The Solemn Institution of Day-Ownership

A couple of weekends ago, I inadvertently created an unsustainably ideal measure for Daniel's quality of life, and now I am paying the price.

We were in New York, to see young Caleb, the children's newest cousin, and I went out of my way to accommodate Daniel. It was a trip consisting exclusively of the two Daniels, and I wanted it to be special for him. I had in mind taking him on one excursion intended entirely for him. Based on my media-nourished sense of New York peak-experiences, I assumed he would want to visit the Central Park Zoo, so we could see where Sammy the Seal eats fish on days when he doesn't elect to tour Manhattan. The Central Park Zoo is also a landmark for all kinds of other media zoo-stories, both in children's books and movies, and I thought it would a picture-perfect place to take the lad. He has been there before, but I'm sure he doesn't remember it, since it was a couple of years ago, so I thought it would be the best destination. But, being my son, he preferred food over lesser forms of "fun," so we went to Chinatown instead - completely at his behest, to eat Vietnamese food. Daniel was not disappointed.

But in any case, in the course of working out our itinerary, I introduced to him the idea that it was his day. This impulse was exacerbated by my own personal sense of guilt; on Sunday morning, I schlepped him clear across Brooklyn, on those endless gray and orange lines, with Prospect Park somewhere in the middle, so that we could go to church in Brighton Beach. This took much longer than I had expected, because the church that we visited was a very devout, enthusiastic congregation of converts - in this case Russian-Jewish converts to Orthodoxy - and they clearly had a lot to do - sermons, extra prayers, announcements, and more. They were very nice, and inspirational in their dedication, but we didn't get out of church until about 1:00 p.m., and it was one of those hot faux-summer days that we experienced this past winter-which-never-quite-happened.

So as soon as we got out of church, and stepped onto Brighton Beach Avenue, with the subway right above our heads, I announced something like, "Okay, Daniel. This is your day. The city is yours."

Daniel took this category very seriously, and in no time, we were up on the elevated train-line, heading for lower Manhattan - Canal Street, to be precise. We climbed the stairs to the street, and followed that long conga-line of food-and-excitement-seekers to Chinatown Proper, stopping at the appropriate stands to buy three units of awful, glowingly colorful candy in plastic thematic molds and packaging (Daniel's choice), and we went to the best Vietnamese restaurant we could find - better than any other I've ever visited, I must say - and then we got bubble-tea, and finally a $10 (originally, pre-haggling, $15) package of five superheroes from one of those Chinatown toy stores that spills out on the sidewalk and into the world of youthful impulsive desire. And since it was his day, we ended up spending over an hour in a park in Chinatown playing tag, as he took constant refuge on the climbing structures. Not something I normally think of as Things To Do In New York, but, again, it was Daniel's day. I quite consciously spoiled the lad, and he was very aware that the day was all his.

Then Daniel got another "day" this past Saturday. Ian and Madeleine were sick, so once again, it was The Daniels' Day Out, so I took him to the Space Center in Concord, and got him some ridiculous trinket from the gift store, and then off to Chinese buffet. At one point, he saw something he wanted that I didn't buy him, and he said (in earnest), "I thought this was my day."

But tonight, he was not happy, and the backdrop of two "Daniel's" days within the past two weeks somehow made matters worse. As he was reflecting on the bad fortune of the evening, he quipped that it wasn't his day, and added:

"Only two days were my day. I didn't have much nights either. In fact, I don't think I had any nights."

But as he reflected further on it, he came to realize that has actually had eight days in his life. He added the day in Chinatown and the day in Concord to the existing cache of six birthdays, to arrive at a grand total of eight days in his young life which were indisputably "his".

But I shouldn't complain: the lad knows how to share the wealth. This past week, Daniel and Madeleine were going to watch a movie - it came down to "The Sound of Music" or some Peanuts special, and Daniel insisted that I cast the deciding vote on which production to watch. I told him that we were watching it for their sake, and we should watch whichever movie he and Madeleine would like to see, but he corrected me: "Actually, today I'm making it your day."

And he meant it. Day-bestowal is a mutual, inter-generational institution.

And I should count my blessings: I know that, in my life, I've had at least 46 "days," plus the one that Daniel gave me this past week..." Not bad at all!

(March, 2012)