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"Victory Field Test Run" explores the quietly transformative experience of intergenerational bonding. The protagonist—a grandfather affectionately called Dada—becomes an unlikely adventurer in a world dictated by toddlers. What begins as a simple act of babysitting evolves into a journey through responsibility, nostalgia, and childlike wonder. The narrative shows how time spent with the young can refresh the spirit, prompting the adult to slow down, observe, and reengage with joy.

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“Victory Field Test Run”

It was half past the lunch hour on a Friday afternoon. The last bite of my floral pâté—a lavender chicken salad on rye—was barely swallowed when the doorbell rang. I already knew who it was. My son Vic had warned me earlier that he and Mindy would be dropping off the boys, Herald and Tim, five and three years old, respectively. They were off to celebrate the anniversary of their first date—again. They never ran out of reasons to clink glasses.

When I opened the door, they were already halfway back to their car. Vic gave me a salute, and Mindy, without slowing down, recited their checklist:
“Both boys are potty trained. Snacks are in the bag. Double stroller is in the driveway next to your car. Good luck, Dada!”

And just like that, the doorbell still echoing faintly, they were gone.

The boys barrelled in with the momentum of a circus act. They called me Dada, a name that made me feel fifty percent softer and fifty percent older. Herald, the elder, wasted no time reporting the breaking news:
“Dada, Victory Field turned into a Kids Carnival! I saw it when we were driving here. There's a carousel, a train ride, a helicopter ride, and many more!”
He was out of breath, his eyes twice their usual size.

I held up a hand like a seasoned referee. “Hold on, my young reporter. First, we do the backyard test. If you pass, we talk carnival.”

Herald nodded solemnly, like I had just handed down a sacred decree. He reached into the toddler supply bag, tossed me a juice box like a field medic handing off rations, and turned to Tim.
“Hold Dada’s hand,” he said.

Tim gripped my fingers like a little vice. We filed out the backdoor in parade formation.

Herald helped me jam the snack bag under the stroller seat like a seasoned engineer. While I fumbled with straps and Velcro, I let go of Tim for just a moment. That was all he needed.

In a flash, he sprinted toward the edge of the patio where an old paint bucket had collected last night’s rain. He heaved it with a triumphant grunt, sending a cascade of water across the walkway.

Herald sighed. “Water spill is not part of the backyard test,” he said with the tragic authority of a disappointed schoolteacher. “Tim knows standing water is not good.”

Tim spun around, shirt half-soaked, grinning ear to ear. “Look, Dada! I’m strong! I can tip the bucket!”

I walked over, gave the little Hercules a once-over, and scooped him up. “Strength is good,” I said. “But let's save the flood tricks for when you're older.”

With Herald’s help, we finally tucked the bag in place and strapped Tim into the stroller seat like a squirming burrito. I clicked the safety buckles, checked the wheels, and grabbed my hat.

“Mission status?” I asked Herald.

He saluted. “Backyard test: passed. Recommend proceeding to Victory Field.”

Three blocks later, as the golden afternoon light fell over the tree-lined street, the carousel’s music drifted toward us like a dream. Herald’s legs bounced with anticipation. Tim pointed wildly at the spinning colors.

And I, the only adult in the room—or rather, on the sidewalk—pushed the stroller forward and thought to myself, Not a bad way to spend a Friday after lunch.