The Haunted House.
Peering into the glass advertising "Tickets" in gilded gold cursive, I stared into the eyes of a woman I immediately suspected was a runner-up in any of the Miss America Pageants of the fifties. Or perhaps a once-June Cleaver impersonator. Her auburn hair was perfectly coiffed, her lips as perfectly lined as the smile lines around her eyes. Likely she had not seen many customers in her corner of the park this day, and her eyes lit up as I leaned in to inquire:
" Hello, ma'm. I'm just wondering about this ride. Is it....terribly scary? I mean, is it gory?"
"Oh my, no", her hand instinctively going to her collared cotton shirt. "It's mainly strobe lights and a few ghost sounds. There are streamers at the end that touch their faces in the dark, but that's right before they come out. And they're just streamers."
I thanked her, smiling as I walked away, now certain if she hadn't been in the running for Miss America, she had at least spent the summers of her youth running circles outside of the ticket booth she now sat in. From our first walk under the wrought iron-and-neon-lit "Knoebles" sign, it felt as though we had traveled back in time, taking in an amusement park that has celebrated "85 years and counting" by the banners hanging off it's retro amphitheater. The Whip, the Tilt-A-Whirl and a plethora of colorful rides from the multiple decades it's been built upon give it a completely charming vintage feel.
This is why, upon returning to the table holding my people awaiting my word under the revolving food pavilion roof, I decided to let them use their remaining tickets on this ride. I figured, of all the haunted house amusement park rides in all the world, the one located in this squeaky-clean, straight-out-of-the-1950's would be the one to let them loose in. Besides, June Cleaver told me it was just a few strobe lights. How scary could it be?
The children all yelled for joy. FINALLY their old stick-in-the-mud for a mother had relented, allowing them to journey into the dark...a request she had soundly rejected so many times before. As it is a pay-per-ride system, I scraped together our remaining tickets and we gathered in the (non-existent) line to get our long-awaited thrills in the Haunted House. I felt confident that since we were the only ones around (no trail of die-hard, zombie-loving teenagers waiting to dive into a ride of terror) this would be a suitable "first-time" experience for my generally rough and ready children.
The little red carts on rails sat waiting, and the elderly ticket taker (who probably once chased the elderly ticket seller in his hay day) advised two or three per cart. My youngest, the twins, dashed on the first cart before I knew what was happening and Christopher jumped on with them exclaiming, "You can trust them with me, mom. I got this" right before the little red cart disappeared behind the heavy wood front doors that closed with a bang. The girls were giggling as they handed over their tickets and they too were swallowed by the door before I could shout any instructions on where to wait for us. I jimmied my big mom "beach bag" into the front of our cart with Curt squeezing himself in what was left of the narrow bench seat. For a nano second, I wondered why we hadn't insisted on going first but then the feeling of sitting down for the first time in hours distracted me and I let the thought go...for about thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds into the ride, I feel the sensation of regret rising from the pit of my stomach, not to be confused with the sensation coming from the guy to my left who was trying to cop a feel in the dark. I swatted his hand away, marveling at a man's ability to zero in on (the) one thought no matter the circumstance. The manufactured ghost noises and screams made it impossible to tell if it was my children's and I started to sincerely worry we had made a terrible mistake. While it wasn't violent and gory, it also was not merely strobe lights and streamers. As the three minutes let up and the double wooden doors clapped back open and spit us out into daylight, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. In what felt like ten minutes, but was merely ten seconds, I took in the pointed, disgusted shake of the head by the elderly ride attendant as we stepped out of the cart. I followed his disapproving eyes out beyond the porch, to the stony pavement surrounded by a half circle of tree-lined benches, where other families sat. And there, like little vagabonds, each facing different directions and wandering apart from each other were our terrified offspring, most of whom where wailing loudly, holding themselves for comfort.
I ran across the pavement and scooped up the snotty majority, loudly and dramatically proclaiming for ALL to hear "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking! I shouldn't have gone last! We shouldn't have gone AT ALL! Never again!". My husband, who quickly assigned himself to the two bravest with dry faces threw a little "Nice idea, hon" zinger at me, to which I threw back a "Don't you dare pin this on me!"..and we walked out of the mansion courtyard and through the cheery theme park with shell-shocked, tear-stained children. I myself was in a state of disbelief that my basic parenting common sense could be so swiftly and utterly compromised.
For all the times we remember to pack the Tylenol, bring socks to the bounce gym, sign the spelling tests, include the correct number of beach towels, reapply sunscreen, check for ticks, say "no" to more sugar and "yes" to more sleep...we should not be taken by such surprise when we slip and fail and fall prey to the well-meaning advice of June Cleavers in vintage ticket booths who sell us streamers and strobe lights. Even our tightest good mom defenses have their weak moments..and we can carry that all the way to the bank in our little red carts.We are each, after all, only novices in an occupation of which no book can adequately prepare. So we do what we can and remember we are human.
PS. We bought another pack of tickets. We couldn't let it end there. So instead, we took to the skies and the smiles reappeared.
" Hello, ma'm. I'm just wondering about this ride. Is it....terribly scary? I mean, is it gory?"
"Oh my, no", her hand instinctively going to her collared cotton shirt. "It's mainly strobe lights and a few ghost sounds. There are streamers at the end that touch their faces in the dark, but that's right before they come out. And they're just streamers."
I thanked her, smiling as I walked away, now certain if she hadn't been in the running for Miss America, she had at least spent the summers of her youth running circles outside of the ticket booth she now sat in. From our first walk under the wrought iron-and-neon-lit "Knoebles" sign, it felt as though we had traveled back in time, taking in an amusement park that has celebrated "85 years and counting" by the banners hanging off it's retro amphitheater. The Whip, the Tilt-A-Whirl and a plethora of colorful rides from the multiple decades it's been built upon give it a completely charming vintage feel.
This is why, upon returning to the table holding my people awaiting my word under the revolving food pavilion roof, I decided to let them use their remaining tickets on this ride. I figured, of all the haunted house amusement park rides in all the world, the one located in this squeaky-clean, straight-out-of-the-1950's would be the one to let them loose in. Besides, June Cleaver told me it was just a few strobe lights. How scary could it be?
The children all yelled for joy. FINALLY their old stick-in-the-mud for a mother had relented, allowing them to journey into the dark...a request she had soundly rejected so many times before. As it is a pay-per-ride system, I scraped together our remaining tickets and we gathered in the (non-existent) line to get our long-awaited thrills in the Haunted House. I felt confident that since we were the only ones around (no trail of die-hard, zombie-loving teenagers waiting to dive into a ride of terror) this would be a suitable "first-time" experience for my generally rough and ready children.
The little red carts on rails sat waiting, and the elderly ticket taker (who probably once chased the elderly ticket seller in his hay day) advised two or three per cart. My youngest, the twins, dashed on the first cart before I knew what was happening and Christopher jumped on with them exclaiming, "You can trust them with me, mom. I got this" right before the little red cart disappeared behind the heavy wood front doors that closed with a bang. The girls were giggling as they handed over their tickets and they too were swallowed by the door before I could shout any instructions on where to wait for us. I jimmied my big mom "beach bag" into the front of our cart with Curt squeezing himself in what was left of the narrow bench seat. For a nano second, I wondered why we hadn't insisted on going first but then the feeling of sitting down for the first time in hours distracted me and I let the thought go...for about thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds into the ride, I feel the sensation of regret rising from the pit of my stomach, not to be confused with the sensation coming from the guy to my left who was trying to cop a feel in the dark. I swatted his hand away, marveling at a man's ability to zero in on (the) one thought no matter the circumstance. The manufactured ghost noises and screams made it impossible to tell if it was my children's and I started to sincerely worry we had made a terrible mistake. While it wasn't violent and gory, it also was not merely strobe lights and streamers. As the three minutes let up and the double wooden doors clapped back open and spit us out into daylight, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. In what felt like ten minutes, but was merely ten seconds, I took in the pointed, disgusted shake of the head by the elderly ride attendant as we stepped out of the cart. I followed his disapproving eyes out beyond the porch, to the stony pavement surrounded by a half circle of tree-lined benches, where other families sat. And there, like little vagabonds, each facing different directions and wandering apart from each other were our terrified offspring, most of whom where wailing loudly, holding themselves for comfort.
I ran across the pavement and scooped up the snotty majority, loudly and dramatically proclaiming for ALL to hear "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking! I shouldn't have gone last! We shouldn't have gone AT ALL! Never again!". My husband, who quickly assigned himself to the two bravest with dry faces threw a little "Nice idea, hon" zinger at me, to which I threw back a "Don't you dare pin this on me!"..and we walked out of the mansion courtyard and through the cheery theme park with shell-shocked, tear-stained children. I myself was in a state of disbelief that my basic parenting common sense could be so swiftly and utterly compromised.
For all the times we remember to pack the Tylenol, bring socks to the bounce gym, sign the spelling tests, include the correct number of beach towels, reapply sunscreen, check for ticks, say "no" to more sugar and "yes" to more sleep...we should not be taken by such surprise when we slip and fail and fall prey to the well-meaning advice of June Cleavers in vintage ticket booths who sell us streamers and strobe lights. Even our tightest good mom defenses have their weak moments..and we can carry that all the way to the bank in our little red carts.We are each, after all, only novices in an occupation of which no book can adequately prepare. So we do what we can and remember we are human.
PS. We bought another pack of tickets. We couldn't let it end there. So instead, we took to the skies and the smiles reappeared.
Comments
Thanks for that laugh...
Your posts always cause a smile :)
Happy fourth to one of my favorite Momma's to little ones!
Hugs!