I love amusement parks. I always have. In my wild impetuous youth, some might have said that I was a thrill seeker. As in, someone who repeatedly eats a plate of enchiladas and then gets on the tilt-a-whirl before they’ve settled. Threw up just outside the exit gate. Every. Single. Time.
Drove my mother crazy.
The amusement park attendants weren’t too happy with me either.
Fiddledaddy and I went to Disney World on our honeymoon. I married a fellow thrill seeker. Only he has the good fortune to have better intestinal fortitude. And the good sense not to eat Mexican food before climbing aboard the Tower of Terror.
I get seasick too. When we were living in Los Angeles, Fiddledaddy surprised me with a boat trip to Catalina Island for my birthday. And because he’s wise, he brought me Dramamine.
I, in turn, surprised him by being rendered unconscious the entire trip. Who knew Dramamine would have that entertaining side affect on me?
But still, I persist. Set me free in an amusement park and I’m going to seek out the ride that will make me the most sick in the shortest amount of time. Although, I must say, “Mission Space” at Epcot is now dead to me. And apparently to a few others who have actually died on it.
Since we’ve had three children, we haven’t been able to frequent our favorite thrill rides together. We have longed for the day when the children are old enough that they can tag along. Alas, we know for certain that Emme won’t be joining us. She’s the cautious child that sits in the back seat warning us not to go over the speed limit. And she won’t even ride “Peter Pan” at the Magic Kingdom. Which is really a sissy ride, for a maniac of my caliber.
While Cailey is fearless, she gets notoriously car sick. So, she’s out of the running. One family member barfing at the ride’s exit is enough.
All of our hopes have been pinned on Jensen. Until now. Today at the park, he was happily swinging in the baby swing. With me pushing. And pushing. And pushing. He giggled uproariously, with the wind in his hair. And then he got quiet. And a little green. “Ready to stop, buddy?” Weakly, he said “yeah mommy.” I pried him out of the rubber seat, since he has outgrown the baby swing by a good 15 pounds. We both picked ourselves off the ground, and then I heard “the sound.” The rumbling of the tumbling. He started heaving and threw up stuff that I’m quite sure I had not fed him.
Afterwards, he headed for the curly cue slide. And he went down a dozen or so more times. And I let him. Good thinking.
Finally we all piled into the van for a short drive home. And I gave Jensen a rolled up flour tortilla that was nicely buttered. Because I figured he was, you know, hungry.
When we got home, I noticed my little man was very lethargic. And tired. I dressed him in his favorite Einstein kids pjs and we settle into the rocker.
Where we rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and………hello flour tortilla.
It’s a good bet that Jensen won’t be joining us on the Rockin’ Roller at Disney MGM. I suppose Fiddledaddy and I will have to wait until they are all grown before we can once again frolic on the wild side.
Of course by then, those warning signs posted above all the really scary rides will apply directly to us. But on the bright side, at least I can partake of the enchiladas using my senior citizen discount.
There’s always a silver lining if you look hard enough.