Parade

“Is this a frick street too, Daddy?” my son asked as I turned the wrong way on the one-way street.

He was very proud of his new word. The morning had started with me asking my wife, at 10:20, “Are you taking him to the parade?”

He'd just started cub scouts and the troop was marching in the holiday parade. He was supposed to be at the staging area at 10:30. Naturally, I assumed she was taking him since I'd carried both of our little sumo wrestlers on my shoulders the prior night. We'd gone to Pittsburgh's light up celebration. Both kids lost steam and we only had the one stroller. So they took turns on my shoulders. (Unfortunately, my wife nixed the logical idea of me sitting in the stroller with them on my shoulders and her pushing.) By the time we got the car, I was a good two inches shorter than when I'd started the morning.

Her answer that she thought I was taking him was a little unexpected. So we rushed and made it out the door and headed to the holiday parade. We were meeting the rest of the pack at the YMCA. My wife gave me detailed directions on how to get there.

For someone that told our son, as we were walking back to the car after the parade, “I used to march in three parades every Memorial Day.” (I'm sure it was through three feet of snow, uphill both ways and in no shoes from her world-weary tone), you'd think her directions would not include using the parade route to get to the staging area.

I even called her on the cell phone and asked how the den leader suggested getting there. “Trust me, turn right on Main Street. The Y is at the top of the hill. You can't miss it.”

My trust level dropped dramatically as the police officer kept waving me to go straight at Main Street. Obviously, he hadn't marched in three parades every Memorial Day and didn't understand I was getting directions from an expert.

“What time is the next parade, Daddy?” My son asked from the back seat.

“There's only one parade today, Buddy. It starts at noon.”

“But, Daddy, will there be one next November?”

“Yes, there's one every year. Why?”

“I guess I'll march in that one.” (My son's confidence in my navigation skills filled me with warmth.)

All I had to do was figure out how to make it a half mile to the right and we were set. Fifteen minutes later, I knew we were getting closer. (We'd driven close to four miles, we had to be closer.)

That's when “frick” was introduced into my son's vocabulary. We did a quick u turn to get going in the correct direction and backtracked.

“I bet you think this is a frick road too, don't you, Daddy?”

“Yes, Buddy,” I lied. It was actually one consonant shorter and different vowel road because we heading away from the route. But it did get us to the other end of the parade route. This police officer had obviously marched in three parades every Memorial Day. He pointed down the street, behind the barricade. There was my destination. I couldn't drive down there, but could drop my son off here while I parked...

After hiking through a few counties to the get to the staging area, we met the rest of the pack. As soon as we got there, my son conserved his energy by racing off with the rest of the scouts in a game of cops and robbers. After forty-five minutes of restful scampering and playing, they were ready to march.

I moved down along the parade route. This being his first parade, I was looking forward to seeing him march by with the rest of his troop. The homecoming queens from the different counties drove by, followed by the marching bands, the politicians and volunteer fire departments. I was impressed at how well they they kept the formation.

Then a parent in our group announced they were coming. Sure enough, the Webelos came by with the flags, marching in step. All the scouts had bags of candy they “tossed” to the bystanders. Our place along the route was maybe 20 feet down from the official starts. I know because the candy throwing from the politicians started right before us. Our cub scouts were marching in perfect rhythm. The only problem was each had their own rhythm...

By the time he got to our group, my son's bag was empty. (I later found his complex calculations of distributing candy was one handful thrown out, one went in his pocket...)

At the end of the parade, where all the scouts were collected by proud parents, I realized that geometrically, parades are linear. And linearly, my car was not only at the wrong end, but so far past the wrong end, it probably started another parade. And we had to walk back. Frick.

Princess

I know what you're wondering; what does a chic four-year old wear for a night out trick or treating?

A princess dress with a hoop skirt and two pairs of sweat pants. Granted, the two pairs of sweat pants do not technically fall within the accepted Princess Biona, wardrobe. (After the Fire truck incident of last year, switching the B for an F was a relief. (To relive that Halloween, check out the Fire Truck article.)) My daughter did her best to explain to the evil non-step mother that "Princess don't wear pants." While the argument was cogent and accurate and convinced me, it had no effect on my wife.

You may be thinking this was a one time blatant disregard of logic. But my daughter has a history of Halloween persecution and disappointment. Even though she was healthy and active when she was born, my wife, and the entire medical establishment conspired to ruin her first Halloween. They hid behind the feeble excuse that she was only a day old. Luckily, her brother had her best interests in mind. He made a point to tell each house we visited, "I'm trick or treating for my sister too." He wisely left off, "give me more candy."

So, her first Halloween was ruined. Her next chance came, strangely enough, a year after she was born. This year, there was no logical reason for her mother to ruin another Day of Candy. Her brother was going as Spiderman and she picked Clifford. Well, her mother picked Clifford, mainly because it was the costume her brother wore the year before. It was at least three sizes too big and allowed a snowsuit, boots, hat and mittens to fit under the costume.

Aside from having her costume perverted into a round cherry instead of a popular product line, you might be wondering how her mother ruined this Halloween? The Clifford costume was a hand-me-down. While it didn't ruin her Halloween right then, I'm sure when she's old enough to read this, it will retroactively. I know this because of tennis shoes. This summer, she'd grown out of her sneakers, so I grabbed an old pair of her brother's and told her they might fit. "No! Too big!" she jerked her feet away and wouldn't let me see if they fit. Instead of forcing the issue, I tried another pair of his old shoes that were the exact same size and this time, announced that they were brand new, never been worn... EVER. This pair fit perfectly. I barely stopped her brother when he started to say, "Hey, those are my old-"

If you're counting, that's two Halloweens ruined. Last year, her brother was sick so she had to go up to complete stranger's houses with just her mother. Everyone knows that the last thing a three-year wants is her mother ringing doorbells for trick or treat. She also only got half the candy that was due her. She and her brother switch candy cause each has different allergies. It works out so they each get a full compliment a sugar.

So we came to this Halloween. It started off rough with the extra sweat pants under the princess dress. I noticed that is had a definite negative impact on her twirling. But she and her brother (dressed as Bumblebee, not the insect as my parents thought, but the Transformer) bravely faced the elements. As we walked up the long driveway, I checked to make sure they were both ready.

"What do you say when you knock on the door?"

"Trick or treat!" my son yelled out.

I looked at my daughter, "What do you say?"

"tk r trt," she whispered.

When it comes to strangers, my daughter has a tendency to cling to the back of my leg so tight I think she is trying to pull herself through the material. I was positive I was going to get the pleasure of walking up to each door and holding out her treat bag while she hid behind me.

For the first two houses, that's what happened. Her brother raced ahead, knocked and the candy was being handed out by the time we got to the door. A quiet "thank you" came from behind my leg and we went off to the next house.

By the fifth house, she was right beside her brother, her basket out, a millisecond behind in "Trick or treat!" Since her brother was running ahead, then back to the group of adults following at a slower pace then ahead and back, he wore down and soon his sister was reaching the doors first.

She'd studied how her brother did it and was an instant pro. She couldn't hold her basket and reach the doorbell. So, she'd carefully place it on the doorstep, stand on her tip toes and ring the doorbell. Then she'd pick up her basket, hold it old and yell, "Trick or treat!'

The problem was, not every house had someone stationed at the door to open it immediately. After her proclamation of "Trick or treat!" she'd look up expectantly and usually see a closed door. That's when she repeated putting her basket down, ringing the doorbell, pick up her basket and "Trick or treat." After the fourth ring, she'd look at me and heave a disgusted sigh at how slow some people were.

We made it through half of the neighborhood before they decided they'd had enough. (We even found the house that was handing out treats for the adults. Reeses's cups and beer actually aren't as bad as you'd think. I know which house we're starting with next year.) So, my daughter perched on my shoulders, her hoop skirt threatening to block my vision every few steps, we all returned from a successful trick or treat expedition.

My princess ended the trip asleep on my shoulders. Next trick or treat, I'll remember to take the sucker away before she falls asleep. That patch of hair should grow back in a few months. In the meantime, it's winter so a hat won't look out of place...