We went to the Ex. What follows appears to be a tale of gross child corruption and irresponsible parenting. What can I say? It’s only once a year.
It started in a classic fighter plane. Well, actually, it started at a Super Dog show packed with people getting in out of the rain during which I chastised Ed about never letting our family split up again. This meant I had to bring Irene with me when I went to pick up a discounted, small-sized school bag for her. I think you see where this is going. Let’s just say it was very pink, very sparkly and very Barbie™ in giant, bubbly 3D form. She was threatening a full and total freak out if she didn’t get it, holding the entire visit to the CNE against me. I had no choice.
So how about some bombers, then? Pinkest fighter pilot ever.
Colum was schooling the other kids in line about how this bomber works. Somehow he’s an expert on military jets? I swear teach a kid how to read and use the remote and it’s the beginning of the end.
Oh, a tank! The baby’s going to want to see this! We eventually pried the kids away from the weapons of mass destruction and made our way to the Food Building. We then gorged ourselves on our usual meal of everything that’s cheap and not, like, a $10 hamburger. So, er, that was spaghetti in tomato sauce, sausage on a bun, back bacon on a bun, pierogies and some random pepperoni sticks. What? Processed meat is a vegetable, isn’t it?!
Bring on the rides! It was actually still quite bright. I’m not quite sure what happened with this picture, but I’m including it anyway because the sight of my two bigger kids, side-by-side on a driving-around-in-circles car ride, brought me right back to my own childhood. My brother and I would ride these very same rides over and over again, year after year, and they remain some of the brightest, most joyous moments of my life.
Bumble bees! The next ride up was the merry-go-round, only I was concerned it would be too lame during the day. Because that’s what mothers of three year olds are always concerned about, right? Is that ride too lame? Is it not scary enough? Wouldn’t it be better and more exciting after dark? Maybe an hour or two after her regular bedtime? Apparently that’s what I was thinking.
So we went to the petting zoo because I’m pretty sure they close that when it gets dark. Ed led Mary around while she gently touched the lambs and kid goats, squealing with excitement, cuteness oozing out of her pores. I walked back and forth calling out to Colum and Irene to please, for the ever-loving last time, stop chasing the ducks and chickens all over the place. They don’t want to be pet. I wasn’t at all bitter about that division of labour. I’m still not.
“Mom! Mom! Take our picture. We’re pretending to be a crown. MAKE SURE NOT TO GET OUR LEGS.”
Oops.
Look at that baby turkey. And the bird’s pretty cute too. Get it? Groan.
Why wouldn’t you let your very young children play on the floor of the farm building? With a water bottle, no less.
I know know … maybe for the same reason you don’t give a baby a tattoo?! Bad parenting. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.
Is it dark enough and late enough to go on some more rides now, Mom? Why yes, children, it is. But please, before you go on the merry-go-round, please ride this kiddie version of the Polar Express first. We heard the screaming just as soon as the ride started. The cars were whipping around and around at a frenzied speed, gravity pulling Irene farther and farther toward her brother on the outer side of the bench seat. She was my fearless child who has enjoyed every ride she’s ever gone on. And I think maybe I broke her. She was not having fun. Finally, toward the end, she seemed less terrified and more shell shocked. She got off and said, “That was scary, Mommy. It was still fun, but it was scary.”
She declined going on a very tame motorcycle kiddie ride with her brother after that and then the kiddie merry-go-round was closed. Closed?! Don’t they know it’s lame until it gets dark?! So we put them on the merry-go-round in the main midway, Ed standing right next to Irene the whole time, and she still thought it was a little fast. I really hope she doesn’t stay broken.
We left just before midnight. I have no idea how an eleven and a half month-old baby stayed up that late. Oh dear.
It was empty!! Tell me I’m not the only one whose kids all love nothing more than sucking back the last remnants of an empty coffee cup?
Whatever. It was a really, really good time.
Nothing says lazy summer days like hanging out in the backyard with an iced tea and a paperback. Leave the Dostoevsky on the shelf, though, and pick up an exciting page turner or two or ten. My very own dad’s latest true crime title fits the bill perfectly.