For Father's Day, we took an extended family trip to the zoo. My folks came with Sean, Axel, and me to check out the formerly wildlife and have a picnic. Axel's inner monologue during his day at the zoo went like this:
"Yeah! I'm outside of the house. I love people. I love motion. I love to eat socks. Oh no! I'm trapped in my stroller! Why are there all these legs passing me by? What is everyone looking at beyond the fence? Why do I have to wear a hat? Why does my mom keep on pointing at things? Doesn't she know that I have furrier animals than that at home that I can touch and crawl after? What is that big lumpy thing in the distance that isn't moving? Why can't I put goose poop in my mouth? Why can't I get a handful of monkey? Why can't I eat the carousel pole? Why is everyone thwarting me? Oh, dude! I have socks and I can eat them! That is fantastic."
It was a confusing, but good, day for a baby. Axel did see some hippos blowing bubbles, moving penguins, swans, and monkeys, and he also briefly pondered the goat in the petting area - the goat that decided my shirt looked like lunch and didn't want to let go. Other than that, he was more interested in the inanimate objects the zoo had to offer, like railings, grass, his feet, his grandmother's water bottle, and the shiny gold poles on the carousel. Things that could be captured and put into his mouth. Babies and goats have a lot in common.
I also brought a pretty fantastic Father's Day picnic, if I do say so myself, including homemade cupcakes. They were delicious, even though I used ricotta instead of mascarpone because I got confused by the range of soft Italian dairy products available at the store. The lunch, combined with the fritatta I made my husband this morning, used up all of my limited though enthusiastic culinary efforts for the week, if not the month. Someone who confuses mascarpone with ricotta is probably not a natural whiz in the kitchen. Sean knows his way around a saucepan, which is why I got him an assortment of fancy spices for Father's Day, along with a new shirt to add to his spit-up stained shirt collection.
Seven months is too young to appreciate the animals, wonder how the Alf-crossed-with-a-pig tapir got its black and white chunked coat, or get depressed about the gerenuk's limited space to run, but you're never too young to experience the joys of the carousel and eating your own feet.
