It's the beginning of August, and around here that means one thing- Farm Show time. Joe was so excited to go, and I thought about how excited my brother and I used to get as kids. I can only imagine how annoying he was to our parents; I, on the other hand, was a model child who practically raised herself. That's my recollection, anyway.
Joe wanted to ride rides. Once upon a time, I would have ridden almost anything. In high school, my best friend Linette tricked me into going on the Magnum at Cedar Point. At that time, it was the world record holder for most pants- shatting drop ever (or something like that.) I vividly remember screaming every swear word I knew, inventing some new ones, and maintaining control of my bowels at 4000 miles an hour. Linette laughed the entire time I was screaming. I think she got more enjoyment out of my reaction than the ride itself. I was just glad that I got off, in one piece, with clean undies.
We used to ride all of that stuff; if it went fast and looked like we had a chance of flying out and dying, we rode it. We'd get out of the death-trap seat, me wobbling slightly and Linette practically hopping with excitement. I was always the wussier one. I swear Linette could ride a tornado and think it didn't go fast enough or turn as tight as it could. She would still ride all of those rides even now if a back injury didn't prevent her from it.
I don't ride those things anymore. I can't. One little thing served as the catalyst for my aversion to death-trap rides- Joe. Ironic, isn't it? He will ride almost anything without fear. If I so much as look at some of them, I want to vomit. I discovered my new found aversion to carnival and amusement park rides after he was born. All I can attribute it to is being pregnant. I know my behind did not return to it's previous placement once he arrived, and all I can assume is that my internal organs did not either. I know that for as huge as I became, the only place my stomach could possibly have been located was between my ears. That's a lot of ground to travel. I've wondered if my guts are actually anchored by bungee cords, and once the cords had been stretched that far, they could just not possibly shrink back to previous proportions. Kinda like over-stretched sock elastic. I've tried to ride like I used to. I've put valiant effort into still being fun. I just can't do it. It feels like my stomach flies around inside my body from my throat to my knees. Sometimes it feels like the contents inside it will soon be outside, too. I swore I would never be one of those wussy moms that wouldn't ride with her kids, but that was before I experienced the miracle of pregnancy. Now I'll ride the more tame things, but the flying death-traps take off without me. I hold the stuffed animals, drinks and sunglasses as I sit with the other moms at the exit.
Last night I was one of those moms as I watched Joe fly around on a magic carpet and then on some thing that went around in a circle and had half-naked mermaids painted on it. Charlie went on that one with him. I stood there, watching them zing around in a circle, holding the drinks and sunglasses, and I smiled. I may not be able to ride those things anymore, but I get to sneak more junk food and pop in while my riders defy death. I think I got the better end of the deal.
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