Cindy

Droog

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June 23, 2008

New Orleans at the Zoo: A Two-Year-Old’s Cultural Revolution

Before my husband and I had children, we’d trek down to Louisiana the first weekend in May, every year, to attend the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. We’d eat crawfish cheese bread, drench our hats in ice water before putting them back on in the sweltering heat, and of course, listen to the likes of the Neville Brothers, Wynton Marsalis and other jazz and Zydeco greats.

It’s been three years and I’ve missed it terribly, so last Monday, I decided to take my two-year-old to Jazz at the Zoo in our mid-sized Michigan town. I know, I know. But it was the best I could do.

I figured it had been awhile since we’d done anything cultural, and I’m not so sure he appreciated the sculpture tour at the art museum a few months back, aside from it being so soothing that he fell asleep.

I should have known that any show that starts promptly at 6 p.m. is not one for working moms to attend. But I was determined. So, I got home from work, got him changed, quickly packed the blanket, picnic basket, diaper bag, Snack Trap, backpack of matchbox cars, stroller and purse.

We arrived at 6:20 (hey, not bad!) and as soon as we showed up, we drew attention. It could have been my bag-lady-like appearance, but I chalked it up to how cute my son is. Especially when I asked him to dance, and he obliged.

Before I knew it, dancing turned into screaming – even louder than the speakers: “I pooped! I pooped!”

Adoring smiles turned to looks of horror as I realized I couldn’t exactly change a diaper in a port-a-john and proceeded to do it right there on our blanket. I kept telling myself, “They’ll get over it. He will return to irresistibly cute in no time.”

Instead, he announced to all those in earshot, “I’m hungry.” Not a problem. Remember earlier, I’d said I packed the Snack Trap and picnic basket?

What I failed to do was remember to put those necessities in my trunk. I could picture them, sitting on the kitchen counter, and the knowing smirk on my husband’s face when he got home and saw them there.

We walked to the concession stand, and each time I took a bite of my hot dog, I closed my eyes and pretended it was really a spicy bowl of Cajun gumbo.

Just when I thought we might be able to sit and enjoy the music, my son had other plans. He decided it was time to sing “Happy Birthday to Me,” at the top of his lungs. Did I say “sing?” I meant scream. It’s his favorite song, after all, so I couldn’t blame him. All I could do was laugh and join in.

I finally came to the realization that we were nothing but a giant annoyance to those around us, and so we left and went to the park instead.

In the 30 minutes we were there, I couldn’t tell you if I’d heard any Louis Armstrong or Irma Thomas songs, and I know my lemonade was no mint julep, either.

I do know that when you’re little, a spiral slide and sandcastles are superior to saxophones, and that the teeter totter is more terrific than the trumpet. We may not have a future Harry Connick, Jr. on our hands, but we’ve got a pooping, hungry, healthy, happy two-year-old.

And next Monday, we’re simply going to Grandpa’s. 

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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