In March, I woke up to the sound of my newborn fussing and the smell of smoke. Later, I learned that our neighborhood coffee shop had a major fire, and I watched as the front door we’d opened dozens of times was boarded up with plywood. When we walked by, my two-year-old’s face sank into something that looked like grief – and I knew we were both mourning something more than just their muffins.
A Disappearing Act
It’s easy for parents of young children to disappear from public life. You stop showing up on your camera roll and at the happy hours you used to frequent. Your weekend plans evaporate into nap times and routines. And you wonder if, to some extent, this disappearing is desired. Small children are messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. You know this because you live with them, and you worry that your appearance in public life is something that other people dread. So when my family goes out (if we go out), we frequent places built to accommodate small children: the park, the playground, storytime. Another storytime. A different park.
But for two years, my family also had the Gelateria. There, we could share a blueberry muffin near freelancers, students, and neighbors. There, my infant was no noisier than the D&D campaign upstairs. There, my toddler could grab two plastic horses from the bookshelves by the bathroom and play with them on a table where I balanced a vermouth. While other places might serve hot lattes with cold service, at the Gelateria everyone was welcomed with a smile.
After the fire, a GoFundMe raised over a hundred thousand dollars in a matter of weeks, with comments on the campaign repeating “we love you” and “we miss you.” While the transcendent pastries likely had something to do with this, I suspect a larger reason was that parents aren’t the only people craving an inclusive community space. Lots of people want a place to be, gather, and belong — even when (especially when) that means proximity with difference.
Part of a Community
Small children are different. They have sticky fingers and short tempers. They are sometimes too generous with the abundance (and the volume) of their joy. But they are also tiny community members; little citizens who learn good citizenship by seeing it enacted. And, as much as I love a storytime, I don’t want my children to exclusively exist in spaces designed for them. I want them to learn that being a good neighbor means not singing “The Wheels on the Bus” at full volume even though their grandmother loves it, and not sliding over hardwood floors even though they look so smooth. At the same time — I also want them to learn that if they spill that cup of water they were working so hard to balance, not everyone will think that they’re a nuisance. They’ll just think that they’re a kid.
It’s been over six months since the Gelateria fire, and last I heard, they’re still a year away from reopening. When they do, we’ll be back, but in the meantime, we’re still seeking out places that aren’t just kid-friendly but community-friendly: where children are welcome as they are – and everyone else is, too.
