My daughter whupped me good today. I'm going to need a spatula to get out of bed tomorrow morning, and it's all her fault.
Zoë was up at 8 this morning, and ready to take on the world…while I, on the other hand, had been up until past 1 am working on feeding the beast its weekend rations.
So, we creaked into the day, and after a late breakfast it was determined that, in order to give Paula a bit of time to get ahead of her classwork, I was going to take Zoë to the pool for a couple of hours.
This, we did; of course, when I take Zoë to the pool, she doesn't need any pool toys, because I am the primary source of entertainment. It's “do that thing you did last time” time…sweeping her through the water backwards, her legs and body making a wake. It's “toss me in the air, Daddy” time. It's let-Zoë-ride-on-my-belly-while-I-crabwalk time. It's lift-Zoë-out-of-the-water-on-my-feet-while-sitting-on-the-bottom-of-the-kiddie-pool time.
Eventually, Zoë wanted a snack, and then she wanted to wash the entire side of the kiddie pool with a duck-shaped sponge she found. But soon it was time to go home, since we were going to go to Artscape.
So, it was back to the house to grind out a few household chores that had been left undone, and then change and head over to pick up Zoë's godmother Jesse, then to the light rail stop to wait for the train downtown. And wait. And wait. Apparently, MTA, despite plenty of advance warning, hadn't really prepared itself for the additional traffic for Artscape (which is located right on the light rail line, and has no arrangements for parking to speak of).
Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, the train arrived, filled to capacity. We squeezed on. And soon, we were there, and Z was on my shoulders. As The Mayor and his exercise in musical megalomania were playing, she demanded that we dance. And then back on the shoulders. And down. And up. And so on.
We decided to forego the forced march back to the other [designated white-boy] stage where the Violent Femmes were playing (and let's not even get into the irony of the Mayor's band opening for the Violent Femmes). Besides, all the real energy seemed to be down where Wyclef Jean was playing. We looked at book stands, sat for a little while, and then grabbed Princess Z the pretzel she desired. Then, as the sun set, we headed for the light rail stop.
All that Zoë-lifting and Zoë=spinning and Zoë-dancing has seriously whupped my ass. And she kept going hard, until we dropped Jesse off; on the ride home, she fell asleep in the car. Which, of course, meant I got to carry her again.