From the very second I became a mother almost twenty-four years ago, something else besides my son was born. It was basically like gaining a new sixth sense, as naturally working as the others, but more acute and overwhelming: a protective instinct. For the major part of my adult life, I've been able to let that instinct reign supreme, smothering my children with attention, devotion, nurturing, advice, and motherly love. But lately, as they are gaining more and more independence, I've had to keep it in check, at least to the naked eye. It's always there and always will be, but I just have to work harder at making it seem like it's not......kind of like applying makeup. There's nothing better than seeing your kids feel good in their skin, be proud of their accomplishments and take the world on fearlessly and with gusto, but it comes with a bittersweet and gentle nudge from within ( and from them) to step aside and let them do their thing. So, as I drove into Manhattan last night, specifically the East Village, to go apartment hunting with my daughter, I tried to let the spirit of independence and youth drive the mission and let my protective instinct take a back seat.
New York City has changed a lot over the years, to the point where it seems like there is no longer a "bad neighborhood." But those "alphabet streets" are in the East Village, and The Bowery, a place to be avoided at all costs back when I was living in Manhattan in the 1980s isn't too far away. While it's around the corner from my favorite restaurant, Il Buco, now, being in its proximity still put me on alert. I arrived early and had a chance to scope out the area from a window seat at the wine bar where we planned to meet. The people watching was outstanding and the dog watching even better. Best of all, I could completely understand why my daughter likes the neighborhood; it is bursting with energy while still having a relaxed vibe and there was a sense of laissez faire and acceptance. So far, so good.
We met up with the broker soon enough who led us to the first apartment. I was trying to appear unfazed by the fact that there was no doorman to watch over things and no elevator to take us up to the fourth floor, or was it the fifth? But, I couldn't hold back when we entered the apartment and a sweet dog, who had obviously been left alone for way too long, greeted us. I don't know what made me feel worse-the stench that filled the room or the obvious abuse that his owner was guilty of. I went from being Cool Mom Hanging in the East Village to Unhip Mom who let factors like stepping over dog poop and how out of breath I would be every time I visited my daughter influence my opinion of the place.
The next stop was a million times better. Still a walk-up, but on the second floor. Still no doorman, but a much brighter entrance and carpeted stairway, albeit in a pattern that would be better suited for a brothel, but I was back in cool mom mode so I wasn't going to let this bother me. Even my daughter admitted that the first place was unacceptable when we had this one to compare it to, and our moods were lifted. A few more candidates followed, at rents by the way, that were hard to fathom, but the little place with the flashy stairway remained our first choice.
Our last stop was around the corner from that top contender. It was a restaurant/bar called The Smith, which my husband and I wandered into once when we were doing our own impulsive real estate search a few years back. He and I had a delicious brunch there then, surrounded by young adults, some probably students at NYU or other area schools, others, artsy up and comers, and everyone, including the staff, was extremely jovial. The most memorable part of that morning, besides their Vanilla Bean French Toast, was discovering the photo booth when I went downstairs to the ladies room. After we paid our bill, I convinced Tom to go back down there with me for a photo shoot. I still have the black and white strip of four goofy images of us from that little adventure tacked on the bulletin board by my desk.
Eating dinner at the bar with my daughter last night, just up the stairs from that photo booth, surrounded again by a crowd that oozed boundless energy and possibility, I found that it had a way of rubbing off on me. She and I talked about budgets, her goals, ways to stay safe and healthy, and when it was time to drop her off at a friend's place it was somehow easier to leave her behind. The protective urge was still there (okay, so I gave her cab fare to her next stop so she wouldn't have to take the subway......we did just hear about another terror alert after all) and I did ask once or twice if she'd like to come home to the burbs with me and take the train in the morning, but I drove away without her, feeling surprisingly calm. And I didn't even ask her to text me when she made it safely to her final destination. I just knew she would......get there safely that is.
