Carnival

Every August the business association of our little community funds a children’s fair. There are rides, games, a petting zoo, crafts and food, all free of cost. It is always on a Friday so Paul is usually working which means I don’t have him to double team the kids and lines with me. The last time we attended was before my youngest, Eden, was born. It was just Christopher, Lydia and I in the hot, hot sun. He was 5 and she was 3. Imagine accompanying the Tasmanian Devil and a shrinking violet to a carnival – it was a little like that. Christopher wanted to run from thing to thing, not always mindful of others’ personal space or if I was with him. It was the teensiest bit maddening.

Lydia on the other hand would choose a ride, usually something Christopher had no interest in, so I worked hard to keep him in line – literally – and we would wait, seemingly hours, get to her turn and she would choke.

“I don’t want to do it!” She would cry and try to climb up my body.

Ride is really a misnomer. Attraction might be a better word. We are talking about giant pieces of inflated plastic. In one the children could jump themselves silly. One was a giant slide. One was a long whale, through whose innards the children could run. There was one attraction that seemed the hottest ticket. It had the longest line although it was only a small tent, which gave no clue to its hidden delights. Lydia asked to go there next.

A wiser woman would have added up all the attractions that had already proven too scary and said, “NO!” I said, “OK, honey,” figuring that she deserved one more shot at a little fun and that maybe, just maybe, that benign looking little tent would provide it. You all know that it didn’t and I, from the distance of five years, can see it was foolhardy to even hope it could.

What caused this faulty math? I was just emerging from a depression and, though feeling much perkier and hopeful, I still hadn’t shaken off the guilt that I picked up within seconds of conceiving Christopher. I realized the whole carnival scene wasn’t working for us but I attributed it to my inadequacies as a mother. I wasn’t clear that low energy and an abhorrence for almost all places that delight children (see: Chucky Cheese, Disney World, and any carnival, even those in wealthy suburbs) were actually reasonable and that those high energy moms who love “fun” places are the ones who have some explaining to do (see: habitual use of illegal substances) This was one of those times when I really could have used the voice of God and flaming shrubbery to give me some clarity and to get me the crap out of there.

So we waited in the hot sun for another hour. As we approached the front of the line I realized that this amazing attraction was simply a small tent with several fans built into it’s walls which blew the 10 to 12 balloons inside all around so that the three or four children allowed in at a time were able to crazily bat at them. I couldn’t believe it. What a rip off! This was my thought but I had stood in the sweltering sun for an hour so that my kids could bat balloons crazily and, as God and the hundred other people in line behind me were my witness, they would.

Christopher happily slid through the slit of doorway with a couple of other kids while Lydia stood balking. Before she could say anything I shoved her through. My theory was that once she got in there she would enjoy it, which she did. She was merrily jumping, madly hitting at the bobbing balloons until another Merry Flailer elbowed her in the eye. She crumpled to the ground, sobbing. And so ended their turn and our time at the carnival.

“I can’t open my eye!” She cried. I gave her a hug, checked it out and assured her being shut and washed with tears was exactly what it needed and that we would get her all fixed up when we got home. And then we walked very slowly back to our car.

At home, I turned on the TV, plunked both kids in front of it and collapsed on the couch. I still had to finish packing for a family vacation half way across the country. We were leaving early the next morning. I breathed slowly and just let myself relax and bask in the self-congratulation that I was such a good mom to take my kids to this little carnival the day before we began a long car trip. How proud I was that I hadn’t told myself that I was too busy and deprived my children of this fun…it was then I noticed that, over 30 minutes after the elbowing, Lydia’s eye was still closed.

I looked at the clock. It was 4:29 on a Friday afternoon. The timing alone confirmed that I needed to take her to the doctor. Any medical emergency in our home has occurred in the middle of the night, on a holiday or late afternoon on a Friday. I debated between calling the ophthalmologist or the pediatrician. Distance decided. I hurriedly dialed the ophthalmologist’s number and explained the situation to a nurse. She sighed heavily. I waited. Both of us knew what needed to be done and neither of us wanted me to do it.

“How soon can you get here?” She asked.

I looked at my kids still red and sweating, sitting quietly, watching T.V. – Lydia with one eye. I sighed too, “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Chop Chop,” she said and hung up the phone.

We made it in ten. The doctor was jolly and kind and glad we had come in. Lydia had torn her cornea, which would heal on its own, but was very vulnerable to infection. The doctor kindly gave me the drops, sparing me a trip to the pharmacy. Lydia’s eye healed beautifully and we took off on vacation as planned. We didn’t return to this carnival for five years, but that’s another story.

Recently I asked Lydia, now nine, what she remembered about this day. “I don’t remember you pushing me into the tent. I do remember picking up pieces of popped balloons off the ground and handing them to the worker and then I remember seeing an elbow coming towards me.”

Christopher doesn’t remember the day at all.

So there you have it. I sacrificed my time and energy. I stood for hours in the hot sun to show my kids a fun time and the only memory that survived is picking up trash and getting popped in the eye. I need to remember this: my children are going to forget many of the details of their childhood.

When they are grown they will look back and know whether or not they were loved and cherished, whether or not Paul and I honored and respected each other, whether or not our home was filled with peace and joy, whether or not they were guided and led, whether or not they were protected and kept safe.

If I stop thinking of a “fun place” as a location to be visited but instead a space to be created and daily commit to finding ways of enjoying my children, laughing with them and delighting in them, I know their childhood memories will be rich and sweet. Having my own childhood behind me, I already knew this.

I had forgotten, but from now on, I am going to remember.