"This is my bucket.There are many like it, but this one is mine."My dear daughter asked all weekend to go on a bike ride, God bless her. So Sunday afternoon we ordered Mommy to nap and set off down the trail. Greta brought with her a sippy cup, a red plastic bucket with a spade and a miniature rake, and the promise of ice cream. I brought enough energy to power the machine and about 300 household batteries that have collected dust for a year until I found a place that disposes of hazardous materials. We quickly zoomed through Old Town and made our way to Jones Point Park, where I decided a rusty oil drum with something that looked like a letter slot must be for the batteries. Back on the bike, we pedaled into Old Town proper where one can choose between three ice cream joints: Ben & Jerry's, Pops and The Scoop. We chose the latter, mostly because the line was shorter. Greta picked Oreo ice cream and was mostly interested in the cookies. We sat in a booth and watched other kids lick their cones. Refreshed, it was now time to feed the ducks some stale toddler puff cereal. We cruised to the waterfront, parked the bike, and carefully picked our way down the rocks. The ducks eschewed the cereal, but the pigeons couldn't get enough and the sparrows showed up in force. After awhile, two geese swam over, too, eating the gobs of cereal that Greta had thrown to the disinterested ducks.
This is all sounding like a very successful weekend afternoon with Daddy, right?
Remember that red plastic bucket we brought along for the ride? Duck food dispensed, it was time to see if we could fill it up with water. It was about medium tide; we could get close enough to the water to dip the bucket in, I figured. So that's what we do three or four times. Dip the bucket in, pour the water on the rocks, dip it back in. Greta can't reach the water, so she hands it to me. "More water, Daddy." I'm feeling very necessary at this point, like I have a skill that can keep my daughter happy for minutes. Fifth dip and I lose my grip on the bucket. "Uh-oh!" is Greta's helpful response. Luckily, a wave washes in and pushes the bucket close enough to be grabbed. Crisis averted. Fast forward to about the 10th dip. I figure I'm getting the hang of this now, why not let Greta try? So I lean her over and tell her to dip the bucket into the water. She starts to, then drops it. "Uh-oh!" again. I calmly wait for a wave to make things right with the world, but Mother Nature doesn't cooperate this time. The bucket starts taking on water. It fills to the top, with just the yellow arched handle floating above the waves. And it starts moving farther away from the shore. Greta notices the trend, as do three young women on the rocks above us. "My bucket, Daddy! My bucket!" I begin to call to the bucket, "Come back, bucket! Come back!" Greta picks up the refrain: "Come back! Come back! My bucket! Come back!" We've attracted a bit of a crowd at this point, mostly dog walkers and passers-by. I toy with the heroic idea of taking off my flip flops and wading in, but the water's murky, the rocks are jagged, and I failed beginner swimming six times. So we watch the bucket float out to sea. Greta never cries, but she keeps up a steady drumbeat: "Come back! My bucket!" I decide to use the experience as a teaching tool. "Greta, honey, the bucket's not coming back. It's going to a better place." Bucket mortality doesn't seem to be a 2-year-old concept. "MY BUCKET!" So I try the heaven-is-a-happy-community idea: "Greta, the bucket's going to be with all the other buckets." She pauses at that, but since she can't see any other fathers who have tossed their daughter's buckets to sea, she never really buys into it. After about ten minutes, though, she does seem to understand that the little red bucket is not coming back, so she begins to give it the respect it deserves. "Bye, bucket. Bye-bye." I figure acceptance is not a bad way to end the day, so we pick ourselves up off the rocks and walk back to the bike. I immediately promise a future filled with glorious buckets of all colors and sizes. Next weekend, we're headed to The Container Store.
Tuesday morning in the car, stopped at a red light waiting to turn left on to the GW Parkway. Long line of cars in front of us. Mommy & Daddy casually chatting in the front seat. Greta munching on a breakfast bar and staring out the window. 2 minutes pass, light turns green. Cars are slow to accelerate and make the turn, so Greta admonishes from the back seat: "Let's go, people!"
