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How I spent my summer vacation: At The Ex

I took a week off there, didya notice? But now I’m back and in the time-honoured tradition of the first essay of the school year, I declare this to be “How I spent my summer vacation,” week on the blog. I even did you up a special little badge. How do you like me now?

This story really starts when I was about two-and-half-years old, however. My parents brought me to the grand, old Crystal Beach amusement park that has since closed down. I don’t remember this trip at all, but my dad tells me I had been clamouring to ride the Ferris wheel all day. We finally boarded the Ferris wheel — my heavily pregnant mother, my father and I — in the evening and I was incredibly excited. As the Ferris wheel turned, and stopped, and let on more people, and turned and stopped again, it rose higher and higher. My excitement gave way to apprehension and then, being newly toilet trained, I pooed my pants.

And that is how the family legend of when Becky pooed her pants on the Ferris wheel goes.

Let’s flash forward to last week when Ed and I took the kids to the Ex. We love the Ex (cronut burger-itis notwithstanding) and go every year to see who’s at the band shell and check out the buildings and the grounds and eat 99¢ spaghetti, Tiny Tom donuts and ice cream waffles (but only from that one Conklin stand on the midway). But mostly we go to soak up the sights, sounds, smells and vibe of the midway.

This year Ed also managed to get five all-you-can-ride passes for our family. Normally we’d only get those for the two bigger kids, but having one for everybody was nice because it meant we could take Mary on rides she was otherwise just slightly too small for. I mean rides like the merry-go-round and those little bumble bees and the train that rides around and around on track.

Instead, I somehow found myself boarding an incredibly high Ferris wheel with my husband and all three of our children. I don’t think I was blindfolded, drugged, taken at gun point or otherwise coerced against my will, but then again I don’t have any recollection whatsoever of deciding that this would be a good idea either. It wasn’t the classic kind of Ferris wheel where you sit two or three abreast on a bench seat with a lap belt and rock gently to and fro as the wheel turns lazily about. No, this was one of those double seaters with benches facing each other and doors that swing shut on either side but don’t have any sort of [clearly visible] locking mechanism.  [Update: I been assured by my husband that the doors were, indeed, locked.] It had sides that were as high as my shoulders when I was sitting and it had no seat belt. Nor did it have a lap bar or any manner of safety harness.

That’s right, I voluntarily brought my family onto a rickety tin cup that rose five or six stories into the air without A SINGLE SAFETY RESTRAINT. We have teams of engineers design seats with five point harnesses that latch onto the steal frame of the car and then get fire fighters to install them for us in order to drive our children home from the babysitter’s. But an amusement park ride? Six stories in the air? Pshaw. Don’t be a wimp.

Well, I tried. But as we inched higher and higher, stopping to load more and more passengers, Irene started to complain about not being able to see. At one point she craned her neck and I nearly had a heart attack. In fact, I probably did, who knows. I haven’t been able to stop eating chocolate ever since, that’s probably a sign.

“Sit down,” I hissed. “No, really. Just stay seated. Everybody keep your bums on your seats, you can see fine. You’ll see even more when we get to the top.” I was talking in that kind of sing-song, look-at-me-I’m-staying-calm voice that I imagine people use just before they go postal and take out entire commuter trains. Ed thought I was over-reacting, I’m sure, but he knew enough to play along.

As we neared the crest, Colum and Irene were oohing and ahing over the sights and Mary started to squirm. I was sitting on the middle of one bench seat with Irene on one side and Mary on the other. I had my arm around her in a death grip of a hug. I didn’t even trust her on my lap where there would have been too much leverage for climbing and wriggling.

Listen, toddlers are idiots. They are constantly fighting the embrace of those who wish nothing more than to keep them safe from harm. They are also stronger than they look and they sometimes succeed in breaking loose and falling to their deaths. It happens.

So I kept Mary on the seat beside me and squeezed tight with one arm. When she got wriggly, I pinned her down with the other, trusting Irene to stay put on her own. I didn’t care if all she could see was my armpit. We rode that Ferris wheel for a fucking eternity and then, just as it began to slow down, Ed said, “Okay,” and began to lift Colum up out of his seat.

I almost —

I very nearly —

I didn’t actually because Ed really just lifted Colum onto his lap so he could see better rather than, I don’t know, letting him stand on the seat and lean out over the side or whatever nightmare I conjured up.

But still, even if I had, it would have been justified, right? In fact, right there, I should have shit my pants on the Ferris wheel all over again.

So, yeah, other than that it was great. Here are some pics.

By Rebecca Cuneo Keenan

Rebecca Cuneo Keenan is a writer who lives in Toronto with her husband and three children.

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