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Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
JEFF'S LIFE
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Monthly Column... |
Happy Father's Day: The Kindness of Strangers
© 2002
by
Jeff Stimpson
The other day I took the boys to the playground while Jill took a few well-deserved hours off.
She actually trailed after us for a few of her precious free hours, helping corral the boys in the Central Park flower garden when I set them free from the stroller for a romp. At one point, she had to dash after Alex before he reached the dry fountain and its potential plunge onto dry concrete. She came back with one of those looks. She worries too much, I thought.
At last she disappeared to meet a friend, leaving behind two boys -- tugging at their seat straps like idling speedboats tugging at docking lines -- along with one confident dad in the traffic of New York. A dangerous combination, especially when we got to the playground and dad (me) unclipped the runner (Alex) from the stroller first.
I don't know who built this brand of umbrella double-stroller with the little loop on the center belt that always catches on the latch thing and traps the leg of the little squirmy boy (Ned) nine times out of ten, but whoever it was I wish he'd been there to grab Alex, who became a blur headed in the direction of busy Lexington Avenue.
Ned's foot never looked at big as it did that moment. Ensnared in the seat straps as the stroller tipped backwards under the weight of our bags of crap. An instant before, Ned had been enjoying a view of the swings; suddenly he was face to the sky, his bottle on the pavement, his big brother free and gone, and his foot going numb in the loop of the strap while dad fumbled and fumbled.
My fingers never felt fatter as I tugged at the loop. The thing just wouldn't come undone. The seconds dragged yet flew. Look up: no sign of Alex. Was that the squeal of brakes? The subway's over there. Maybe Alex had squirreled away a MetroCard. Dad-sweat did nothing to loosen the strap.
"Need a hand?"
Two men, really big men, plainclothes cops, probably. No doubt they'd shoot me when this was over, for the boys' safety. "Yes please," I think I said. "My other boy just took off-"
Their hands appeared over Ned's foot and without a thought I left my second son to the care of two really big strangers and bolted after Alex. There he was, blocked a few feet from the street by an enormous woman who had him by the arm. "Thank you. Thank you. I'm sorry," I panted. She didn't reply. I think she thought I should spank Alex. Instead I dragged him back to where the would-be cops had righted Ned, who was probably thinking, Now these guys are dads!
Okay. So I got some water and we all settled down, Alex in the swings while a boy next to him twisted the other swing seat around and around in a knot, and Ned was left to grope through a chain-link fence for yet another stranger's red ball, which he couldn't reach.
"He can borrow it," said one of the strangers, another big woman. "Thank you. Thank you," I said. I tried to amuse Ned by tossing the ball to and fro in a fun-filled yet rigidly confined 9-square-foot patch of playground, while Alex gradually lost momentum in the swing.
"Is he playing soccer?" the boy twisting the swing seat asked. "Can I play?" The boy looked about 12. His sneakers were bigger than Ned. I mumbled something. Watching two is hard enough, let alone protecting them in this urban jungle. The boy moved off. I took Alex out of the swing and herded him and Ned toward the slide.
It was a nice day, a little humid. Hint of the summer weather to come, but there was a breeze. The woman with the ball watched me and I thanked her again. Ned decided to climb to the top of the wood-and-steel slide thing and stand, inches from my grasp, with his toes over the edge of a three-foot drop. Another parent's arm came up, and I thanked it. Then, because responsibility for the boys on this afternoon was all mine, I caught my breath, gathered my wits, and let Alex get away from me again.
"Alex! Alex!" I sprinted. He didn't get as far this time. The boy from the swings stood in front of him, his hand gently holding Alex's. Alex looked puzzled. "Thank you. Thank you," I told the boy, who put his hand on Alex's back and guided him back toward our stroller.
Which, I decided, it was time for the boys to occupy once more. I strapped Alex in first -- fool me twice ... -- then Ned, and caught the eye of the woman with the red ball. "You're doing a very good job," she said to me. "Happy Father's Day!"
The boys walked beside the stroller on the way home. One at a time.
Copyright 2001 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
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