We just got back from a three-year-old’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese’s or, as I refer to it, the restaurant run by a rat. OK, a mouse, but there’s no alliteration in that.
Walking out, across the parking lot
…my throat sore from yelling …my ears ringing from the cacophony …my pockets overflowing and clanking with tokens …dragging two mylar balloons behind me …a diaper bag jam-packed with sippy cups and hats and coats and jackets digging into my shoulder …my joints and muscles aching from all the kneeling and squatting and chasing and steering wicked fast power boats while trying to corral 50 squirming pounds on my lap…
I said to Mama that I felt like I’d just survived a rock concert, and that it was time to collapse into bed.
It was 7:30 p.m.
Not a.m., like after rock concerts of yore, when I would be returned home missing garments and even shoes at times, slightly befuddled and utterly exhausted, dropped off by a friend. No, after this concert, I got to shoehorn all those goodies into the trunk, strap the two weasely badgers into the back seat and then get yelled at all the way home.
In hindsight, I probably should have turned off the headlights, swerved around and gotten pulled over. At least it would have been quiet sitting outside on the curb.
My friend replied on Facebook that she was glad to have a child over 20. I’d much rather spend an evening in a college bar, lining up shots with kids half my age, than do another tour in Chez Chuckie.
Papa Bradstein will ride 200 miles across Massachusetts in two days to help fight cancer, which will be easier than spending another 20 minutes in Chuck E. Cheese’s house of pain. Please support his ride.