My six-year-old and I get in our daily morning debates before school. This rainy Monday in late Fall was no exception. I tell him to wear the raincoat.
“Zipper it,” I say. “I don’t want your t-shirt to get wet.”
“I can’t,” he whines and I get on my knees to attempt the zipper. The silver zipper puller thingy falls off.
“Ooh – can I have it?” he cheers. And I struggle to no avail. So we go with his bottom button holding the bottom of the jacket and his right hand clutching the top together.
“Put your hood on,” I plead.
“I like the rain,” he protests and has a skip to his step, despite my frustration. I carry my heavy umbrella over him (the corners dripping on me). I shift hands when my arm goes numb carrying the oversized beast over both of us.
“Are your feet getting wet?” I keep asking.
“No!” he repeats. “Why? Are yours?” he asks. He has always been considerate like that.
“Yes!” I grunt back. “They’re soaked together with my jeans from the knee down.“
As we approach school we see Tommy, a nice boy. Another “duplicate mailing” in the parents’ directory – with one address on Central Park West and the other one a prominent Tribeca loft.
So Tommy is walking akin to his grossly overweight nanny. She is carrying the Cadillac of umbrellas and is comfortably dry as Tommy lingers – feet swishing and t-shirt half saturated in freezing rain.
“Tommy doesn’t have to zip his jacket,” Jacob quickly points out.
To which I quickly reply, “Well, that’s the difference between a nanny and a mommy.”