Yesterday was Father’s Day, and I wanted only one thing for the annual celebration of my successful attempt at procreation: to sleep late. And I did—till almost 8 a.m.! The rest of the day saw us meeting out-of-town friends for brunch, then a nap back home, and finally a trip to Carroll Park, where Sasha in her “fairy dress” refused to run in the sprinklers.
While we were at the park, I realized I did have one real Father’s Day wish: to stop in at Gowanus Yacht Club, one of my favorite bars in the city. For those of you who don’t live here, the bar’s name is, uh, kind of ironic. The Gowanus, for one, is a nearby canal that is so polluted that it became the city’s first Superfund site. For another, the Yacht Club is not a yacht club but rather a bunch of picnic tables set up in a semi-abandoned lot; decent, cheap beers and burgers and hot dogs are what you consume there. It’s seasonal, and it’s fantastic, and I never get there often enough.
But yesterday, when Sasha was done playing, we stopped in for drinks and snacks. A Narragansett lager and kielbasa for me, a plastic cup of cava for Jean, and a couple of sauerkraut-laden hot dogs for Sasha. A classic babies-in-bar scenario. Thing is, Sasha often sees our drinks and demands to taste them, which, well, we’re mostly against. But not entirely against. So, with a couple of quick glances to make sure no police were watching, we gave Sasha a sip of Jean’s cava. She loved it, demanded more, we said no, Sasha threatened to escalate, and then the hot dogs arrived to distract her.
Soon, however, Sasha got chatty, and silly, and affectionate. She high-fived our neighbors, she tried to cram half-a-dozen pickle slices in her mouth. By the time we left, she was acting strange—holding the back of my shirt as we walked down the street, and swinging her head around when I carried her, and babbling, and singing, and talking about one thing before suddenly talking about something else, and acting kinda-sorta tipsy.
But was she? Could two sips of cava really send her for a loop like that? Or was she simply being a toddler? The two states of mind are actually almost indistinguishable, especially when you’re talking about a toddler who was fast approaching bedtime. Sleepy, crabby, prone to hugging at random moments—does that amount to inebriation? I don’t know.
I do know this, however. A few hours after we got Sasha home and put her to bed, she woke up crying in the middle of the night—pretty unusual for her. When we got up and tended to her, Sasha demanded to sleep in our bed, and we relented. She fell back asleep immediately—and wet the bed. I still don’t know if that proves she was drunk, but if so, she was a bad drunk. Toddler boys of the world, watch out for this one!