On Friday The Woman Who Shall Not Be Disparaged and I took Golden Boy and The Bug to the Alameda County Fair along with some friends and their four-year-old son. It is a fantastic fair, although it lacks a certain rustic quality that the fair my home county throws every year. While that one is quaint this one is quintessential. And huge. So huge that the place is crawling with fair personnel driving golf carts. Walking around the fair grounds is very much like playing a life size game of Frogger.
We did the usual things. We ate too much bad food for too much money. (By bad I mean gooood.) We rode on rides of questionable repair. We moooed at cows, we bleated at goats, we baaaaed at sheep. Then after all of that we settled down to enjoy a fireworks show.
The show started late, which was annoying. Especially with a three-year-old pondering the sanity of sitting on a tarp on top of asphalt in the complete dark in 95 degree weather. I don’t like arguing with Golden Boy (because he usually wins), particularly when he’s right. However, the show did eventually start and Golden Boy and The Bug were all coos and ahs. In fact The Bug loved it. She was bouncing with excitement, enthusiastically grabbing the hair of any nearby head and jerking it back and forth.
Yes, it was quite wonderful. That is until Golden Boy popped up and declared “I have to go potty.” Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m presented with the choice of watching fireworks or holding another guy’s penis while he pees in a toilet, I generally choose the former. Can’t you just go in your pants, I thought. But of course he couldn’t. Oh no, not Golden Boy.
So off he and I trudged, more than a quarter of a mile, to the closest bathroom. There Golden Boy learned about trough urinals and I learned to loathe potty training just a little bit more.
