This past weekend I took my favorite eight-year-old ice skating at Wollman Rink in Central Park, an establishment owned by everyone’s favorite stable genius. It was an overcast day, warm for December, and we were excited to take some laps around the ole pond (along with, apparently, everyone else in the tristate area… woof). Wyatt, upon noticing the Trump logo emblazoned on every sign/window/employee coat/hot chocolate, looked up at me – eyes filled with disappointment and righteous indignation – and asked if we should leave. No, buddy, we’re skating, it’s fine!
He continued this Trumpian talk track with little volume control and soon the entire line was listening in on Wyatt’s impromptu soliloquy about our commander in chief. Does he know that people think his hair looks bad? I wonder if his son likes watching youtube videos?? Is he mean to people? Is he mean to kids? Does he have a lot of money? He must have been the one to make us only pay in cash here. Doesn’t he have enough cash? He was clearly conflicted.
Nonetheless, skating proved a worthy distraction and as he whizzed around the ice the Donald line of questioning was replaced by declarations of euphoria on the topic of falling. Isn’t it the BEST? No. Why don’t you like falling? Because I don’t bounce like you do. I LOVE FALLLING. Laughing, I mentally waved goodbye to the limber days of youth when falling didn’t mean body-wide intergalactic shutdown.
An hour later we found ourselves rink-side waiting for the Zamboni to do the lords work. I’m thirsty. Should we get a Dr. Pepper? YES, DR. PEPPER IS THE BEST. As an aside, I guess when you’re eight everything is THE BEST. Must be wild. Unfortunately, waiting in line for our carbonated sugar water brought us, yet again, face to face with 4383984 Trump signs and I knew Wyatt had more questions. Mercifully, it seemed he agreed we had exhausted the subject earlier and it looked like I was in the clear. Where’s my straw? We don’t provide straws anymore, sorry buddy. Wyatt was floored. With his brow in a deep furrow, I could see him working through the implications of this straw revelation. Walking back to the rink he reached out to take my hand and then suddenly stopped and through a big toothy smile, as if he had just discovered electricity, said – Brynn! maybe he’s not a bad guy after all! Wyatt pointed to the top of his cup, clearly relieved and elated at the discovery. He must think Sea Turtles are THE BEST too!
I thought about how to respond. Sometimes talking with little humans is funny, often their comments are so introspective it takes my breath away. I looked around at the kids and families enjoying themselves, screams and laughter drowning out the Christmas carols playing in the background. You’re right, bud! Maybe he’s a better guy than we think, I lied. His hopefulness made me smile, and I couldn’t help feeling jealous again. Someday, armed with age and experience, that hopeful lens – the one that Wyatt uses to categorize everything as either THE BEST or whatever the opposite of the best is – will scratch and blur. Things won’t be so black and white. But, last Saturday, being with my favorite little buddy, they were.
Rink’s open! Brynn, isn’t this THE BEST? Before I could answer the lid of his Dr. Pepper popped off causing a cascade of events I, and the 8-10 other people in our vicinity, witnessed in slow motion. Lid pop, fist closed, cup flattened, ice/Dr. Pepper shot up, ice/Dr. Pepper came back down. And yes, skating in wet jeans is THE BEST.
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