A Fair To Remember

Friday, August 21:

This misty evening Bernadette and I are wandering the 4-H fairgrounds with Penelope strapped in a carrier on my back. Two people love this backpack: Penelope and my chiropractor. As we walk, Penelope slurps on an ice cream cone, struggling to eat it. I’m in my forties and still face the same dilemma. She nibbles off the bottom of the cone. Ice cream drips down the back of my neck; yellow and orange sprinkles form the constellation Tucana in my (mostly) black hair.

I’m not the neatest of eaters, but ice cream down my back is a new sensation. One of the advantages of now having a toddler is when I push away from the dinner table I’m not the only one with food in my hair. So, as you can imagine, teaching a child how to eat properly isn’t my strongest suit. I tend to believe that wearing jeans is like wearing a giant napkin. I don’t own a shirt without a tiny brown smudge from a morning incident involving coffee and my automobile. In one particularly egregious example, I was eating cottage cheese at work when I started coughing. For some unfathomable reason, as cottage cheese sputtered from my mouth, I spun my head around and did an impersonation of a lawn sprinkler.

We started this evening at the fair by heading immediately to the pens holding cattle, sheep and goats, which naturally makes our little carnivore hungry. Our next stop, therefore, is the food lane, where we load up on corn dogs, cheese fries, a gyro, a sausage and peppers sandwich the size of a wiffle ball bat, and lemonade. (Official disclaimer as demanded by the Mrs.: We don’t usually eat this way for dinner every night, but we were at the 4-H fair and thought it’d be appropriate.) We’re hoping this is enough food for us all, but Penelope is a bottomless pit. I was pleased to hear China declare a few days ago that its food shortage had ended.

So, we find a picnic bench near the bandstand where “Beatlemania Again” — the name just cracks me up every time I think about it — breaks into a rousing septuagenarian version of “She Loves You.” Here’s how the meal proceeds: Penelope takes a bite of a corn dog, gets 60 percent in her mouth, 10 percent on the picnic table and 30 percent hits the ground. I bite into the sandwich. Peppers and sauce squirt onto my jeans. Penelope tries to eat a piece of hot dog that’s fallen onto the table, and I knock over the lemonade trying to stop her. Penelope bites into a French fry and cheese winds up in her hair. It’s my turn; now there’s cheese on my chin.

Bern looks baffled. “Really? This is the example you’re setting for our daughter?”

I adopt a dopey sheepish look on my face — the same one I’ve been using regularly for the past 18 years. I do what any mature adult would, blame the kid: “She keeps bouncing around on my lap. It’s like eating during an earthquake.”

Bern spots a slathering of thick processed cheese sludge on my elbow and frowns. “You don’t need a bib. You need a tarp.” We finish “eating” and I carry Penelope over to an outdoor Porta-John sink so we can bathe. We splash around in the water to “Twist and Shout” before I slide Penelope into the carrier and hoist her onto my back. Ten minutes later, she’s hungry again, so we’re standing on line for ice cream.

As we wait, I watch a gaggle of teenage girls pass by in shorts and canvas Chucks. I know someday, when Penelope’s a teen, she’ll come here with her friends, and I’ll be sitting at home with Bern, who will no doubt have a mildly amused look on her face because there will be pizza sauce in my ear.

Penelope yanks her pink baseball cap off her head and drops it on mine, giggling all the while. My back is barking from carrying her around all evening. I don’t mind a bit.

After darkness slides across the skyline the fireworks show begins. Bern, Penelope and I head to the car, open the hatch and climb into the back to watch. The fireworks boom beyond the treeline. Penelope nestles between us, and I notice she’s touching us both.

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