You wake. Your daddy's rubbing your belly. You like it. It tickles a bit, but his large hands make you feel secure and comfortable; a good way to enter the day. "Where's Mommy", you say with a smile. Mommy's in the kitchen so you slide out of bed and scamper down the hall to see her. "Good morning", she says, "don't you look beautiful today". You give her a bashful smile.

Today you go to your backup daycare; your regular school is closed. You're excited. Max will be there and it's in a new part of town -- midtown, a place you've never been. You eat, dress and leave with Daddy; holding his hand as you cross the side streets. "The man says go", you explain, "the hand says stop".

You walk down the steps to the subway, the E train. "E is for Echo", your daddy says. "Right", you say, "E is for Echo". As the train arrives, you cover your ears; it's very noisy. The doors open, you enter and sit down, daddy's arm is around you. It's crowded, but you're not afraid; you're with Dada. You watch the people on the train as the stops tick by. The overweight man, out of breath despite his near supine position. He takes up three seats. You feel bad for him; he probably has body image issues. Or not. The middle aged woman with a mane of white hair and the half glasses working the Times crossword. She bites her lip and puts her pen to her head, deep in thought. She must be very smart; today is Friday and Friday's puzzle is very hard. Even your daddy can't do it.

You pass the time by doing the phonetic alphabet with daddy. "A is for Alpha, B is for Bravo", he says. You repeat. "C is for Charlie". "Charlie lives upstairs", you exclaim. "No", daddy says, "Jamie lives upstairs". "No daddy", you retort, "Charlie is Jamie's dog and she lives upstairs". "Oh", your daddy says. You tire of the alphabet once you get to K (for Kelly). "Are we there yet", you ask. You know we're not at our destination, but you've heard that this is what three year olds ask when traveling. You do not wish to disappoint.

You arrive at 53rd street. You knew we were almost there when daddy arose and grabbed the pole. You held him, he held the pole. The train lurches to a stop and you stumble. Daddy presses toward the door, but his path is blocked. He grips your hand and pulls you along. He tenses, you can feel it; he lowers his head, turns sideways and icebreakers his way toward the door. You trip, but he's got you; no fear. You step off the train onto the platform disoriented, but happy. "That was fun", you say, "lets do it again". "Yeah, fun", replies your daddy, "but we're not doing it again".

You walk across 53rd street to Park Avenue. "Why is there no man?", you ask. "Park Avenue is different", your daddy explains, "people here don't need The Man to tell them when to cross the street". Park Avenue is nice, you think. You alternately walk and run the two blocks to 55th street; your destination. Rounding the corner with your daddy, you peer inside the Ferrari dealership. A Ferrari dealership in a place where the average speed is 15 miles per hour you think? You make a note to investigate further. "I want one of those", you state, pointing to the sports cars. "I want one too", your daddy replies. "Ours is too slow", you say, "it gets stuck in traffic too much".

You reach the door, buzz, enter and commence play on the indoor jungle gym. A good place, this is, you think. Soon you see Max arrive. You run to him, and he to you. Later in life you'll look back and see the similarities to Wuthering Heights, but not now. Now you're happy. Daddy kisses, hugs and leaves. You play. It will be a good day.