I went on a park crawl for my 34th birthday. No, you didn’t read that wrong. It was, in fact, a park crawl.
A park crawl is a term we use when my children and I troll our city for parks we have not yet visited. I play the chauffeur to these two small humans, and they the wealthy elitists who scream nonsensical demands at me when engaging in our make-believe tête-à-tête.
I asked the kids what they wanted to do for my birthday, and they enthusiastically yelled, “Park Crawl,” in unison. Was it irresponsible of me to adamantly tell my small children they must call it a park crawl because, in some messed up way, it makes it seem more fun when the name shares a close resemblance to the more rebellious activity of “pub crawling?” Perhaps.
“Well, hello, Mr. and Miss. How are we today?” I said in a terrible British accent as the kids got in the car. I tipped an imaginary hat and tried to throw them off by picking my nose. Then I thought better of it and attempted to reach into the back seat to pick theirs.
“TO THE PARK RATTRAY!” They barked in response while flicking away my hand as though it were a bothersome fly. I don’t know why they named my character Rattray. All I know is that I liked it immediately.
As we drove to the park, they captivated me with awkward conversation. They found it funny when I answered their stupid questions with full, unabashed fury.
“What’s your last name, Rattray?” They began snickering, “is it,” gales of laughter sprung forth from the car, “is it POOPHEAD?”
“No, it’s not poophead, you infernal fools,” I yelled in Rattray’s accent — the one that kept somehow skipping from a British to Scottish (both horribly formulated) interchangeably. “My last name is, well, it is,” my mind was blank. Why couldn’t I come up with something? How difficult is a surname? Think Rattray. Think!
“Ah-ha!” I shouted, “My last name is Roundabout,” I proudly announced as we travelled the smooth circumference of a roundabout.
“Now, get out of my car and go to your secret laboratory or whatever this place is,” I exclaimed as we pulled up to the park.
They hopped out and frolicked to the park while yelling over their shoulder, “Thanks for the ride, Rattray! Make sure to feed the alligators in the back seat while we’re gone!”
Our antics did not amuse the surrounding parents at the park. I didn’t care because the next fifteen minutes were mine to bask in the solitude of a quiet, empty and slightly smelly car. I suppose I could have gotten out into the frigid winter scene and continued with our play outside, but my children are realists, and they are aware of the point at which I draw the line.
I’m all for playing pretend and putting on an imaginary suit and cap and chauffeuring them around the city on my birthday to satisfy their need for adventure and make-believe. But ask me to go outside where it’s all peopley and cold? I have to put my foot down.
Instead, I listened to my David Sedaris audio-books and wondered if I would ever be able to write with such hilarity and ease.
Ten minutes later, the kids hopped back into the car. They were frantic. Cheeks ablaze with splotchy red colour from the chilled air.
“Hit the gas Ratty,” they panted, “we’ve got more important experiments to do at home-base!”
And with that, we glided homeward. Talking nonsense, yelling sentences that I’m glad no other human could hear and laughing all the way.
I can’t remember ever having a better birthday. And that, my friends, is why you all should try park crawling at least once in your life.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
If you believe in the work we are doing here at The Good Men Project and want a deeper connection with our community, please join us as a Premium Member today.
Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS. Need more info?
A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash