Fun with Children

We are making our way through the midyear break at school. Summer started this week, but one would hardly notice. We can rejoice that the days are now getting shorter, which means night starts a little earlier and kids are more willing to go to sleep. Our kids have no problems going to bed, but the entire going-to-bed routine is better when it’s not blazing sunshine outside.

Matthew is in a pre-kindergarten program called Ready-Set-Go, which purports to be a kindergarten prep program but really seems to be just some bad art projects coordinated by a teacher. He has afternoon daycare and doesn’t really like it. Every day he asks not to go, and we’re thinking we may just cancel it. We haven’t decided. Part of the problem is the scope of the programs: there is a single website that tells you what’s going on and how to administer your participation. The problem is that workflows are difficult and seem to differ for summer programs. I have called several times.

“Oh, it doesn’t work that way for summer programs.”
“I see. How would I know? Does it say so somewhere?”
“Ha ha. No. You have to call us.”

For example, the school does not provide lunch. We’re used to sending lunch so that’s not an issue. But the school has a Lunch Bunch program wherein you can sign up for your kid to get local fast food. Each meal is $11 (which sounds like a lot to me), and you choose the lunch, pay, and someone will bring a sandwich from Jersey Mike’s or pizza from Fresh Bros. Pizza (a local chain) or a Burger Lounge burger. But each day belongs to one vendor, so if tomorrow is pizza, everyone who orders gets pizza. Monday might be Panda Express. I ordered pizza for Matthew (it’s one of the few things he’ll eat) two weeks ago, and I still have no idea when it will arrive for him.

At the previous school, I could stop in and see anyone who would walk me through what I had to do (or would just do it for me). What a luxury.

Max and Will attend ESY (extended school year), which provides their normal school and therapy at their same school in the same room with their same teacher. They are excited to go every day. The school sends a car for them. It sounds grander than it is—it’s a circa-2010 Toyota Prius with a driver who may be the slowest on the planet. (In San Diego, that is strong praise given the very poor driving habits the locals exhibit. It’s nowhere near Delaware in terms of poor driving, but it’s Delaware-adjacent or Delaware-aware.) Before the driver appears in our driveway, we play games. Here, all three children decide they’re living under our stair landing.

Pardon the dust. Chocolate brown is not a kid-friendly color.

They find this kind of play hilarious. We are amused.

At nighttime, as we feed Max and Will, they often want to play hide-and-seek. Here they are, hiding from us.

"Can't find me!"

They are goofballs.

I decided to take Matthew to the San Diego County Fair this year, which is held annually at the Del Mar Horse Racetrack. I despise large public gatherings: airports, cruise terminals, concerts—the entire experience is awful. I have to say that we’ve been to Legoland and that was actually nice, with easy driving and parking. But the racetrack is right on the coast on a sheltered lagoon. Interstate 5 is the main coastal north-south road, and traffic to the County Fair blocks all six northbound lanes on I-5. The local roads can’t really handle the traffic. And I’m a schedule worrier: let’s get there on time or earlier; let’s pore over maps, websites, and travel blogs to see who did what better; and, basically, I obsess. It’s not a happy time. Plus, I don’t know how these things work, and my general anxieties can fill a room.

A few weeks ago, Curtis and I attended Matthew’s preschool graduation. Both of us got sunburn on our heads. Curtis has thinning hair; I have an enormous bald spot. Hats are no longer an option for either of us. But I’m not wearing a Costco floppy sun hat that makes it look like I’m working rice fields in all my spare time. So I researched, examined, priced, and finally bought a medium-brim Panama straw hat in a fedora style. “It’s fasion, Brenda. Look it up.”

I finally told Matthew that we’re going. (I learned long ago that you don’t tell him anything until you’re sure, until you have plans, and until you have thought through every single detail. Why? Because five-year-olds are relentless on the best of days, and I don’t need that level of shit in my life if I haven’t thought it through. I haven’t even told him he’s getting a haircut on Saturday (in two days) because why would I do that?)

All in all, you can see that this is a big undertaking, mostly because I was an operations guy for a large international organization; one of my mottos is "Details R Us." Because if you don’t know the details, how can you call yourself prepared? And how professional really is that? And won’t it reflect on your career for the rest of your life? But no pressure. It’s just a five-year-old, right? WRONG.

Finally, I bought tickets and notified the school we’d be gone and pulled all our collective shit together. I told Matthew the day before and he screamed with excitement. That’s fun. But I was dreading it, with a capital Dread.

How was it?

It was the most fun I’ve ever had with Matthew.

I bought the admission. I got the senior discount and kids 5 and under are free. I paid for Preferred Parking, so we parked fifty yards from the main gate. I purchased the all-rides-for-one-price-for-the-day for both him and me. I was magnificent in my administrative prowess. Matthew was sunscreened and had on a hoodie, which you always need even in summer because wind from the Pacific Ocean is very cool. He had his baseball cap. He was excited. I was winning parenting.

However, I misjudged one eensy thing. We got on the road this morning at 9:50 am. By 10:15, we had fought our way through I-5 north, the criminally small interchange that handles the main traffic to the racetrack, had parked, and were in line. Except that the fair doesn’t open until 11 am.

Matthew and I wait in line for the park to open.

Oops.

Matthew is not a patient waiter, just like his papa. I had considered bringing a stroller or a backpack, but finally rejected those ideas. I left the water bottle in the car on purpose. No need to drag dead weight around. As we got closer to the gate, the workers told us that all drinks not commercially sealed had to be dumped before entering the park, and that there were water-filling stations everywhere. Yikes! There were people there with two and three kids in strollers and enough supplies to hit the Oregon Trail.

Our destination was the Kid Zone, a set of rides appropriate for Matthew’s height. Matthew loves rides. On the first eight or nine rides, we were the only people on them. Matthew loves a carousel, so that was the first ride. But inexplicably, we sat on a bench while he carefully watched the horses in front of us and behind us bob up and down gently. We went on a Ferris Wheel, which was a first for both of us. It was terrifying for me, and wondrous for him.

Our first Ferris Wheel!

We went on several spinning rides and he didn’t expect the spinning part at all. He couldn’t stop laughing and screaming and laughing some more.

What do you mean it spins?

Matthew has this idea that he loves cotton candy. I don’t quite know why, but he does. We saw lots of cotton candy for sale, but the problem was that it was pre-bagged and sitting in the sun. Yuck. I think he thought the same.

We went on every ride except perhaps three in the Kid Zone. One was too small for him, and the others didn’t look very interesting. But he loved it all. The teeny-tiny roller coaster was one of his favorites, though I think he was glad to get off—it went too fast for him.

You could smell barbecue all over the fair. But Matthew would consent to stop only to get a Sno-Cone, his very first.

Cherry Sno-Cone for the win!

After his Sno-Cone, we went on a couple more rides before I decided to get a sausage sandwich with onions and peppers. Hmmm. I don’t eat bread much at all and it was a huge treat to get so much food. And then we went on a spinning ride that also had a twenty-foot up-and-down motion.

And suddenly I got to thinking about what it might be like if I were to throw up on everything. And when that thought creeps into my mind, it is a warning of something imminent and is in no way an idle consideration. Luckily, Matthew hugged me and said, “Papa, I getting tired. Can we go home after you buy me a ninja sword?” “Deal.”

We got home at about 2 pm. Total time spent: three-and-a-half hours, for about $150 total price. That’s pricey to me. But now I know we can have a good time together and he knows we can have fun. And that was completely worth the entire trip. And no one threw up.

This has been one giant success.