I was a young mother living with my husband, my young son and my cat in New York City. When you live in New York City, since you cannot go out in the backyard, you take the baby’s stroller, put in all the things you might need (diapers, wipes, hats, sunscreen, juice etc.), and you load up the stroller and ride down the elevator from your high-rise apartment.
You then stagger to the street pushing your heavy stroller as you slowly make your way to the park – or in my case, Central Park.In Central Park, you go to the playground and sit with the other mothers (and the lone father or two) as all the children play.
One day, I decided to change my routine. I was tired of going to Central Park every day, so I decided to go to the area near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The day was just about perfect— sunny and warm.
I walked around the outside of the museum and found a perfect place where lots of people and dogs were playing and picnicking. It was on the side of the museum, at the top of a grassy hill that led down to 85th Street. From where we sat, we could look down the hill and watch all the cars along 85th Street or we could turn our eyes away and watch all the people. Either way was interesting for a fourteen-month-old boy and his mother.
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