This past Saturday, like the late, great Mr. Roger's used to say, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Bright sunny skies. In the fifties. It was the perfect afternoon to take the little Bean to the playground. And not just any playground. Brooke, Nana, and myself, strolled the munchkin over to the most kick-ass kiddieland in town—The new 15,000 square foot scrape-proof, amusement park of the future located in Union Square. Aside for some traditional swings, they had this helix-shaped Pulsar thing, tubular slides, and this silver dome—a mini-mountain—that kids were climbing all over to reach the top. Lots of kids. In all shapes and sizes. When we arrived at the scene of the nursery rhymes, it was toddler pandemonium. Stroller jams. Lines to get on tubular slides. And there was a father trying to drag his daughter out of the playground. "No, I don't wanna go! I don't wanna go!" she screamed.This curly red-haired girl was wrapping her arms around a marble frog. Good luck, dad. She wasn't going anywhere.
Apparently, it was a great day for every parent to take their Bean to the park. Fortunately, our Bean wasn't in the mood for any futuristic playground technology. She preferred to kick it old school. Real old school. Bean went straight for the sand pit. "Hey everybody, that's my daughter over there, the one dumping a bucket of sand on her head. Oh wait, she's eating a car now." She was having a blast. She hadn't a care in the world. And why should she? She wasn't the one who would have to get the sand out of her diaper when we got home.