MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / March 13, 2000

There’s no turning back. Now that we’ve had a taste of the REAL Mardi Gras, I don’t think we can do the wheelbarrow parade anymore.

My kids and I have always enjoyed the Lions Parade in Covington. So what ifyou can’t tell the shopping carts from the “floats”? My children didn’t care if their beads come from a kid on a scooter. They just wanted LOTS of them.

But this year my son wanted more. He really wanted to see this Zulu he’d heard so much about. The very thought of that sent shivers down my spine, but I, the Facilitator, had to make it happen. . .didn’t I?We had been invited to a grandstand on St. Charles at Jackson, the point of convergence for Zulu and Rex. The host coaxed me across the lake with the enticement of food. I was mildly interested.He mentioned “bathroom.” This also made a little impact since Mom is so paranoid about Port-O-Lets my children wouldn’t even attempt to use them.

These kids have muscles of waste elimination so evolved it would dazzle the AMA.

Then he said the magic word…parking. I get the most amazing parking spaces. But when I can’t get them, I make them; something which endears me only to meter maids.

At parade time I am forced to conjure up deeply repressed memories of paradegoing with my parents. My mother prevailed upon my father, in the noisiest way, to pull parking places out of thin air. I paid attention.This has become a game with me. My son is the only one in the family who enjoys my little deviancy. Illegal parking makes my daughter edgy. So, for the Zeus parade, only my son and I drove through the bowels of Metairie, down an unknown street, (if it was one) to pull up right off Veteran’s Highway.

He watched for parade throws; I watched for tow trucks. The good news is the parade had come and gone and the car was still there. The bad news is that after the parade had come and gone, my son had almost nothing to show for it.

An unpleasant reality had emerged for him. He is no longer a “cute little fellow.” Now he’s just another kid. After one of the floats passed he disturbed me from watching my car to complain, “They threw to the old people on my left and the baby on my right. I got Jack.”He expected the next day to be better. I was busy worrying about our first trek into the frightening urbanity of St. Charles Avenue. Whenever I open their bubble, even a bit, the biggest adjustment is mine.

Mom’s lecture for the ride in to town skipped public toilets, since they’re out of the question. I focused strictly on getting lost. By the time we arrived at my legal parking space, the kids were almost too terrified to leave the car.

We waded through the sea of people for a place to watch Zulu. My daughter climbed to a large concrete fencepost. I watched as I prayed she wouldn’t falter and be impaled on the metal fence spikes.

My son’s confidence rose when he discovered himself still alive after five minutes. He told me he was going to push his way to the front. Minutes later he was back, expelled from attempting the front row. I chuckled to myself, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not on the Northshore anymore.”When my daughter was banished from the post we retreated to the grandstand.

But soon we were back out. Just as in life, you get out of a parade what you put into it. When I had my daughter on my shoulders, she scored a baton and stuffed animals. When I refused her she became a bead – scavenging salamander like my poor son.

But even scavengers can collect some daunting loot from two parades and 135 trucks. It had been a whole day of REAL Mardi Gras. And we survived. Noone got lost, no one’s bladder exploded.

I’d opened that bubble, just a little, and it was great. Who knows, maybe next year we can graduate to public toilets! Even better, the car was still there.

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