I’ve been looking forward to this day.
Having been thoroughly immersed in a work project for the last month or so—a project that culminated in a week of marathon sessions in a Scottsdale hotel boardroom, under conditions seldom seen outside of sociological experiments—I was ready to reclaim some personal time and do something I had not yet done as a father: spend an entire day alone with my daughter.
I decided on a day in the park, with a visit to the zoo, because that’s what fathers are required to do, according to the conventions of modern society, and because Abby is not old enough to appreciate an afternoon at the pub.
I run through the checklist: diapers, wipes, tupperwared snacks, water bottle, milk, sunscreen, toys, cell phone, camera, book to read in quiet moments (yeah, I know: ha ha; I said it was my first time). I get Abby dressed and we’re on our way.
I do not remember the stroller.
10:45 am
After a brief visit to the office, and a stop to do some banking, we arrive at Stanley Park. Abby is trying to fall asleep but the sunlight flickering through the trees as we drive through the park keeps waking her and she’s making pissed-off noises. Eventually, though, she nods off, so I drive past our turnoff and make another circuit of the park so she can sleep a bit.
11:05 am
One more circuit of the park.
11:20 am
Abby’s sleeping soundly, and I’m singing along to “Good Day Sunshine” on the radio. What the hell—one more lap around the park.
11:42 am
I pull into the parking lot by the miniature train and petting zoo, as Abby wakes up with that bleary-eyed “where the hell am I?” look.
I collect Abby, and the bag of sundries, and then pop the trunk to retrieve the stroller.
11:43 am
Now I remember the stroller.
11:45 am
I try to buy a parking ticket from the machine while a vacationing couple from California watches. I fumble through the process, juggling Abby and the bag of sundries and my wallet, while the woman narrates: Oh you can pay by credit card, Phil, I told you can pay by credit card…what a lovely baby we have three kids but we left them at home…try putting the card in the other way…that doesn’t seem to want to work does it?...yeah, maybe a different credit card will work our son is two now he’s at home with his grandma, just Phil and me on this trip it’s our anniversary wow that card doesn’t work either, huh? I think maybe something is wrong with that machine we’re from Fresno oh look she’s trying to take all your cards out of your wallet she’s so adorable…That must be hard for you to do with one hand, you should have brought a stroller I never go anywhere without a stroller…wow you sure have a lot of credit cards…doesn’t he have a lot of credit cards, Phil? I thought we had a lot of credit cards…That one won’t work either? No I don’t think that one will work either.
Finally, I step aside and let the woman try her luck. Predictably, the machine accepts her card on the first try and spits out a ticket.
Gee that was easy I guess it likes my card…Imagine that, Phil you just stick your card in and it gives you a ticket…
I would like to be able to say that I bludgeoned the woman to death with a rusty shovel and seized her ticket but the truth is I waited until she and Phil were gone and then meekly tried each of my cards again. Nothing. I trudge into the park to the train station ticket counter, carrying Abby (who has just learned several new words from her dad) and the bag of sundries, perspiration beading on my brow. I buy tickets to the train and zoo and garner change for parking.
“The machine wouldn’t accept my cards,” I say, a little too emphatically, to the young lady behind the glass. “None of them.” She signals her concern by snapping her gum and offering a Gallic shrug.
12:05 pm
Lunch time. I buy myself an ice cream and secure a picnic table near the concession stand. I unpack the bag of sundries, and settle down for a light lunch—just Abby and me…and a large belligerent peacock.
It begins innocently enough.
“Look, Abby. Look at the pretty peacock. Yes, it’s a peacock. Pea-cock. Look at the peacock, Abby. Isn’t he pretty? Let’s give Mr. Peacock a Cheerio, OK? OK. Look, he likes the Cheerio. He’s saying ‘Yum, I like Cheerios, I want more’ See? He’s coming over to…LOOK OUT, ABBY! GET AWAY, YOU LUNATIC BIRD! STOP IT! JUST GO AWAY! COVER YOUR HEAD, ABBY! GET… LOST… YOU… %^&ING… BIRD!”
I begin frantically pelting the peacock with Cheerios, and swiftly pack up while he’s distracted. I scoop Abby up and as we march past the peacock there is a loud ruffle and he fans out his tail feathers like he’s performing a card trick. Abby squeals with delight and I recoil and squeal with fear. I squirt the bird with my water bottle and run away toward the petting zoo.
12:27 pm
I have to pee. Which, under normal circumstances, is not something I give a great deal of thought to—but here I find myself standing at the entrance to the restroom with a daughter in one hand and a bag of sundries in the other. And no stroller. You see my problem now?
I won’t get into the details of how I performed this task, just in case the child welfare authorities catch on to me. Let’s just say that, with the right motivation, it is possible to wedge a small, curious child against a filthy wall with one leg while maintaining a (somewhat) steady posture and balancing a bag of sundries by strapping the handle across one’s forehead. If you don’t believe me, just ask the startled gent who walked in on us.
12:31 pm
The Stanley Park farmyard petting zoo is, I’m sorry to report, a rather tawdry and uninspiring affair. There are a couple of barns with caged birds and lizards—your basic pet store menagerie—but the only real petting to be done is in the open air pen where you first walk in.
This area is populated by a scattering of goats and lambs, most of whom are lounging languidly, with an air of bored distraction and sullen indifference, like Teamsters on a coffee break. Abby and I are the only visitors.
Secure in the knowledge that these beasts are in fact quite tame, I show Abby how to taunt them, and we throw Cheerios at the poor buggers and called them names and poke them and enjoy a few cruel laughs at their expense.
Then, suddenly, many of the goats spring to life, egged on perhaps by the Cheerios, and we find ourselves surrounded by prodding goat heads. At first Abby withdraws in a fit of shy giggles as the goats poke their snouts (or whatever it is goats have) into her belly. But I grab her hand and demonstrate how to pet the creatures, and she soon relaxes and starts to stroke their coarse fur. Then she strokes harder. Then she shrieks with delight and actually hauls off and bitch-slaps a goat across his little goat face. And then the game is on.
ABBY AND A GOAT
Abby is not yet walking without assistance, but she is nonetheless relentless in her pursuit and it is my duty to serve as her confederate and hold her up as she stomps about the compound slapping goats.
POINTING OUT HER NEXT VICTIM
This means I have to walk around with her, bent over in a fashion that one particular goat finds especially alluring, as he follows behind us and massages my buttocks with his horns in a very provocative, and oddly soothing, manner.
It is at this point, when Abby has moved on to slapping lambs and I have a goat rubbing my ass, that I catch a disapproving look from a petting zoo warden and decide that it’s time to move on.
1:02 pm
We board the miniature train in high spirits, emboldened by our encounter with the wildlife and ready for new adventures.
There are plenty of sights during the ride to capture the attention of a curious toddler—wild rabbits, tunnels, farmyards, lakes—none of which Abby pays the slightest attention to because she spends the entire time trying to remove the hat from the boy in front of her.
THE BOY WITH THE BEGUILING HAT
The more I try to restrain her, the more determined she becomes to seize the youngster’s hat, and before long we are engaged in a vigorous wrestling and whining spectacle that flatters neither of us.
Finally, as the train hisses to a stop in the station, Abby settles back in her seat, offers a winsome smile, and makes the “more” sign, indicating she wants to ride again.
I gather her up in my now weary arms and flee.
1:35 pm
We make another trip to the concession for a snack break. This time, though, we go to the one by Lumberman’s Arch, far away, I’m hoping, from predatory peacocks. I carry Abby on my shoulders to give my arms a rest (I have forgotten the stroller, you see) and she begins to rhythmically slap my head as if I were a goat.
I buy a fresh bottle of water and an oatmeal cookie the size of a small Frisbee, and we go to sit under a tree. I break off a small portion of the cookie and offer it to Abby, but she grabs the whole cookie and attempts to wedge it into her mouth.
ABBY AND THE EPIC COOKIE
I sit there in silent astonishment, as she systematically devours the cookie. It’s the most I have seen her eat in one sitting, and she seems remarkably adept and at ease, and so suddenly mature, munching away while staring off at the seagulls. My admiration is slightly tempered, however, when she takes the drinking straw for the water and inserts it in her ear.
MULTI-TASKING
2:07 pm
The playground area is abuzz with obstreperous children, a lively festival of running, swinging, climbing, sliding. Abby appraises the action with detached amusement. We try the slide and manage to get a few moments on a swing, but her favorite part of the playground is the shadow she’s casting, which has her utterly captivated.
CHASING SHADOWS
She thumps about in determined pursuit, then lunges at the ground to grab it, each time coming up with a fistful of gravel, which she hands over to me. I come to realize that she is trying to pick up her shadow in piecemeal fashion and she is entrusting me to safeguard her work in progress.
And so as the sun moves across the sky, we move with it, solemnly engrossed in our work, oblivious to the chaos around us. Hand in hand, heads bowed, we advance across the playground together, passing time and collecting shadows—one tiny handful at a time.
