Dispatches from Babyville

Another Side of Alternate Side

By Nicole Caccavo Kear

When I checked my inbox this morning I found the same email message from five different people. The subject line read “Alternate Side Parking Suspended in Park Slope,” and to prove it, there was a link inserted, a street map of the Slope, with the word SUSPENDED stamped over it in definitive block letters. I immediately called my husband, David: 

“Christmas has come early this year. And you’ll never guess what the city of New York has given us!”

What an unexpected reprieve, like gaining an hour during the Daylight Savings switch or the time Giovanni and I got on the bus with no Metrocard only to find out they’d never emptied the coin slot from the day before, which meant free rides for everyone (we were so thrilled we made up a song which went, “Hey Giovanni/ its free bus day/ lets party like its free bus day”). 

Now, to an outsider, driving your car from one side of the street to the other sounds like no big deal, but any New Yorker with a motor vehicle knows better.  I’m convinced that one of these days, Dante scholars are going to unearth an early copy of the Inferno, featuring a new ring of hell in which the shades circle around the block all day and all night seeking parking. Those people that really screwed up in their parking life on earth – perpetual spot-stealers and the unforgivables who think their car is entitled to two spaces -- they’re forced to circle the block all day and night with a screaming baby and whiny toddler in the back seat. So after resigning ourselves to a lifetime in this misery, what a sweet surprise to hear we’d be handed an extra hour or two every Monday, to do with whatever we liked. Of course, there’d be no street sweeping and the refuse was bound to accumulate to the point that we probably wouldn’t be able to drive our car out from under it. Upon further reflection, I started to think maybe alternate side parking rules weren’t so bad after all.  There have been many hours of fun-filled family togetherness which David, Giovanni and I have enjoyed while cruising around brownstone Brooklyn looking for a stretch of street to call our own -- not the least of which was the time I told David he was going to be a father, again. 

It was a Monday, and David was on car duty, so after work, he grabbed the keys and got ready to spend some serious time with NPR.  

“Me too, Daddy, me too,” Giovanni piped up, following him into the hallway. 

David shot me a look, a plea for help. Giovanni adored looking for parking with Pops – for about five minutes. Then he would, rightly, reasonably, say “Enough.”  Then he would proceed to show us that he’d had enough in much less pleasant ways. Normally, I’d distract the kid, but on this particular day, I was feeling like I, too, wanted some face time with Daddy. I’m a notoriously bad secret keeper, just one of the many women in my family who leak confidences, ruin surprises and regularly use the words, “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but---”  I’d been keeping some very big news under wraps all day and it was killing me. So I told David that we’d both ride with him, and we started circling. 

For a while it was business as usual -- David complained about being a corporate drudge, and I complained about the thankless work of motherhood, and we revisited our regular “whose job is harder?” argument. Giovanni, newly obsessed with The Beatles: 1 was grooving to his favorite track “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” on repeat play.

Then I turned to David and asked: “Do you think I’m pregnant?” 

His eye twitched but he replied with a level voice,  “I don’t know. Do you think you are?”

“Um… I guess so.” 

“Why do you think that?” he inquired.

“I want ‘Hey Dude.’” Giovanni shouted suddenly, “HEY DUDE HEY DUDE HEY DUDE.”

I advanced the CD to track number 21, “Hey Jude.” Giovanni sang along behind us. 

“Well, the test was positive.” I explained.

David’s knuckles on the steering wheel turned white. 

“You already took a pregnancy test?” he asked, his voice rising, “So, then you don’t think you’re pregnant. You are. You’re pregnant.”

“What do you think?”

“I think if you took a pregnancy test and it’s positive, then yes, generally that’s the proof a person needs.” 

“The light’s green,” I pointed out. David pressed on the gas and we continued to circle the block. 

“I don’t understand,” David stuttered, “When did this…“

“Italy,” I replied.

“Oooh,” he murmured, recalling those carefree two weeks we’d spent at my aunt’s seaside house near Rome. The sun, the surf, the red, farm-fresh tomatoes, the red wine, the long afternoon siestas where Giovanni slept and we… did not. 

“Right,” he said, “Italy.”

“Well, what do you think?” I repeated

He raised his eyebrows. 

“I think…” he started, “I think… its good. Its what we wanted. He’ll be our Roman baby. We can name him Romulus. Or Remus. Or Caesar.”

“Might be a she.” I pointed out, “Romana. Romina.”

I put my hand on his knee and he clasped it tight. One of the best things about David is that he’s a superb one-handed driver. So we held hands and circled the block looking for a parking space as Paul McCartney sang what anyone with any sense would agree is one of the greatest songs in recorded history. It was Giovanni’s favorite part: 

“Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start…“

“Sing Mommy Daddy SING!” Giovanni commanded. 

“To make it better Better BETTER BETTER YEAAAAAAH!” we crooned. 

By the time our Na Na’s were over, we’d not only a found spot for our car, right on our street, but a spot for our pea-sized darling, in our family. A trio’s great and all, but there’s a reason the Beatles were a quartet – it just gives rise to a better, fuller sound.

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Illustration by Lydia Nichols