The 4:30 Parade

There are many things that make me happy that I have a three-year-old son, one of which is that it qualifies me to participate in the 4:30 parade, only for very special people, only those with small children.

This parade is held in New York every afternoon, spring, summer, fall, and winter, and is when the sun starts to set and it's time for Johnny to take a shower and have dinner, as we all know. When the sun starts to set, the day is over and it's time to take the kids home. We all start walking out of the park, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, and the 4:30 parade begins, which is the walk home: the moms, the little ones in the strollers and the little ones who can walk, their babysitters, and either now and then their dads, like me. Every St. Patrick's Day and other big parades, the newspapers were full of stories about them, but for me, the 4:30 parade was my main concern.

One day, before the sun started to set, Johnny and I came across this event that he wouldn't remember, but I would. He was playing in the sandbox with a kid named Carlton, and I was sitting next to him, listening to them talk.

"Where's your mommy?" Carlton asked.

"Mommy's at home." Johnny said.

The two of them were busy doing big things, including filling a garbage truck with sand and then emptying it.

Carlton said, "So who did you bring over? Who came with you?"

"My dad. Look, look!" Johnny said, "Do you want to see my dad?"

They both straightened up, covered in sand, and Johnny grabbed Carlton's hand and led him a few steps outside the sandbox as they both stared at me.

Johnny bent one index finger and pointed at me, his index finger always bent a little as he pointed. "Look, that's my dad." Johnny said.

They both looked at me. Carlton didn't say anything. Johnny grabbed his hand and they went back over to the sandbox.

The sun was getting low and it was time to go home. I was in a good mood because Johnny thought it was worthwhile to lead his friend over and point me out to him, something I hadn't experienced very often at all.

This is the kind of parade that starts at the park and goes east along Seventy-second Street. I believe we have the best concierge in the world here in New York, and they know the names of the various children who pass by every afternoon. They say to my little boy, "How are you doing today, Johnny?" And also, "Hello, Carlton, how are you doing today?" Johnny and Carlton answered in a whisper.

When we left the playground, there were all kinds of people, because in our area there was a warm mix of all kinds of people from New York itself. There was Josephine, and her friend, Arlene, who looked after the two little boys, Tony and Scotty; there were lovely young mothers, as lithe as ballerinas, perhaps some of them former ballet dancers; there were German nannies, French nannies-- -they speak French to their little boys and girls; and occasionally a proud but unassuming dad, like myself.

The parade made its way east, the line dwindling as children turned into their apartment buildings with their moms, nannies or dads. As we walked, taking up almost the entire sidewalk, we all walked together, talking about the kids doing somersaults and how much fun they should have come winter when it sometimes snows so the kids can play; the whole parade was a group of like-minded people participating in the most physically and emotionally enjoyable thing in the city.

As I walked, I couldn't help but think about how many times a year, before Johnny was born, I walked down the same street and the doormen and passers-by looked different to me, just as they looked different to me - and my feelings about that were very real. Even though most of them were strangers, they seemed friendlier and more understanding as I walked with Johnny's hand, not talking, but with expressions that said plainly and without words, "I have one of those at home. Aren't they just delightful little guys?" Either that or if the stranger who swept by was older, there was a hard-to-perceive and fleeting sadness in their eyes, and he or she seemed to be saying, "I used to have a kid like that."

Regardless, when this 4:30 parade, from time to time receding, reached the intersection of Second Street and Seventy-second Street (where our home was), the corner newsstand owner, Maxie, would call out, in the interval between greeting customers, "Hi, Johnny!" Johnny might have answered by shooting Maxie with an imaginary pistol. "Have a nice dinner, Johnny!" Maxie exclaimed as we moved forward again toward our front door.

Well, Johnny did take a shower, had a nice dinner, and then went to bed. After that, Faith and I watched TV for a while, but half the time I was totally distracted, just thinking about how enjoyable it would be to have another 4:30 parade tomorrow.