Friday morning we headed – long time readers will not be surprised to hear – to the zoo.
Yes, even after two visits – two – to the Birmingham Zoo last week, we still weren’t satiated. More zoo!
Actually, the reasons have less to do with zoological obsession than with what my husband would call my “Chinese Death March” mode of parenting. That is: buy a zoo membership. Go to the zoo (free) frequently. In the mornings. Walk, walk, walk. Nap, nap, nap. Soundly.
It is a small zoo – formally called the Fort Wayne Children’s Zoo – but it has its charms, and one great virtue of being completely self-supporting. No tax dollars at all, I don’t think.  It doesn’t have what a lot of larger zoos have, but it does have one exhibit that’s unusual, in my experience: the kangaroos are spread out in this faux-Australian exhibit – just a patch of land with a path winding around the middle of it – with nothing but a very non-threatening wire separating you from the kangaroos. We’ve had one nose around in our pockets before, but mostly they just lie around, scratching. I have a good up-close and personal photo from today, but somewhere in my meanderings of the past week, my camera cord has been misplaced, so we’ll have to wait on that.
And of course we had to visit the goats. Yes, you can enter among the goats, brush them and feed them. In years past, the feeding has been by way of some pellets they put in an ice-cream cone, which you let the goats gobble up, cone and all. They’ve changed it now, so the pellets are in a little plastic cup.
Joseph was not up for feeding, but Michael was. Most of the goats were babies that day, so it was not really a problem when every goat within a twenty-foot radius surrounded Michael and jumped up on him.
Amazingly enough, he was not scared one bit. He – liked it. He just kept feeding them, pushing them off him, laughing, and petting when he could. He thought it was all completely hilarious.
But then later today, a thunderstorm awakened him from his (yes) nap, and when I went up to get him, he was huddled in bed with his hands over his ears.
So perhaps he is not completely fearless. Which gives me a measure of relief.
And yes, there were Amish at the zoo. I said to Michael later, I am very serious when I say that I don’t think there’s a time I’ve been to this zoo when I haven’t seen an Amish group.  One is sorely tempted to take a photo of them, but then that would be tacky, being as you would be treating them, not only as exhibits in a zoo, but you would be doing it while they were actually gazing at exhibits in a zoo, which would make your use of them for your own artistic purposes doubly tacky.
 
Oh.
(Photo from 2006)
Anyway, the day went on and by evening, we found ourselves at Foster Park. Joseph has perfected his bike-riding to a gratifying degree, and MIchael is not too humiliated by the prospect of riding in his cool new jogging stroller. We went around the long way, ending up at the playground last, where, in one of the pavilions, a birthday party was in progress. Spanish filled the air.
Both boys ran up to me, separately, pointing to something marvelous. Michael didn’t have the word handy, but Joseph did. “Look,” he said breathlessly, “A piñata!”
And there it was, strung up high on a tree. A white goat, clad in blue and red suspenders.
For a time, it rested high in the tree, the rope secured, but finally, from the other end of the playground, we could see it move. So we went to watch.
The little ones had their turn with the stick first, to no avail. This was a tough nut to crack. Eventually one little boy did get one of the horns off, but that was it until they brought in a teenager. But even he had to whack it repeatedly, and hard, to open up the goat’s innards, which finally came out, first as a trickle, then as a deluge of sweets.
The party children raced in and the man holding the rope turned to the other kids who had gathered around, perched on playground equipment, a watchful, tentatively hopeful audience.
He motioned and grinned. “Come on,” he said, “You get some – there’s plenty.”
And there was. All the children filled their pockets, the goat kept being hauled up and banged against a branch, spilling even more candy out of its body and limbs.
A group of little boys climbed on the plastic turtle I was leaning on. One of them held the prize of the goat’s horn, filled to the brim, overflowing. “Is it your birthday?” I asked because he looked particularly pleased with himself. He nodded. His friends told me his name, but I didn’t catch it. “How old are you?” I asked him. “Six” he said.
I searched my brain. “Feliz cumpleaños” I ventured. He grinned and raced away, back to search the ground scattered with confetti, tissue paper and sweets.
And off we rode, on to the end of the day that began and ended with goats, feeding and being fed.