Down On The Farm

Despite the fact that there are those of you who think I look like a rapist, a drug dealer, someone posing for a mug shot, Charles Manson, or, even worse, Robert Downey Jr., I was allowed to be a chaperone on my daughter's preschool field trip. So bite me.

Yesterday, we headed off to E. coli Happy Times Farm and Petting Zoo. The teachers put me in the same minivan as the Wild Boys, hoping that they would listen to me because I was a guy. As if. I was not an authority figure in these children's eyes. I was not their parents. I was not their teachers. I was a glorified substitute teacher. And even four-year-olds know you're supposed to torture substitutes. It wouldn't have mattered if I was male, female, or somewhere in between, they wouldn't have listened to me. And they didn't.

Armed with empty threats and a 55-gallon drum of Purell, we ventured into the farm. The kids had a great time. They were able to pet cows, pigs, horses, goats, turtles, sheep, llamas, and donkeys. They were also able to see ostriches, emus, chickens, and a camel. But I learned something yesterday.

Four-year-olds? Have no survival skills whatsoever.

If we were like other creatures and set our offspring into the wild after a few months (or even a few years), we would be extinct. I watched countless children try to feed their fingers to horses instead of petting them on top of their noses.

I saw a small boy charge at a fenced ostrich (at least he wasn't a total moron; the ostrich was a baby so it was about his size). The ostrich saw him and went charging at him. I was halfway across the field, so all I could do was think, "Here comes an ER trip." But luckily, a mom came in and swooped up the boy before a fight broke out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to teach Zoey some survival skills. You'd think having a little brother would teach her to keep her fingers away from animals' mouths. No such luck.