Perfect (Fathom Mag)

Last week my husband and I took our youngest son, Zion, to the zoo. He had been begging us every day for months. And I kept finding excuses so I wouldn’t have to spend an entire day as a snack-carrying pack-mule walking around an overpriced animal penitentiary. It’s difficult for me to reconcile one of the world’s fastest hunting mammals being trapped in such a small run in the middle of Missouri, or to see the owl spread its wings only to run into the netting above, or to watch a family of baboons sit and eat iceberg lettuce from Costco while they gaze at the small openings in the chain-link fence. But when Zion cleaned his own room, made his bed for two weeks in a row, then told me he wished he had two sets of parents, his dad and I to love and snuggle him, and then a second set “just to take me to the zoo someday,” my heart nearly broke and I gave in. 

We walked around holding hands all afternoon, laughing at baboon butts and marveling at how the penguins scoop through the water like hot spoons melting butter. At one point Zion tripped, skinning off a layer of pants fabric, and said, “Ugh . . . perfect,” as he got up. I laughed and made a note of his sarcasm to my husband, “This kid cracks me up. I wonder where he gets this stuff.” 

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