In January, I waltzed up to the recreation facility and reserved a park shelter for a May birthday party. Flat fee, open space, solid playground equipment. I wanted it easy.
The day came.
I went to Costco – picked up my reserved cupcakes, pizzas and bag of ice in one fell swoop. Dazzling efficiency.
Kids and parents arrived. One such child arrived, without her parents or older sibling. Her grandmother left her under my watch while she drove back to tend to the girl’s sick mother. Not ideal, but the adults could manage this collectively.
This girl and my girl were among the youngest at this party. I asked my wife to keep an eye on her while I set up food.
My daughter pestered me about joining the big kids at the other side of the pond. The other girl wanted to go, too.
I wanted it easy.
I started them on the pond loop anyway.
Hooked
The first half of the loop gave the girls a generous view of the water and no obstacles. This would be the end of “easy.”
We arrived at the first group of children, who inexplicably had a fishing rod. My son ran off before Big Bad Dad arrived.
“Birthday Boy (my son) was using bad words again,” one of the children told me.
I turned to the most trustworthy of the bunch.
“Is this true?”
“Oh yeah, he did.”
My kid, of all people.
The kids were fiddling with the fishing pole in a way that seemed like they knew what they were doing. I pressed on with the girls.
The girls ran ahead to join another group of kids by a bridge.
As I tried to catch up with them, I hear screaming and crying from the fishing group. Mr. Trustworthy got hooked in the leg. They did not, in fact, know what they were doing.
The hook came out on it’s own, woof. I calmed him down, said some cautionary words, and hoped childhood resilience would sort it out.
His father was on the other side of the pond. As were the other adults.
Beheaded
I caught up to the girls, who were fascinated by this next group of kids – ankle deep in mud catching millimeter-sized fish. All the children wanted to go into the mud, but of course I pooh-poohed this idea for the little ones.
We carry on a few feet until one of the children found a little black and white snake. It was moving. It had no head.
This, objectively is kind of gnarly. It attracted many passersby and I was happy to just let the kids mess around with that. Then a child THREW THE SNAKE IN THE POND.
A younger sibling, left to the care of his aunt and uncle before this party began, jumped in with his Crocs to get it. I think of the kid as a defiant Steve Irwin.
As I was the only adult in a 200-foot radius, I was now his unappointed guardian and advised him to get out of the water.
Dear reader, I wanted it easy. I wanted to pause and take it all in. Instead, I chose “helicopter parent.”
“Kids, omg, just look out at the water.”
“Let’s not throw the snake at people.”
“Share. Share. Share.”
“Lookit the cute turtle sunbathing.”
“No, we aren’t going on the stepping stones to see the serpent statue.”
Saved
I was mercifully saved by another reptile.
In a corner noticeably absent from any and all local Parks and Recreation advertising, most of the kids spent the rest of the time trying to adopt a turtle. It was floating on a log in the middle of an algae-ridden creek. Steve Irwin, Jr. almost lost a Croc in a mud vacuum trying to grab it the ol’ fashioned way.
And elderly couple walked by and stopped to watch these innocent youths.
“If it were me,” the wistful old man said, “I’d have mud up to my neck trying to catch that thing. Might have come out with some leeches.”
Close enough to the shelter, I decided to walk back to where the parents were mingling.
Mr. Birthday Boy ran up in his oversized $1 backwards cap, finally separated from the group. I confronted him about his potty word usage.
“Ugh, why did they have to tell?!”
He took a swig of water then ran off back to the creek.
Nearly 40 minutes had elapsed. I sat down, my Vans feeling a little weightier than normal.
I wanted it easy.
My wife, my mother and my in-laws were among the mighty few who endured the shaded benches during this ordeal.
“Why do you always look so stressed?” was the first thing my mom said to me.
