I’m sitting on a bench at Central Park’s 72nd Street boat pond, watching mostly nannies launch miniature yachts and model sailboats their badly behaved charges ignore, more intrigued by ducks, each other and the hotdog cart.
It’s the Upper East Side’s idea of being snottily sporty, more about parents than their offspring.
A tall WASPY blonde is towering nearby with a boy of 3, a precocious 3 I can tell right off when he takes out a hankie a mouse might use, wondering if he’s older, but just a tad short.
“That’s my little man,” says Blondie, “good job,” as he gives his button nose a good blow.
Pretending to read my book, I’m imagining what her name could be:
Wendy, Abigail, Catherine, but please, call me Cat?
All legs and hair whipping in the wind. I can just see her in long white gloves
perched on the back of an icy blue convertible, waving like a Rose Bowl Queen.
My reverie is interrupted when a Labradoodle runs by almost knocking little man down, who’s not too pleased.
“Mama, I don’t like dogs, make them leave?”
Mama, now checking her phone coos, “What was that darling, you want to leave? But look at all the beautiful boats.”
Here it comes…
“I like bigger boats, like Grampa’s.”
“Okay, we’ll tell Daddy when he comes home.”
NO! GRAMPA,” he says, like the future King of England.
“Grampa will buy me one.”
I’d sure as hell like to meet Grampa.