Pink Poodle in Paris

     Yesterday we went to a birthday party for Fenix, one of Clara's friends from the Y, at a park.  We boiled in a little late, frazzled from the heat, diaper bag spilling over with snacks, swim diapers and a gratuitous amount of sunscreen (and yet, I had left Clara's bathing suit in the car.  And where was her sippy cup?)
     The park had an ornate playground with multi-level slides and climbing walls and aerial walkways connecting them.  The ground underneath was a synthetic, super-spongy cork.
    Best of all, there were a bunch of different fountains squirting up from the ground.  We put Clara in her bathing suit and turned her loose.  She instantly found a playmate, a purple balloon.  She brought it over to one of the fountains to wash it.  The fountains' jets trapped it, and she couldn't get it out without getting wet.
     She shrieked in indignation and walked away in a huff.  If the fountain was going to be like that, it could just play by itself.  After a moment, she reconsidered.  She went back and reached for the balloon, gasping in shock at the cold water.  Then, quick as a wink, she snatched the balloon and ran away, smiling with triumph, but also with delight.  She hadn't realized it could be fun to be squirted by cold water on a hot day.
     The party's theme was "Pink Poodle in Paris."  There were place mats with pictures of pink poodles on the picnic tables.  There were pink and white and purple and polka-dotted balloons.  There was a cake with a pink poodle on it, and cookies with the Eiffel Tower on them. There were also pink, plastic Eiffel Towers in the middle of the picnic tables.  Every guest got a little box containing the following:  a little, stuffed pink poodle; a charm bracelet with a Parisian theme; pink poodle stickers and a pink poodle notepad; and a small, pink box of crayons.
     There was also a stack of water pistols on one of the tables.  I was pulled into a water-gun skirmish with a four-year-old named Lexi.  Imagine my shock when I turned to find that Clara, my own flesh and blood, had apparently joined forces with Lexi.  She grinned at me with pearly white baby teeth behind the plastic Beretta hybrid.  She couldn't figure out how to squeeze the trigger, so she held it by the barrel and menaced me with it.  Then she chased me, giggling and sweaty and making squishy sounds while she ran because of her soaking wet swim diaper and wet Crocs.  It was terrifying, simply terrifying.