the morning rush hour with anything up to 10 dogs on leashes streaming in all directions. It's a tangle waiting to happen for kids in their path.
Despite the hazards, the girls stick to my benevolently dictated routine. We arrive each day at the subway, where I return the backpacks to the kids ahead of our next task: squeezing ourselves and the bags into already packed cars.
For this, I recommend dressing oneself in business attire. Doing so gives the impression one has all the professional responsibilities of the other commuters – plus the added burden of two young charges.
More commuters than you might think react to this little white lie by giving the kids seats.
With commuters who are taking up more than their fair share of space, I find that being politely obnoxious is the way to go. I’m talking about riders who take up two or more seats thanks to their ample girth, or overfull bags, or bicycle, or shopping cart, or mobile food stall, or pet carrier, or craving for space to sleep, or batty behavior – or even their pungent smell.
Sadly, my self-ascribed benevolent dictator role stops short of giving me the power to set a benevolent secret police onto these people. So I fantasize about dangling a foot, or devilishly placing a bag, in the path of the more selfish ones as they alight from the subway car.
I'll post an account of the result when I do – as long as I've avoided arrest.
I'll post an account of the result when I do – as long as I've avoided arrest.
