Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday?

particularly interested in taking the kind of loving ownership necessary to overcome Princess’s issues. I was not there for her formative years, so I don’t know the root of her problems, but she has so much anger and is so aggressive that the killer rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a Muppet in comparison. Princess roams free because we are afraid to come in direct physical contact with her. She has a cage where food, water, and a litter box are provided for her, but she enters only at her own discretion. Once while I was working on my computer, intent on my keyboard and semi-oblivious to my surroundings, I sensed something moving off to my left.

“Mmmm, Cocoa Puffs,” Peik said.

We’re out of Cocoa Puffs, I thought as I continued to click away on an assignment. And then it hit me. I turned in slow motion from my desk to see my son’s mouth closed, jaw moving.

“NOOOOOO!” I yelled as I snapped out of my trance. But it was too late. Realizing what he had eaten, Peik started spitting and running through the house screaming. I suspect that child is off breakfast cereal for life.

My favorite pet is Frank, short for Frankentortoise, a five-year-old red-footed tortoise who, like Princess but for entirely favorable reasons, has free rein of the apartment and a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” potty policy. Don’t ask me where he does it, because I can’t tell you. Though the children have offered his poop to guests, luckily none has ever eaten tortoise turds. Frank recognizes people; he especially loves Zoila, who is always happy to give him a handful of the real Cocoa Puffs that Peik now refuses to eat.

We also have a very large, very noisy cage of tiny finches in the front of the loft. Despite their distance from the bedrooms, I can hear them in the wee hours chirping in harmony to Hamster’s machinations at the very first hint of daylight. I am surprised they have the intelligence to do so, because we started with a pair, and those fecund little birdstards have multiplied into what is undoubtedly the most inbred, genetically mutant tribe since the Kennedys. By rough count at least forty birds have been created in the past twelve years. Currently there are twelve, which seems to be one too many because one of them is pecked at by his friends so often that his neck is slowly becoming devoid of feathers—he looks like a sad little man, flying slowly behind the flock as they swoop from one end of the ten-foot-long antique bird cage to the other in synchronized flight. They might eventually kill him. This is what happens when you live in one room with too many inhabitants. We could put him in his own cage, but he would then likely die of loneliness. It’s Manhattan survival in miniature.

A FRIEND OF MINE ONCE TOLD ME THAT HER MOTHER HAD SCOLDED her for “overscheduling” her two children. Here’s the thing about having children in Manhattan: there is no such thing as overscheduling, and anyone who calls you out on it is jealous because their town doesn’t offer the variety of afterschool lessons and experiences our town does. If New York City is Disneyland for adults, then it is freaking Epcot Center, Disney World, and Space Mountain for kids. There is no end to the things a child can learn and experience here. Filmmaking? Kendo? Basketweaving? Rock climbing? Sculpture? Oboe? Interpretive dance? We have it all.

My kids don’t have too many extracurricular things going on, because lessons tend to be expensive and add total chaos to my schedule, but I do make sure each child has a unique activity that corresponds to his talents. Peik has his music, Truman has fencing, Pierson has male modeling, and Larson has art.

One afternoon, Larson was working on a paint-a-tie-for-your-dad kit I had picked up for him at Jack’s 99 Cents. Because Larson is surrounded by some of the most amazing art and architecture in the world, he has developed a great deal of personal style and artistic ability. He was distracted from the project, though, by a favorite SpongeBob episode on the television, so he didn’t do his best work. He didn’t seem to think Peter would mind, though, and presented the result to him just as we were headed out to the Tribeca Ball, a benefit for the New York Academy of Art. Peter stripped off his ancient Hermes tie and put Larson’s on, much to our son’s delight. A few hours later, at dinner, the grande dame of art herself, Eileen Guggenheim, leaned over to Peter from a table away.

“What artist painted your tie?” she said, barely touching a finger to it.

“An outsider who goes by the name of Larson,” Peter said in all seriousness, though there was a glint in his eye.

“Ah,” she replied, leaning back to her own table, but only after giving him a knowing look, one that said she had heard of this new artist, and he was going to be a big success.

AT A COCKTAIL PARTY NOT LONG AGO, I STARTED CHATTING UP ANOTHER guest. She was a typical New York Upper East Side socialite, attractive, sleekly dressed, perfectly coiffed hair, in her mid-forties, with just a tad too much Botox as evidenced by her huge, motionless forehead. We ran through the customary small talk about where we live in the city and what we do; I told her about my ridiculous living conditions, which led to comparing notes on children. I went on a bit about my six, their various activities, and basically how challenging it is to keep the kids all alive, which is clearly the main objective of any parent.

“Yes,” she said, “I know how hard it is to keep your little ones out of harm’s way. Why, just this past month I almost lost my baby, Lily.” She paused to take an exaggerated breath.

“Go on,” I encouraged, moved by this terrible admission and at the same time dying to know all.

“Well, it was just heartbreaking to have to spend Christmas in the intensive care ward when all the other darlings were at home, waiting for Santa.”

“You poor thing.” I opened my eyes wider in what I hoped looked like an invitation to say more.

“Yes. It was as close to tragic as I ever hope to come.”

“I can imagine,” I said, leaning forward. At this point I really needed some specifics to find the right empathetic chord to strike—this is what people do: we share our own challenges to let another person know that we understand their pain. I was already flipping through my memory picture book, past the time that Cleo shoved pearls up her nose, straight to the time that Peik had emergency surgery for a septic knee. I found nothing quite as wrenching as spending Christmas in intensive care. “How did she get there?” I queried, very gently. Sometimes people don’t like to talk about accidents or diseases, especially at fancy cocktail parties.

“Well, she was sitting right there.” The woman pointed at an imaginary object. “On the counter at Bergdorf’s, patiently waiting for Mommy to make a special purchase.” I recalibrated my mental picture of Lily to reflect perhaps a pre-walking infant, something that sits up on a department store counter. “When just like that, some thoughtless person offered her a treat, can you imagine?”

“Um, no,” I said, thinking: Well, it’s not unheard-of to give a kid candy at Christmas.

“And then it happened!” she exclaimed in a hushed voice, nearly dropping her Sauvignon Blanc as she swept her other hand in front of her. “Lily jumped down off the counter to get the treat and broke her back!”

Now I did feel some real sympathy. A small child with a broken back is serious.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Thank God she had on her Chanel booties, or God only knows what would have happened to her paws. Four days in the hospital. Can you imagine?”

“Oh,” I said. “Her paws.”

“Yes, poor little Tiger Lily may never be able to have another pedicure, what with the damage to her nails.”

“Tiger Lily? You’re talking about a dog?” I said, unable to politely hide my disgust. A swirl of thoughts raced through my head: I’ve got to get back downtown; I want my ten minutes back; why does Karl Lagerfeld design dog shoes? This woman was a walking example of exactly why I won’t have a dog in the city, especially not one that will fit in a purse—that kind of dog will make you a crazy person before you are ready to be one. Once all my circuits are snapped and I’m wandering around with my latest gay boyfriend, wearing feather boas and too much jewelry, then and only then will I have a dog. If any of my children want a dog, they can move out and get one. I need to remain a safe distance from this particular banana peel.

ALL THAT SAID, FOR EVERY WOMAN IN NEW YORK WHO TREATS HER shih tzu like a child, there is a woman who treats her child like a shih tzu—prized, groomed, pampered, and coddled to within an inch of its life.

I was at a parents’ meeting at school one morning, talking to one of the new moms—an attractive, petite, divorced woman around my age. She was telling me about her difficult relationship with her ex-husband. There was a distinct sound of bitterness in her voice, which didn’t surprise me once I understood he had left her for a twenty- four-year-old.

“He really crossed a line last week,” she said. “I’m going to have my lawyer work on getting his custody