reading tutor while she and Pierson shop. These shopping excursions may include a stop at the man on Fourteenth Street who fits you for a grille: Pierson is waiting for his second front tooth to come in to get his. On Wednesdays and Fridays, Nicole picks up Pierson early to take him to his reading tutor and I pick up Truman. I usually forget and arrive late at school to find Truman in the lobby, greeting me with some comment like “What the fuck just happened here?” Zoila comes to clean for a few hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. Meanwhile, Alicia takes Finn to pick up Larson, and either brings him home for an in-house speech session with Craig or takes him to his other speech therapist, Amy. Peik usually has to be tracked down on Mondays and Wednesdays to get him home on time for Sabina, his homework helper. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Nicole brings Truman and Pierson to me, I take them to fencing, and Nicole watches Finn so Alicia can go home. When we get back, Nicole watches Finn and Larson and reads with Pierson, while I help Peik and Truman with their homework. When Peter gets home, he helps them with the math that I can’t do. Nicole puts the three smallest ones to bed, then goes home. This leaves Peter and me to get the big boys to bed on time so we can catch a few hours of sleep before musical beds begins.
The fact that all these children have all these places to be is actually the easy part. Getting there is the hard part. There is no SUV parked in the driveway ten feet from the kitchen door. These children are not conveniently delivered door to door in the safety of their car seats. We perform a balancing act involving taxis, buses, subways, strollers, and Snuglis.
Taxis can be difficult to get, especially if the weather is bad, and as the meter ticks up, your bank account ticks down. Buses tend to have older passengers with little patience for a crying child. Nicole once got into an argument with a patron complaining about Larson that ended in the bus driver pulling over and the man fleeing. Subways present an array of problems. While they are undoubtedly the fastest way to get around Manhattan, they are not handicap friendly, and traveling with a child in a stroller is basically the same as wheeling around an invalid.
Alicia was once in a subway station on her way to pick up Cleo from school; she had four-year-old Peik in a stroller. When they got to the turnstile, she asked Peik to get out of the stroller so she could maneuver it through. He did as he was asked and went through the turnstile just as the next train was pulling up to the platform. The doors opened and he stepped in. The doors closed and the train pulled away. Unfortunately, Alicia watched the entire scene from the turnstile, where she was wedged in by the menacing Maclaren.
Resourcefully, she picked up the nearby emergency phone and had a calm conversation with a dispatcher. The transit people told her to wait at that station; the police would apprehend the little escapee at the next station and bring him back to her. Within a few minutes, Alicia had Peik back, safe and sound. She wasn’t even late to pick up Cleo.
When she returned home, she burst into tears in a delayed panic attack and fearfully recounted the story. She was sure she would be fired.
“What will Peter say?” she blurted between sobs.
“Peter will say he had no idea there were emergency phones in the subway. Peter will say he was glad it happened with you and not me, because you handled it so well. Peter will say you deserve a bonus.”
WE MAY HAVE PLENTY OF HELP DURING THE WEEK, BUT UNTIL RECENTLY Peter and I were full-time parents on the weekends. As much as I hated being stuck in the kitchen preparing three seven-person meals a day, I have to admit that Peter had the more difficult task. The amount of activity required to keep the boys occupied when they don’t have school is immense.
“I need a youth replacement,” Peter said, exhausted on the sofa one Sunday evening after a marathon of boy activities. “I’m old; I can’t do this every weekend.” He was right. Hide-and-seek, bike riding, swimming, skiing, catch—the man needed some downtime. He worked hard all week and worked even harder on the weekends.
Blake first introduced himself to me in the lobby of my big kids’ school. He had no idea we were looking for a manny.
“Hi, Laura, I’m Blake. I just wanted to tell you what a big fan I am of your work.” I’m never surprised by the variety of people who watch
“Thanks, Blake. What are you doing here?” I wasn’t sure whether he was a young father or a teacher.
“I’ve worked with a family for many years whose boys go here. They’re grown now, and don’t really need me anymore, but I try to get by at least once a week and spend some time with them.”
“What do you do now?” I asked, suddenly registering the possibility that all my weekend dreams might be about to come true.
“I’m a professional dancer and I teach dance at a school uptown.”
I liked how strong Blake looked, and how calm, and he obviously had quite a bit of experience taking care of boys. I could easily see him keeping my pack well entertained. He got the job without even knowing he was being interviewed. We had found our manny.
“Oh, and I’m gay,” he said, as we shook hands on the deal.
“Perfect,” I replied. “So’s my husband.”
Blake is just as likely to teach the boys how to build a tree-house as how to sing an aria or how to execute a perfect pirouette—a versatility that has earned him the handle Butch Ballerina. He will drive the boys off to Rye Playland on a Saturday, and be right back at it on Sunday morning to set up soccer pitches and kick a damn ball up and down the field with them. He will then come inside, don an apron, and whip up a meal. Most of his recipes rely on some flavor of Campbell’s Cream of Something Soup, from the classic tuna noodle hot dish to the more exotic Broccoli Cheese chicken casserole. Whatever the dish, Blake presents it with a flourish, as though he hadn’t just opened a can of glop and poured it over a dead bird. He is undoubtedly more David than Amy Sedaris, but any meal he cooks is one less meal I have to deal with.
While for most of the weekend his butch side dominates, the ballerina side of Blake sometimes rears its precious head. He often complains about the temperature in the car and can be fussy about his clothes. Often before he leaves for the ski slope with the boys he will run back into the house from the car to change his coat.
“This coat is ugly; I can’t be seen in it,” he’ll whine.
“Really? Because at least that one didn’t make your butt look big,” I tease. Five minutes later, he’ll back for a second change of coat.
Blake’s gayness fascinates my boys. If he mentions that he thinks the new girl serving burgers at the Red Rooster is pretty, they will tell him, “You’re not really gay, you like girls.” They’re always asking him when he “turned gay” and why he “decided to be gay.” But their all-time favorite method of Blake torture is to sing a small clip from a song in the
Blake will do practically anything a child will do, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you think he’s enjoying it. He takes them to man movies I don’t want to see, builds fire pits in the woods, and makes them bows and arrows out of tree branches. He is a walking Dangerous Book for Boys.
I once came upon him with Pierson and Peik out behind the house. Truman was standing a good distance away.
“Hey, Blake,” I said, “what are you guys doing with my hairspray?”
“Building a potato launcher.”
“We’re trying to hit Truman,” Peik said, holding a length of PVC pipe and a Bic lighter. Pierson had a bowl of potatoes.
“Won’t that hurt?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Blake said. “We’re using baked potatoes.”
“Well, carry on, girls,” I said, rolling my eyes, and went off in search of some well-paid-for peace and quiet.
LAURA’S GOT A GUNN
