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The sudden and unexpected onslaught of spring (over a weekend no less) found us throwing open our windows, dusting off our lawn furniture, and coaxing some unwitting neighborhood kids into waking the hibernating grizzly that was sleeping in our garage by declaring it a “super-fun trampoline” they could all jump on. After animal control and the department of protective services was done with their duties, we were left wondering how to take advantage of this un-Cusian turn of weather.

One thing that Kim had been looking forward to all winter was finally getting Justine hooked into her bike so that they could go out on rides together.  With the help of the local bike shop to get a kid-sized helmet, a fella named Craig with a penchant for lists to find us a seat, and a neighbor with experience as a bike mechanic to attach said seat, we found ourselves strapping our little girl onto the back of Kim’s bike, her look of trepidation notwithstanding.  I stood by, camera in hand (should the courts need photographic evidence) while my wife tenuously boarded her two-wheeled conveyance, and gingerly began a short trek down the street.

I wouldn’t say that Justine’s first experience in the “fast lane” was a rousing success for her emotionally – she seemed to be having an “ok” time – at certain points smiling and at other points quite less so.  But she wasn’t bawling, scratching, or trying to gnaw through her harness either, so there’s something to be said for that.  Bike-riding will probably end up being an acquired taste for her.  Kim, on the other hand, had a ball.

With a first bike ride notched, we decided the next day to travel to the zoo, to see if the monkeys might adopt Justine as one of their own, or in a worst case scenario, fling feces at us.  We arrived just in time to see an exodus of cars – the nicest Saturday in months and the zoo had been struck with a power outage, which I assumed immediately meant an elephant escape and so peeled out of there in hopes of avoiding the imminent pachyderm stampede.  At least that’s what I told the officer.

Plan B was a trip to Onondaga Lake Park, where there are many things to do except actually go in the lake, which is one of the most polluted in the United States.  (I should take a moment to point out that conservation efforts have indeed  begun to turn the lake around, as the fish have gone from having five eyes to only three)  The Park has a number of nice amenities, including a skate park, extraordinarily large playground, bocce ball courts, shuffleboard, and even a small area where DNA re-combinated miniature dinosaurs live devouring small squirrels and children that don’t listen to their parents.

We decided to take a stroll along one of the walking trails that border the lake, in hopes of finding some shady spots to sit and enjoy the weather, in addition to taking a few pictures of Justine enjoying the weather.  It was pretty crowded, and we were nearly run over by several balding, shirtless, chest-hairy men wearing roller blades and old-fashioned Walkmen as we pushed toward our destination.  Finally we arrived at a tree near a boathouse, and sat immersed in the soothing rays of Mother Nature’s touch.

But alas Justine’s quotient for handling the outdoors shrank quickly, and after about a half an hour we found ourselves headed back to the car, to head home enjoy a wonderful April evening barbecue of hot dogs and grizzly bear meat, a perfect end to the perfect spring day.

Hopefully there will be many more days like this.

What are the symptoms of this particular condition?  Well, there’s only really one.  I have the inability to properly understand at what age certain skills are acquired by children, and in many cases can’t even decipher how old a child is, despite most of the time knowing when they were born.

I know, this doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it’s very embarassing.  Consider the following exchange with my wife:

Kim: Clean up the living room, Benjamin is coming over to visit.

Me:  Why?  He’s only 3 months old, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.

Kim:  Uh, he’s 18 months old?  And he can walk?

Me:  Oh.

Or this one:

Me:  Do we have baby food in case they don’t bring any?

Kim:  For who?

Me:  Abby?

Kim:  She’s in SECOND GRADE.

ME: Oh.

I can’t pinpoint exactly how many others have this particular issue, although I hope that there is simply an unreported “silent mass” of people that can’t figure these things out either.  I would assume that the majority (if there is one) would consist mostly of folks that are a) single or first time parents and b) men.  Women seem to know these things, or at least have the capacity to remember them once they hear them once.  I, on the other hand, can recount shot for shot rounds of golf played on Tiger Woods ’09 from 3 months ago, but can’t seem to remember with any regularity whether a 3 year old kid can form complete sentences or has teeth.

If you suffer, or know someone that suffers from ASCS, please let them know that they are not alone.  And be kind when they ask whether seventh graders can read yet.