Andy’s favorite playground is next to Spy Pond off of the Minuteman Bike Path, where Mr. P and I used to run and bike on nice spring evenings after work. Now, we are discovering this whole new world on the playground. Andy cryptically calls it “funglasses” or something that sounds similar, which confused me because “sunglasses” is a very solid word in his limited English vocabulary. The playground is adjacent to the launching point for many young crew teams, and Andy enjoys watching the teenagers hoist the shells above their heads when practice is over. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with “funglasses,” but it’s impossible really to know what goes in that beautiful little head sometimes.
He is beginning to get the rhythm of the playground; when he encounters another child, he steadily returns their gaze and either yields to their progression or asserts his own. He was rocking the slide today, racing again and again to get to the top before another little boy (younger but not that much smaller) could.
And the ice cream truck came, of course. Andy looks up, staring at the truck with the hokey-jokey jingling, staring at all the other children as they perk up and start bothering their parents, staring at me with a questioning look.
“Music!” I say, using one of our few common words to comment on the ridiculous sounds inexplicably filling the air. I shrug, as if this is a commonplace occurrence in America: large white trucks just suddenly appearing to serenade crowds of children. Just for the hell of it.
“Music machina?” Andy asked, his eyes growing wide.
“Music machina,” I agreed. Yes, sweetheart, it’ s a musical truck, with absolutely nothing special or sugar-filled about it.
Riding Home from the Playground with Daddy
