Underwater Adventures and Above Water Adventures

Because I worked all weekend, I was thrilled to have a day off on Tuesday. I got to play with my kid all day long. We considered treking to the zoo, but he had just been there on Saturday with his Daddy and Auntie Val. Like he'd care, but whatever. I stepped it up a notch, and bravely packed my gear for a morning at the Mall of America.

He was entranced by the aquarium at the Rainforest Cafe, and I told him, "buddy, if you think this is great, just wait 'til you see where we're going next." I about-faced the stroller and headed for the North side of the mall. After a nausiating entrance fee of $23, we were in the elevator on our way to Underwater Adventures. I figured, if the aquarium was Oliver's favorite at the zoo, this experience would be like crack for him.

He loved it.

No kidding, I think the first 10 minutes found him silent with his mouth hung open, a string of drool making a pool on his bib, as he watched the shadows, the sharks, and the shimmery fish dart all around him. It's been a while since I've toured the place, and I had forgotten just how neat it was. Check out this turtle, who had an affinity for staring at her visitors as if they were the freaks of nature:

Oliver tried, as he did with everything that swam by, to touch it. I held him up to the glass and he put out his little hand, fingers spread, to the soft underbellies of the sandtigers and the lip-smacking stingrays.

As sweetly exciting as the adventure was, a more fascinating thing was going on that day in the rotunda of the Mall of America: the Potty Dance. The makers of Pull-Ups hosted a giant toddler party, complete with live music, where 2-4-year-olds and their parents were encouraged to take the bootys that they came with and shake them, and follow simple dance-steps that would teach them how to get their pull-ups on-and-off. I watched in horror, as did Ollie.

I looked at the young parents around me, respectable, nice-looking parents, who seemed to be intelligent enough. A terrifying thought crossed my mind: would I be here in a couple of years? Is it only a matter of months until I am wiggling my butt from side to side, excited to sing about the potty, just to encourage Oliver to pee in the toilet? Will I have lost all humility to the point of doing this in public, pretending to de-pants myself, in desperate attempts to potty-train? These parents were smiling, bopping along to the music, and the band members, who couldn't have been older than 25, looked pleased as punch to be singing about potties and butts.

I'd rather have another 3 years of diapers.