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Jeff's Life
Archive
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... |
Riding High
by
Jeff Stimpson
The Victorian Gardens in Central Park is a cute amusement park for kids under five, with rides like Family Swinger, Circus Train, Red Baron, Crazy Trolley, and the Samba Balloon. This will be my first visit with both boys.
The sounds of fun echo through the trees; color flashes through the leaves. "Go on train!" says Ned, 2, lugging his red stuffed bull. I tried my 5-year-old Alex here a couple weeks ago, but he didn't want to go on anything.
Again today Alex hangs around the picnic tables and scarfs Cheese Doodles with grandma and our babysitter. Ned tosses Red Bully to me and bolts toward Circus Train. I load him into the locomotive, and he sits securely buckled as we chug off. I sit behind him and make sure he doesn't stick his head too far out on the curves.
Next is Red Baron. The attendant tells me to pull down on the lever to make the two-seater plane on the ride go up. Ned and I rise and start circling against a wild blue wonder cut by the tops of skyscrapers. I take us high as I can, and spy my wife Jill down on the ground. I snap her a salute. Ned jabs the machine-gun button.
I want to try Family Swinger, where we'd sit in a seat hung by chains and go up and up, and get spun around and get sick. Ned fits in the seat, but I soon see I haven't had a hope of fitting into this seat since ninth grade. I haul out Ned and find Jill, who says: "About you and Ned going up in that thing: Are you insane?" I say I thought it'd be fun. "It'd be 'fun' to see your 2-year-old go flying off into the trees?" she says. What's the problem? I'd go find him in the bushes.
On Samba Balloon, we sit in a round booth that rises on a pole, and a wheel in the middle of the booth lets us spin the whole ride. I'm heaving us into a fast twirl before I recall that I had pizza for lunch. After a few twirls, Ned's smile freezes and he looks down. He's got my stomach, I think.
He recovers to hit The Trolley, a lively ride: The turns are sharp, and jam Ned's solid little weight against my side. "Hang on, Ned!" He copies the other kids by letting go of the safety bar. His arms shoot up and pierce the bright setting sun. "Ned, put your hands down!"
Over by the picnic tables, I see Alex is out of Cheese Doodles, our babysitter out of gas. "We have to go, Ned," I say, and here Ned introduces his own little ride: The Meltdown. He casts himself to the ground, wails, and lunges toward Samba with the desperation of one who's tasted the freedom of a wild twirl. I try to put him on my shoulders. He tries to kick my head off. I almost forget Red Bully.
"We have to go, Ned!" I slip him off my shoulders and reach for his hand as we head out of the gate. He squirms away. He will leave this fun behind on his own two feet.
Copyright 2003 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
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