In What Comic Would You Be?

Early yesterday afternoon, Cal was wrapping up what could have been his 20th Garfield episode of the day when he engaged me in the following conversation with him.

Cal: "Mom, if you could be in any comic world, what would it be?"

Me: "Do I get to also pick the character?"  This was important.

Cal: "Yes."

Me: "Okay, Marvel, Wonder Woman."  Wonder Woman kicks ass.

Cal grinned and shook his head.  Clearly I don't know my superhero lines very well.

Me: "Oh, it's DC, right? I'd pick DC, Wonder Woman."

Cal was disappointed with this choice.

Me:  "What, you'd pick Garfield, right?"  I knew this is what he wanted ME to say.

Cal: "Yes. What Garfield character would you be?"

Me: "Hmm... I'd be Odie. He's just blissfully happy."  He is.

Cal: "You wouldn't be Arlene?"

Me: "Who's Arlene?"

Cal: "The pink cat.  Garfield's girlfriend."

Me: "No. And be treated like that?"  Hell no.

Cal: "But you like Garfield!"  I do.  Always have.  Why is that?  I like his attitude.  And that he's a cat.

Me: "Well, yeah. I just wouldn't want to be his girlfriend. Who would you be? You'd be  Garfield, wouldn't you?"

Cal: "Yep."  No hesitation.

I don't know how I feel about this.  I mean, Garfield over Avengers, Thor?  DC, Batman?  Marvel, Deadpool?  What does this mean?  I'm not raising a kid who aspires to be fat, lazy and apathetic... am I?

Not a chance.  And I don't want to be Odie, either -- I want to be Wonder Woman.

The "Joys" of the Germy Joint

I wrote this in a note on my iPhone when the Leatherkids and I went to Ball Factory... scratch that... when I was suckered into taking them to Ball Factory on one of their days off of school late during Christmas break.  I intended to finish and post it that day, but darn it if we didn't find a positive in the experience and the day ended up getting away from me.  Anyway, here it is, somewhat raw and completely honest:

I am in Hell at the moment. Paid $22 to enter it, too. It's crowded, it's loud, and it's... dirty. I'm not wearing shoes (it's the policy here), and there's a high risk of me stepping in something wet or sticky or crunchy. I'm certain my elbows are in a sticky substance now. I am outnumbered in virtually every category imaginable, except for the one totaling the sex of the adult who drove an SUV or minivan here. I am one of that majority.

I just hope my shoes and coat are there when I return to the packed coat area when we're leaving in an hour. Please, please, PLEASE let it be only an hour.

I wonder if those three women that I saw sitting in a circle to the left of the climbing thing do this on a regular basis. They were all smiles as one of them was talking about something that had the other two fully engaged. I tried to imagine what the topic was. Stereotypes had me thinking it had to be something about her kids - what they got from Santa, tips she has for limiting screen time, whether Pitch Perfect 3 is safe for an 8-year-old to watch. Stereotypes are terrible.

Me, I was wishing, if we were to be at one of these kid joints, we were at Sky Zone, Cal's choice for a fun place to go. I was right. Ball Factory is more suitable for younger, toddler-type kids. Sky Zone couldn't be as crowded and brimming with these unpredictable, dirty little ones. I hope we don't bring too many germs home with us.

I wonder how noticeable my panic was as I maneuvered my way out of the play area. I made it a point to breathe deliberately and measured as I did so. Don't be bothered by the kids darting to and fro in front of and around me. Step left as the teenager pushing the garbage can through the crowd made the impossible possible. Could this frantic stimulation bring my vertigo back?

They should really serve wine at these places. Or Xanax.

I remember the first time I came to one of these play places. It was a 2- or 3-year-old's birthday party at a jumpy place. I was excited for Cal. It'd be a new experience for him, climbing and sliding and crawling through seemingly endless tunnels. And with kids his age. I was anxious then, too, but for a different reason. It wasn't easy to watch my kid climb up or in and then disappear for any period of time. Was he getting kicked? Was he scared? Or, the worst, did someone take him?

These places are great for kids to be kids but just awful for parents. Just awful. There's just too much anxiety any way you look at it. Either I'm frantically trying to track my kids to ensure they're safe -- and still there! -- or I'm navigating my way around darting kids a third my size, stepping over spilled food and hoping I don't unknowingly lean my elbow on a misplaced booger, thinking more about my own survival than what my kids are up to.

And the grodiness!

Who in his right mind would choose to work here?  The turnover must be high.

Are most of these parents as miserable as I am? To be honest, aside from those mom's, most look like robots. Parent machines programmed to go to Ball Factory with their young kids today. Sign the waiver, de-gear and send their kids into the kiddie abyss. Smile when their kids emerge from the abyss and show no emotion at any other time. Machines programmed to survive this chaos -- this loud, dirty, germy chaos.

We ended up running into some old friends from the kids' pre-school at this place.  Couldn't believe it -- at Ball Factory of all places.  Ella and Keira hugged and smiled; Cal and Kalen... well, I think they enjoyed their time together but wonder if their time as tight friends had passed.  Perhaps it's just that they're boys and wear their emotions differently.  And I caught up a bit with Ms. Kristan, their former teacher at Goddard who was babysitting for the Davises that day.

If I were to find a positive in that Ball Factory experience, it would be that reunion.  It's not that it's a stretch, but I really hate that place.  I grimaced as I wrote that phrase.  I hate it.  Even witnessing the joys of a couple of re-ignited old friendships can't take that away from me.