I need to talk about something kind of crazy for a few minutes. About a month ago, my husband’s family did the nicest thing ever and treated all of us to a weekend-long amusement + water park extravaganza. Because we only had about 48 hours at Walley World, including travel, we packed a lot into a day. With three little chicks, that means, more specifically, a million bathroom breaks, a handful of meltdowns and a few moments of sheer panic when passing through swarms of farmer’s-tanned strangers.
I don’t do well in crowds. You might not know that about me. I have some lingering claustrophobia I blame on my older brother, Matt, who used to wrap a blanket around my head and sit on me. I think it’s an intense aversion to feeling trapped. Wearing sweatpants under a heavy quilt makes me feel trapped. People wrapping their arms around me from behind makes me feel trapped. And crowds definitely make me feel trapped. But in addition to that, there are some very unique nuances to the amusement park environment that no one really talks about that are Level 100 unsettling.
Entering the park
After you’ve been herded through the gates – bags searched (Why yes, those are my feminine hygiene products, sir), ticket scanned – you’re in. You’re golden. Then you look around and your momentary joy is immediately replaced by a mudslide of unease. The common area just past the gates at an amusement park looks like what I imagine Times Square would look like 5 minutes after a nuclear attack hit the west coast.
People are running around grabbing park maps, filling up lockers, pointing and pleading. Those who aren’t in motion are the ones standing in groups either lost entirely or fighting loudly about which area they should hit first.
“I want to go to the Land of Lollipops before the Happy Hills, damnit!”
“The Happy Hills blow, Gina. We’re going to Jubilant Jollyville and you can shut your face about it.”
On this particular occasion, we were guided to a booth to get wristbands with our cell phone number to put on the girls’ wrists. This, I was told, would come in handy if we got separated somehow in the sea of 20,000 people. I don’t know about you, but this type of exercise always comforts this mama’s soul.
The wave pool
I could write an entire novel about the living night terror that is the wave pool. My children are drawn to this attraction like Carrie Bradshaw to a shoe sale. They can’t be bothered to stop at anything else. If it has the words “wet” or “splash” or “rapids” in it, they’re waist deep before I’ve set the towels down on a sticky bench.
If you’ve never had the pleasure, a wave pool at a waterpark is essentially a giant bathtub, filled with a melting pot of humanity and children who can’t swim well, that routinely ripples with less-than-impressive waves. My favorite part of standing knee-deep in this urine bucket is watching everyone – adults included – lose their shit when the bell sounds, signifying the waves are about to begin. I can’t imagine what these people do at the actual ocean with actual waves.
True to form, my chicks begged to go straight to the nasty ripple fest. I stood there, as far back as I could be while still maintaining a rescuer’s stance, and watched a glob of thick black hair from an identifiable part of a stranger’s body float by my shins. To my left, a group of moms floated on noodles, speaking a language I didn’t understand. They’d been there, no doubt, at least two pees. To my right, a rather large man covered from head to big toe in a familiar thick black hair squatted curiously. Things inside me shriveled as I watched JoJo mermaid dive about 5 feet away, emerging with her mouth wide open.
This is the wave pool at an amusement park. And we’re all pretending it’s totally normal.
Also, peeing in a bathroom near a waterpark is like squatting behind a fern in the amazon. That is all.
The swelling
This falls under the category of “self-inflicted first-world problems” but I swell like the Pillsbury Thanksgiving Day parade float in amusement parks. That happens, you know, when you go an entire day without consuming a drop of water and eat only things that fall into one of five categories:
Cheese
Sugar
Fried cheese
Fried sugar
Fried bread
It’s not necessarily convenient to pull out a giant vat of grease and fry up strips of bread or Twinkies at home, so if you’re going somewhere and they’re willing to do it, it seems silly, almost insulting, not to take advantage. The problem is, after a day of this circus diet, I can’t move my wedding ring and my ankles don’t bend. A sacrifice I’m willing to make? You’re damn right.
The “thrills”
When I was growing up, the Magnum at Cedar Point was it. If you could get your happy ass on the Magnum and live to brag about it, you’d made it. You had balls as big as a Clydesdale and everybody knew it.
This summer, my JoJo was tall enough to hit the major rides. There was no way I was going to look at that big grin and not get on a roller coaster with her. As we climbed on, I reached over and grabbed her tiny hand. She was shaking, but still pumped. We shot out of the gate and went head over feet, feet over head for a solid 45 seconds, laughing and screaming and loving every second.
Not to be outdone or left out, Spike insisted she ride the tallest coaster in the park, which she just so happened to be tall enough to ride, by a stray curl. So, we got in line for the last ride of the day. This was one of those old wooden roller coasters. The kind that sounds like an angry mob trying to break the rusty hinges off an old storm cellar every time it blows by. Still, I felt like it was a solid parenting choice.
We climbed on, JoJo next to me, Spike and Hank behind us. As soon as I saw the lap belts, I started sweating. I frantically pulled the belt, trying to make it so tight it cut off both of our circulation. I pressed down on the lap bar, which seemed to be suspended 4 inches above our thighs at least. It didn’t matter, we were going.
As we climbed up the first hill, the biggest in the amusement park by a mile, she still had a whisper of a smile on her face. And then … like our equilibrium, it was gone.
As the old rickety ride hurled us over hills and down through black tunnels, I heard her screams:
“Mommy, I don’t like it!”
“Mommy, save me!”
“Mommy, I want off!”
“Mama! Mama!”
“Mom, I don’t want to die!”
Hell, if I wasn’t a 35-year-old mother, I would have been screaming the same exact shit. But I was just screaming, period. All I could think was, I willingly, voluntarily put two of my children on this death trap. I did this. And now we’re all going to die.
What was likely just over a minute, felt like an hour. Our bodies jerking and jolting through the humid summer night air. As it came to an abrupt end, it felt like I had fire in my throat. I realized I’d been holding onto JoJo’s lap strap the whole time. My wrist felt bruised from being brutally hurled against the divider between us. I unclenched things I didn’t know you could clench. My oldest daughter looked at me like I’d just given her a puppy, then promptly poisoned it. It was, “How could you?!” without a word being spoken between us.
I turned around and there sat Spike. Eyes wide. Smiling like an insane person. I guess it takes all kinds, doesn’t it?
