Being a single father in NYC is paradise

It’s 6:15 am on another Tuesday in my Tribeca penthouse. My nanny’s finishing the late-night feed for my son who, for the record, arrived courtesy of an egg donor so high-caliber she could’ve been in the next Vogue cover shoot.  my first date of the week just texted good morning (it’s only 20 texts in, so still “cute,” I think). I chug a matcha latte and a BCAA blend, and skip the shower, that’s tomorrow’s problem.

By 7 am, the kitchen has transformed into a strategic command center: overnight oats for me, organic purée for him, and a “welcome” charcuterie platter for the four women I’m juggling this week. Nanny’s got the boy’s schedule mapped out. I spend 30 minutes going over phonics flashcards (“B is for billionaire?” he babbles back), while my French tutor preps him for his 3 pm Zoom lesson on Monet. He’s got more one-on-one instruction than half the students at NYU.

At 8 am I lock the nanny in the playroom (just kidding, she’s salaried, she’s great) and slip out. The elevator doors close on my signature leather briefcase, and I’m off to “manage” my private equity empire: by 9 am I’ve already reviewed three term sheets and done an on-the-fly valuation in my head during the ride uptown.. My assistant who commands a six-figure salary and calls me “boss” like it’s her part-time gig, has coffee waiting at my corner office, which overlooks the Park.

I wave at the 20-something analysts who hustle past, differentiating between “in place yield” and “unlevered IRR” before their second espresso, and wonder which of my dinner dates might actually know what IRR stands for. Deal flow’s strong, my team’s on fire, and the firm’s LPs are fat and satisfied.

At noon I dash out to a rooftop brunch with Date #2 (she’s convinced she’s Date #1 but I have the texts saved in chronological order). She’s 23, a smoke show, and genuinely curious about whether my nanny outfits are Bottega Veneta or Prada. We debate avocado toast inflation (this is good DD for a consumer business we’re looking at) before I slip away to catch the 1 pm nursery peek. I have a quick play session with my son (so much better than that shitty date).

Its back to the office for an onslaught of calls. One founder still thinks “PE returns” are a Marvel spinoff; another lawyer insists we need a notary for a digital signature (I may or may not have face-palmed). 

At 4 pm, I hop into my town car (I haven’t taken the subway in years, but I don’t have subway tokens anyway). Gridlock is a rite of passage, so I use the time catching up on family group texts: nanny needs fresh diapers, a tutor wants a new desk lamp, and five different women want to rearrange our date next Friday. I promise them all I’ll come through. I can’t underperform my personal portfolio .

Evening rolls around. I’m back in Tribeca by 6:30 pm, and the penthouse feels as quiet as a cathedral until my son’s wobbling steps echo down the hall. I scoop him up, nuzzle his cheek, and we practice saying “Trader Joe’s run” in his baby babble. Nanny assists with dinner: organic chicken tenders for him, wagyu sliders for me. Balanced as all things should be. I still have unflexed abs and the body of a college swimmer because no wife means total flexibility for 4 days a week of late night gym sessions.

Later, Date #3 arrives for cocktails on the terrace. She’s 25 and thinks dry martinis are passé and I let her believe that. We toast to “the good life,” while I secretly wonder if she’s on my calendar for Thursday or Friday. Irrelevant details, really. Because when my little guy wakes me at 3 am for his third night feeding, I’ll be ready (just kidding the nanny is paid extra to bottle feed him in the middle of the night there’s no way I’m waking up). Being a single father In NYC is paradise.