Orthodox Jews think I'm a whore

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where I spend my days chasing after a toddler has long been a punk-rock haven for the artistic needing an escape from gentrified, genteel Manhattan. The baby has a sock monkey he sleeps with that wears a T-shirt saying "Punk's not dead" if that gives you a clue. The T-shirt is hipster style, ripped up and fastened with safety pins. Seems to be near the E-Z Blender (from the people that brought you E-Z Bake Oven) on the list of unsafe child novelty items, but I'm not paid to think. Toss that and a handful of glass shards into the crib and that's a winning naptime combo.

The kid was made to be a New Yorker - the baby who never sleeps in the city that never sleeps. I realized I can trick him into a nap by loading him into his ($800) stroller. We walked past the tattoo parlors (four) and the Italian bakery and the Chinese restaurants and into the heart of the Spanish section. Salsa music, men playing cards in the street, shaved ice vendors, flags from the mother country. There were Spanish signs as far as the eye could see, until a schoolbus drove by with Hebrew on it.

I walked another block and went from one continent to another, EPCOT world style. It was stunning. In the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, this orthodox community had sprung up maybe 100 years ago, taking bits of Europe and the Middle East with them. There were schools, ambulances, synagogues, restaurants all operating completely in Hebrew. The girls all wore long skirts, the boys had blue pants and shaved heads, with a long curl by either ear. They were skipping rope and riding bikes, and the siblings held hands crossing the street. It seemed so cliched to the point of being fake, staged for the benefit of anyone who stumbled into the black hole.

Being the only one without my head covered made me feel sheepish, like I forgot my homework, or was doing the devil's bidding showing off my hair like a hussy. Knowing that everyone's looking at you is a strange feeling.

Then the baby sprang back to the world of the waking, so we headed home. At a stoplight we met a sweet old man who asked how old the baby was.

I keep forgetting that people think I'm the kid's mom, so this is how our conversation went down.

Man: He's so cute, how old is he?
Me: 15 months.
Man: (To baby) You're a pretty tall little guy. (To me) How tall is his father?
Me: Uh, I can't really remember. To tell you the truth I only met him once.
Man, in horrified silence, hurries off.