I sometimes wonder how Rosemary categorizes museums in her mind. We go to a lot of them, art and otherwise, and there's such a huge variety in what's inside that I can't imagine what meaning the word actually has to her. They probably break down roughly into 2 kinds: the good kind where she can touch anything she wants, and the even better kind where I chase after her like a hilariously fretful maidservant and try to grab her before she slams herself into the wall underneath The Starry Night, which she recognized - by name! - from one of her books. Proud mama. (At least she didn't teeter into a Picasso masterpiece.)
She's generally a pretty clear speaker (for a 2 year old) but for some reason she says this particular word in a weird, jumbled way, adding at least one extra syllable to make something that sounds like "Museumland."
Last month we visited a new favorite spot, the Transit Museum, which is near our house. It falls in to the first category. It's an actual, unused subway station, filled with subway cars from ye old wicker seat days to recent ones. We went with our friends Leo and Dara, and had a fab time.
Until the moment a split-second after I took this picture:
...when Rosie did not mind the gap, as they say, and lost one of her galoshes down between train and platform into the tracks. She was never in any danger but she did look like Rumpelstiltskin. There were tears. But then a nice maintenance guy named Peter came and got it for her with the help of one of those long, pincher-arm tool things (what are those called, anyhow?). He assured us it happens all the time. All was well and it has now turned into the 1000 times retold tale of the day when, as Rosie tells it, "I lost a boot at the train museumland. It happened."
Another recent museum highlight: Urs Fischer's tongue at the New Museum. I shot half a video of it before the security guard asked me to stop. This youtube one is much better. Rosemary's discussion and dramatic recreation also shows how fast she can run in her beloved sleep sack (and features the polka dot bag I mentioned in the last entry).
...when Rosie did not mind the gap, as they say, and lost one of her galoshes down between train and platform into the tracks. She was never in any danger but she did look like Rumpelstiltskin. There were tears. But then a nice maintenance guy named Peter came and got it for her with the help of one of those long, pincher-arm tool things (what are those called, anyhow?). He assured us it happens all the time. All was well and it has now turned into the 1000 times retold tale of the day when, as Rosie tells it, "I lost a boot at the train museumland. It happened."
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