From the Top of the Ride

Last summer we made our first pilgrimage to Orlando, Florida, where we spent a week exploring Disney World and Universal Studios, splashing in the pool and trying on each other's mouse ears. It's impossible to count all the ways in which a Disney trip is special, for Disney is truly just as much a lifestyle as it is a theme park. We were blessed with minimal meltdowns, only one episode of heat exhaustion, reasonable souvenir expectations, and sunny weather. It honestly doesn't get much better than that.

What made the trip special for me, however, was the fact that for the first time in nearly four years I was neither pregnant nor nursing, which left me free to enjoy the wilder rides with Peanut. Jolly stepped up to commandeer the double stroller while I scampered off with our eldest child, who hadn't seen me do anything remotely fun since before he could remember. I let Peanut be our guide, going without complaint on anything and everything he wished to try. This is notable because Peanut isn't afraid of anything, and it had been over ten years since I'd braved a roller coaster.

Roller coasters haven't changed all that much since my heydey, but I have. Gone is the desire for wild excitement; the flight or fight response is a little too real. For Peanut, however, the world is still a safe haven where near misses and thrills are all in good fun. He bounced with anticipation where I withdrew in apprehension, whooped with glee as I nervously clung to the safety rails, and waved his hands in the air while I squeezed my eyes shut. I don't know if this dampened or heightened his fun - he seemed rather proud to be braver than his mum, but he missed out on having a companion with whom to weave tall tales of danger. Anytime he mentioned possible death or injury I felt compelled to monologue about safety features.

By the time we were standing in line for the Incredible Hulk coaster at Universal Studios I had come to rather sobering realization: I am no longer a woman who takes her child on rides, I am a mom who accompanies her son on rides. It's a fine line, but a solid one, demarcating the leader and the follower. Peanut was taking the lead.

This is how it should be. I'm not complaining nor am I sad. At some point - sooner than we expect - our children march out into the world and expect us to be the ones who toddle after them. We may wish to pull them back or holler at them to stop, but they'll keep going. The important thing is not to make them walk behind us, but to appreciate the time when they'll be content to have us walk beside them. As we waited in line for the Hulk, Peanut talked tough about how he would keep his hands up through all seven loops, but he still hugged me with excitement.

Peanut's enthusiasm did not dampen as were warned by an eerie voice of danger ahead, nor as we were locked into the lime green coaster. He kept his hands up, as promised, and I half-heartedly did the same. As we clacked up the initial incline I reminded myself that I'd been braving coasters all week and that this one would be no worse. But as we reached the crest the coaster did not descend into a gentle fall as expected - we shot forward at 60 miles an hour, pushed down the hill and into the first loop before I could catch my breath. Peanut's hands never stopped waving in the air.

The time will come when Peanut no longer wants me at his side, and it's going to happen just like that roller coaster - he'll shoot forward into a great adventure while I cling to the safety harness. With that in mind, I hope for a couple of things. I hope that I stay motivated to keep up with him while I can. I hope I have the sense to fall back when it's time. And I hope that I never stop touting those safety features, just in case he ends up needing them. It's not often that a parent has the chance to view the horizon of their child's future, but the top of a 150 ft roller coaster is a pretty good place to do it.

Underoos

I still remember getting my first pair of Underoos at the tender age of four. By the time the car's engine had cooled from the trip to the mall I was suited up and fighting crime on our quiet street. I didn't realize that Underoos were underwear until a kindly neighbor lady informed me that I was running around the block in my skivvies. It was one of the most deflating moments of my life, and not because I was embarrassed to have been half naked in public, but because my Wonder Woman outfit got demoted before I'd managed to lasso so much as a rock. I couldn't take refuge in my lair or mansion - Wonder Woman's main digs was an invisible jet. Even if I'd had one the neighbors would still be able to see me. There was simply no getting around the 'don't play outside in your underwear' policy. That pretty much ruined Underoos for me.

I suppose I had more of Tony Stark mentality when it came to being a super hero: none of this mild-mannered, alter-ego stuff for me. What is the point of wearing super hero clothes if no one can see them? I'm super and I want everyone to know it. Fortunately, it's not too late for me to get my girl-empowered geek on.

Of course, a grown woman running around in her underpants is likely to attract undesirable attention, so this time I'm wearing the Underoos over my clothes, a la Super- and Bat- mans. I can practice lassoing the cats and use the empty cardboard box from the new water heater as my (not) invisible jet. Oh my goodness, this is going to be so much fun.

By the Power of Isis!

Splash

For most people, summertime invokes a myriad of good feelings and memories. Everyone is just a little more laid back, a little more fun. Unless you're a SAHM, in which case summer is a seemingly endless, hot, uncomfortable and hectic struggle to keep the tv turned off. When the kids are suddenly home all day, every day, keeping them entertained is an art form. Unfortunately, I'm not the artsy type. I'm also not the field trip type, or the DIY crafts type, or the educational activities type. I'm the type of mom who picks her battles, and preventing the kids from watching too much tv on summer days is a battle I long ago quit waging. But, like any loser, I perpetually feel the sting of defeat.
This feeling is not at all helped by browsing the Kids board on Pinterest, where it seems every other mother has pinned 101 Ideas for Summer Fun. I checked out a few, and many of them are things I will flat out not do. Like teach my children to cook, or build elaborate pillow forts using my cherished sofa cushions, or mix various oils together to teach the kids about density. Screw all that. I like my house tidy, my kitchen child-free, and my oils drizzled on freshly baked bread. Needless to say, I don't often get what I like.
There is one thing, however, I am pretty good about doing with my kids, and that's taking them to the pool. Each summer, as I've juggled different ages and swimming abilities, has been an adventure in heart palpitations and neoprene baby holders. I'm the anxious type, which makes activities involving mortal danger a whole lot of fun. My first summer at the pool I literally counted the seconds between taking a head count of the children, and I did not stray more than two feet away from my youngest. Miraculously, no one drowned that year. Or the two years after that. So you might think I'd have calmed down by now - but alas, no. Going to the pool is the same old ultra-speed aging process of fear and anxiety, punctuated with cold splashes of water to the face.
Today was our first, official pool day of the summer, and it was the same old stress-inducing outing. I plucked Tank off the bottom of the baby pool once or twice, and caught him by the ankle as he took a head dive off a picnic bench onto concrete, but those were the only notable accidents. Beaner's swimming quite well with his Puddle Jumper, and Peanut is a total fish. Which means, with only one potential drowning vicitm to follow obsessively, I was actually able to talk to other moms. And I made a wonderful discovery - I'm not the only crazy one.
Turns out that most moms of very young children feel themselves age several years each time they take their kids to the pool. This was such a relief to learn because, for years, other people have suggested to me that going to the pool is a relaxing activity. These people are not helpful. They know nothing of the heart stopping anxiety of looking up to discover that one's child has disappeared from sight, and not knowing whether to start looking at the bottom of the pool or the edge of it. It's not a mentality - it's biology. When danger is nearby, even in the form of man-made chlorinated goodness, our flight or fight response is triggered. We literally can not relax; relax and someone dies.
Okay, I might be dramatizing it a bit, but I'm not off base. I took a quick poll of moms around the baby pool today and I have anecdotal evidence that I'm right. Anecdotal, people! That's good enough for Fox News, at least.
The good news is that the feeling goes away as the kids get older and pass their swim test. Which means I only have five more years of poolside terror before I can do that relaxing thing I've heard so much about. I'm not sure why I'm willing to weather the pool but can't be bothered to prepare homemade flubber for the kids to play with, or to teach them how to make no-bake cookies. Apparently I'm still more afraid of messes than I am of death.