Adventures at Chuck-E-Cheese
I'm not in favor of evening birthday parties for anyone under the age of 25, but that's just me. I believe children's parties should either take place early enough in the morning that you're not completely awake, or close enough to a meal that the children can have fun for exactly 40 minutes, scarf down pizza and cake and we can all get home before bathtime.
Other parents apparently harbor distinctly different notions about such things.
Which is how my Friday afternoon turned into a rush to buy a 6-year-old presents at Wal-Mart after taking the 1 p.m. train home to the burbs, a mad dash home by 3 p.m. in order to not miss the girls' bus home (I only do this at-home mother thing once a week, so I know I'd better not f#%k it up or the bus ladies will forever brand me as "that bad working mom").
That was followed by the delighted squeals and smiles from two 5-year-olds who are pushed beyond ecstasy when I play the stay at home mom role that one day each week (the flip side of working motherhood guilt - they practically get apoplectic when they see me - it's a real ego boost).
After they made homemade cards for their friend, had a snack and watched enough Fairly Odd Parents episodes to sate them for a few hours, we headed out the door toward Chuck-E-Cheese's. Not my ideal party spot, but the girls were stoked, and their happiness is, ispo facto, my happiness, so I buckled them into their seat belts and was just about to go when I somehow slammed my index finger into the spot between the window and the door.
For a few agonizing and somewhat transcendental seconds, I looked at my finger - wedged tightly in a closed door, and had this succession of thoughts:
"My finger is stuck in the door.
"How the hell did I do that?"
"I'd better open the door and get it out."
"This is going to hurt."
"A lot."
When I finally disengaged my digit, it quickly swelled up to three times its normal size, I pushed back tears, and silently wondered if the girls' evening of fun was going to turn into a trip to the emergency room.
Luckily, my father rushed out of the house with a boo-boo bunny and some extra ice packs, and once we got to the party, the swelling decreased and it soon became clear that I had not done any permanent damage.
The girls did fine, and thankfully the place wasn't too crowded (did I mention that I routinely turn down invites to parties if they're held at Chuck-E-Cheese? Now that the girls are learning to read, this is going to get more difficult).
My impaired state only forced one concession - I gave in, I mean completely caved in, to a tantrum L was having because at 9 p.m. (what children's party ends at 9 p.m. when my daughters' demons are just waking up?) she wasn't ready to leave and wanted - in this order - more tokens and ice cream.
So I gave them to her. Then I lied about how many credits we had from the tickets they earned, they both got a sticky eyeball (did I ever mention I am not raising girly-girls?) and we went home.
Then J balked when told she couldn't watch more than 10 minutes of the Lion King 2, and launched into a hysterical, I am so tired I can't even see straight tantrum at 10:30 at night, complete with pillow missiles aimed squarely at my head and kicking arms and legs whenever I got near her. She finally fell asleep after a final exhuasted (but still determined) demand - "I-want-to-watch-the-Lion-King!"
When she woke up this morning (completely rested and sweet as spun sugar), I asked if she remembered her tantrum the night before. She smiled slyly and said she did.
"I turned off the TV and told you you had to go to bed because you were so tired and I knew you needed sleep," I said, in the hopes of teaching her how NOT to behave next time this kind of drama threatens to unfold.
"I wasn't tired," she asserted at first.
"J..." I said.
"OK, mommy - I was sooo tired. I was tired even before I got in my room!"
Thanks for telling me now, little one. Thanks for telling me now....
Other parents apparently harbor distinctly different notions about such things.
Which is how my Friday afternoon turned into a rush to buy a 6-year-old presents at Wal-Mart after taking the 1 p.m. train home to the burbs, a mad dash home by 3 p.m. in order to not miss the girls' bus home (I only do this at-home mother thing once a week, so I know I'd better not f#%k it up or the bus ladies will forever brand me as "that bad working mom").
That was followed by the delighted squeals and smiles from two 5-year-olds who are pushed beyond ecstasy when I play the stay at home mom role that one day each week (the flip side of working motherhood guilt - they practically get apoplectic when they see me - it's a real ego boost).
After they made homemade cards for their friend, had a snack and watched enough Fairly Odd Parents episodes to sate them for a few hours, we headed out the door toward Chuck-E-Cheese's. Not my ideal party spot, but the girls were stoked, and their happiness is, ispo facto, my happiness, so I buckled them into their seat belts and was just about to go when I somehow slammed my index finger into the spot between the window and the door.
For a few agonizing and somewhat transcendental seconds, I looked at my finger - wedged tightly in a closed door, and had this succession of thoughts:
"My finger is stuck in the door.
"How the hell did I do that?"
"I'd better open the door and get it out."
"This is going to hurt."
"A lot."
When I finally disengaged my digit, it quickly swelled up to three times its normal size, I pushed back tears, and silently wondered if the girls' evening of fun was going to turn into a trip to the emergency room.
Luckily, my father rushed out of the house with a boo-boo bunny and some extra ice packs, and once we got to the party, the swelling decreased and it soon became clear that I had not done any permanent damage.
The girls did fine, and thankfully the place wasn't too crowded (did I mention that I routinely turn down invites to parties if they're held at Chuck-E-Cheese? Now that the girls are learning to read, this is going to get more difficult).
My impaired state only forced one concession - I gave in, I mean completely caved in, to a tantrum L was having because at 9 p.m. (what children's party ends at 9 p.m. when my daughters' demons are just waking up?) she wasn't ready to leave and wanted - in this order - more tokens and ice cream.
So I gave them to her. Then I lied about how many credits we had from the tickets they earned, they both got a sticky eyeball (did I ever mention I am not raising girly-girls?) and we went home.
Then J balked when told she couldn't watch more than 10 minutes of the Lion King 2, and launched into a hysterical, I am so tired I can't even see straight tantrum at 10:30 at night, complete with pillow missiles aimed squarely at my head and kicking arms and legs whenever I got near her. She finally fell asleep after a final exhuasted (but still determined) demand - "I-want-to-watch-the-Lion-King!"
When she woke up this morning (completely rested and sweet as spun sugar), I asked if she remembered her tantrum the night before. She smiled slyly and said she did.
"I turned off the TV and told you you had to go to bed because you were so tired and I knew you needed sleep," I said, in the hopes of teaching her how NOT to behave next time this kind of drama threatens to unfold.
"I wasn't tired," she asserted at first.
"J..." I said.
"OK, mommy - I was sooo tired. I was tired even before I got in my room!"
Thanks for telling me now, little one. Thanks for telling me now....
posted by workinmom at 11:36 PM
1 Comments:
I too hate the Chuck E Cheese birthday invites. Thankffully we have doged the bullet so far and have been able to come up with a good enough reason to tell the girls we can't go.
And an evening party would have been a good enough reason. Wow! Over at 9 pm. Apparently not a parent that subscribes to the "Healthy Sleep Habits" school of sleep.
Sorry about your finger. All I can say to that is OUCH!
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