There Might Be Doggies

Boo Boo loves dogs, sand, slides and swings. The sand poses the biggest problem. He had been wanting to explore the sandbox at the park for a long time, standing at the outskirts and staring longingly at it. I had been using diversions to prevent him from entering it. But wouldn’t you rather go down the slide? Let’s go on the swings instead!

It has been raining for the past month and a half, and before that it was cold. Even after the sky had finally wrung itself out the pit took days to dry up. Good days with dry sand are still messy. We inevitably end up taking Boo Boo’s socks and shoes off. His shoes are velcro. Sand gets into the velcro, rendering it useless, and any time Boo Boo sees socks on his feet he wants to take them off. So I just hasten the process and take everything off for him. And then I hope that none of the other barefoot kids have foot and mouth disease or scabies, and then I have to remind myself that I spent half my time barefoot in the sand when I was a kid and what am I worrying about. I guess it’s that I’m in Brooklyn and there’s ten times more bare feet per square foot at our park.

Anyway, the biggest issue I have with Boo Boo being in the sand box is that I have to get him out of it eventually. Sometimes if there’s not enough shovels to take from strangers, or lost toy cars to excavate, or if I won’t let him grab empty bottles of Nestea, Boo Boo loses interest and will emerge from the sand pit on his own volition–usually to meander to the slide before he patrols other areas of the playground.

Currently I have a formula for getting him out of the sandbox, slipping him into his carrier and heading home if he seems set on a long-term occupation. A long-term occupation is eminent when his head is bent in concentration and his neck his buried under his jowls and chin. His back is straight and he’s sifting sand through his fingers, feeling it flow from his hands and cascade down his belly and onto his legs. He is meditating; the sandbox is his zen garden and he might be at this for a while.

I hate to rupture his reverie, but dinner is calling, and so is bedtime. I’m not afraid of temper tantrums and I could just whisk him out of the sandbox but I don’t think he’d learn anything from that except that Mommy ruins all the fun. I want him to know that leaving the park doesn’t have to be horrible. So of course I start with a bribe.

“Boo Boo, wanna go on the swings?”

He doesn’t say one way or another, which is the only way for me to know that he’s at least okay with leaving the sand pit in a “couple minutes” so he can go on the swings.

When we get to the swings, Boo Boo has a good view of the dancing senior citizens. At Sunset Park there are countless dance groups that meet up at the park. They are almost exclusively Chinese, and almost always the over 65 set. Each group has its own boombox (again, it’s the over 65 set) blasting Chinese folk music, or what I interpret to be Chinese Folk music because I really have no clue. Each group has its own choreographed dance moves, and sometimes even their own uniforms. One group wears exclusively red dresses, another group wears floral scarves. Boo Boo loves watching them. He points and turns to me with a smile. Then he pumps his fists in the air, just like the older women in a nearby dance group.

“Yes, they’re dancing! Good dance moves.”

I play peek-a-boo and Boo Boo claps. Them I tell him that I’ll give him ten more pushes, and then we can go and see if we can find any dogs.

“I bet the’re some doggies, woof, woof.”

“Woof, woof,” said Boo Boo.

“We’ll go find the doggies after ten pushes!”

After the last push I wait for the swing to a complete stop before I take Boo Boo out, because not even he wants to hang out in a swing that’s not moving. He’s ready to find some doggies, woof woof.

We walk down the hill towards Fifth Avenue. I can see him scanning the grassy slope of the park, hoping for a dog sighting. Usually at least one doggy sighting happens between the playground and the edge of the park. Even if we don’t see dogs Boo Boo probably forgot about the playground and what he wanted to do there. He’s just moved on to other things, like running down the hill and into the sunset and petting the grass.

If he has a ball with him, pricker balls are some of his favorites, he’ll pick it up and throw it in the direction we’re walking. He’ll trot to the ball, pick it up and then launch it again. His throws don’t go far, but they do go forward.

Yesterday there was a man sleeping in the grass. Boo Boo threw the ball in his direction, walked towards it, and stopped to regard the man. Then he picked up the ball and continued to stare at the man. He had a baseball hat over his face, a clean shirt, clean jeans, and shoes that were not busted.

Boo Boo accepted that he was probably not going to get any smiles from this guy, so he went on his way. Our progress down the slope was slow. We were not in so much of a hurry that I could not let him indulge in some time to poke the dirt with a stick, or feel the raindrops that cling to the clover leaves.

We found many clovers, but no dogs. We did see a magic cat, though. There’s an area couple that brings their white cat to the park with them. They always lounge on a blanket and their cat usually stays curled up on the blanket or hides in its portable cat carrier. Usually it sees Boo Boo before he sees it, and it slinks into its carrier cave.

Boo Boo pointed to the cat. “Woof, woof!”

“Yeah, that’s a kitty, meow, meow.”

Boo Boo ambled closer to the cat. I grabbed his hand and crouched. There were five feet between Boo Boo and the cat, but cats always seem to find the wingspan to claw at someone’s face when they feel like it, not matter how far away they are.

The cat owners noticed Boo Boo now, and that their cat seemed to have a mild interest in this tiny, loud, clumsy human. The young man held onto the cat’s collar and I held onto Boo Boo’s arm.

“Kitty might need some space,” I told him.

“Wow I booboo. Woof,” said Boo Boo as he pointed to the cat. “Woof, woof.”

The cat owners laughed.

“You have to give the kitty a nice touch.” If kitty wanted to be touched at all.

“Nigh nigh.”

The cat crouched and sniffed in Boo Boo’s general direction. The cat’s eyes flashed like marquees in the light of the setting sun. One eye was sapphire and the other emerald.

“Gorgeous cat,” I told the couple.

“Cute baby,” they said, with a smile. The smiled with their mouths, but I couldn’t tell if they were also smiling with their eyes because they were blocking them from the sun with their hands.

“Nigh nigh,” Boo Boo said louder as he reached for the cat’s face to give it a nice touch. I could tell the cat was thinking of committing to this bonding moment, but nine lives with a varied success rate of safe interaction with toddlers taught this sage feline that this was not going to work out in its favor it allowed itself to be touched by Boo Boo. The closer Boo Boo’s hands got, the more doubtful it became, and quickly retreated into its cave.

The cat’s retreat allowed Boo Boo to save face, too. He is often very excited about seeing cats and dogs, but more hesitant to touch them. A good instinct, I think. When you are one, all the cats and dogs are big enough to seem at least lion-sized, big enough for a stroll through the park to seem like a safari. It is exciting and tiring.

“Okay, let’s go,” I told him. “Maybe we’ll find some doggies tomorrow.”

“Woof, woof,” said Boo Boo. I picked him up and put him in the carrier. He laid his head on my chest and we headed home.