On Friday, Kris and I had planned to join Jenn and the kids for a trip to OMSI. When they arrive at our house, Jenn asks if we'd mind going to the zoo instead.

"I spoke with a guy this morning," Jenn says. "His wife took their kids to OMSI yesterday and it was extremely crowded, probably because of Spring Break. The weather doesn't look that bad, so I figured we could try the zoo."

We look outside. The weather seems mercurial; it might rain at any moment, but it might turn sunny for the rest of the day. We agree to take the risk. I grab a thin sweater as we leave.

As we drive to Portland, the conversation somehow turns to one of those Difficult Topics for three-year-olds (and for five-year-olds, too, actually).

"Mommy's not going to die," Emma announces.

Jenn gives us a look, as if to remind us that this is a Difficult Topic. Harrison seems up to the challenge. "Everyone dies when they get old," he says. "I can't explain it, but it has to do with science."

"She can take medicine so that she'll get better," says Emma, confident that Jenn is immortal.

"Medicine can't stop you from getting old," says Kris.

Emma thinks about this for a moment, and then she says, "If you cut your head off, you would have to go to the doctor."

Hank laughs, amused at his younger sister's limited knowledge. "No — you would have to go to the hospital."

Searching for a pen to write down the decapitation exchange, I find Click Clack Moo (thus explaining yesterday's entry). So, even if Laura and Michael had never introduced us to Click Clack Moo two weeks ago, I would have discovered it Friday.

I read the book to the kids. They love it. When I finish, they ask me to read it to them backward, so I do:

Ducks the, sincerely. Board diving a like we'd. Boring quite is pond the, Brown Farmer dear. Note a got he morning next the. Typewriter the with come to Duck for waited and door barn the to next blankets the left he. Deal good a was this decided Brown Farmer.

After we finish the book — both forward and backward — Emma asks me to read her a Strawberry Shortcake book. I refuse. I explain to her that this particular book is simply a crass advertising ploy: she reads the book and falls in love with the character, which makes her want the dolls. "I refuse to be a party to the corruption of our youth," I tell her. There are some Difficult Topics from which I do not shy. She doesn't seem to understand.

When we get to the zoo, it's clear that we've made the wrong choice. The wind blows cold and the sky spits fits of rain. My thin sweater, itself an afterthought, is woefully inadequate. Still, we're able to have a fine time watching the sea lions and the polar bear.

We take an early lunch. I buy four hot chocolates for the group. Hank and Scout decide that it's more fun to lick the top of their hot chocolates than drink them. Somehow Hank spills his all over Scout.

The three adults move into immediate action to soothe Emma and to clean up the mess. Harrison's first reaction is, "Can I have another hot chocolate?"

"Not right now," I tell him. "Help me get more napkins."

"You can buy me another hot chocolate," he tells me as he walks back to the table, his fists clenched full of napkins.

"Maybe," I say. "Right now we have to clean up your mess." I emphasize the word your.

We don't buy him another hot chocolate. We give him some of Emma's drink. This upsets him. "I don't want her hot chocolate. It has germs in it! We can buy a new hot chocolate."

While the others finish lunch, Hank and I gaze through the windows that overlook a bird exhibit. We point out our favorite birds. He finds a small toy hyena on the ground.

"Can I keep it?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Put it back. It's not yours and you shouldn't take it. Some poor kid probably lost it and will come back to look for it later. Put it back."

He puts it back, but when he's not looking, I put it in my pocket to give to him later.

Jenn brought a stroller on the trip. Though the kids are really too big to need it, it turns out to be quite effective as a pacifier. When one or the other is tired or cranky or spazzy, they sit in the stroller and voila instant child control. I'm impressed. To Jenn it's just one of the tricks of the trade.

I like to push the stroller. "Go fast," the kids tell me, and I do. "Go faster, J.D." they say, and I go faster. "Go through that mud puddle," they say, and I go through the mud puddle. Then I go through all of the mud puddles — the deeper the better. While Emma and I wait for the rest of the group to leave the penguins, I take her in figure-eights.

The kids like the naked mole rats, though they stink. The kids love the fruit bats, though they stink, too. Kris and I think it's hilarious that when a hanging bat needs to urinate or defecate, it simply flips over, does its duty, and then flips back up. Gravity is a toilet for a bat.

We stop to get the kids a snack before leaving the zoo. They've been whining for ice cream and sno-cones all afternoon. "You don't want ice cream," we keep telling them. "It's too cold." They're sure they want ice cream anyhow. Fortunately, the only place still open is not serving ice cream. They are, however, serving hot chocolate.

While Kris and Jenn wait for their coffees, I take the kids to a table. Emma has her hot chocolate, Harrison has his.

I park the stroller and go to help Emma sit down. I'm just turning to look at Harrison when I see that he is holding his hot chocolate on the table with both hands as he climbs into his seat. The hot chocolate is just beginning to tip. For a second, it's like a slow motion film sequence as I try to think of a way to prevent the inevitable.

(Unbeknownst to me, at this very moment, Jenn is asking Kris if she thinks Harrison will spill this hot chocolate. "Yes," says Kris.)

The inevitable cannot be prevented: Hank's hot chocolate sloshes all over the table and onto the seat.

"Harrison!" I say.

"We can get another one," he says, sheepish.

I shake my head and say, "Go tell your mom what just happened."

Later I tell him that he's not allowed to have hot chocolate for another six months.

After the zoo, we stop at a discount store called Tuesday Morning. The kids want to look in the toy section. I decide (secretly) that I'll buy them each something under five dollars. Somehow they're able to ken this, though, and they begin to glom onto various toys.

"How much does this cost?" Harrison asks about every little thing. I teach him to read the price tags, and he does a good job of deciphering them, though he has trouble telling the difference between $1.99 and $19.99.

"Maybe they have Barbies," says Scout.

"I doubt they have Barbies," I say.

Emma loves Barbie. She doesn't have a Barbie, but she yearns for one. When we were in Yakima, she played with a box full of Barbie stuff. It kept her amused for hours. (And Harrison, too, actually.)

Scout finds the Barbies. "They do have Barbies!" she announces, and she picks her favorite one from the shelf.

"Huh," I think to myself. "It's only $4.99."

"Can I have a Barbie?" she asks.

"Sure," I say, not even thinking of the many personal taboos I am breaking by agreeing to this bargain, not considering how Barbie is a Difficult Topic. All I can think at the moment is: Emma loves Barbie and here's one that I can buy for her. None of the stuff about objectification of women, none of the stuff about the cult of consumerism, none of the stuff about reinforcing traditional sex roles makes any difference. The only thing that matters is that Emma wants this doll.

"Hey!" says Harrision, holding up a toy. "Can I have this?" I look at it. It's a set containing two pairs of goggles and two giant squirt gun things designed to be used in a pool. (Or, in Harrison's case, a hot tub.) It seems okay, but I tell him he needs to go ask Jenn for permission.

(Do you see what happened? Without hesitating, I gave into Emma's Barbie request. Meanwhile, I deemed that Harrison's infinitely more innocuous goggles and pool squirters required parental approval. Sometimes I amaze myself.)

On the way home, Harrison tries to spit on me. "Harrison," I say, "I only have two rules — no throwing, no hitting — but if you keep this up, I'm going to have three."

"I have two rules," says Emma.

"What are they?" I ask.

She pauses to think, and then she says, "No hitting and no spanking."

It was a good day.

Update: Co-incidentally, Denise went to the zoo this weekend, too.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Scattered Thoughts   Thoughts on weather and remodeling.

2003 — 8:36 a.m., 51 degrees   What a brilliant day.

2002 — Google to the Rescue   I wasted a lot of time looking for bad code that wasn't there. As usual, a Google search pointed me in the right direction.