‘Twas the first day of Christmas break, and Cowboy already needed a day out of the house; he doesn’t waste any time when it comes to celebrating. It was a misty day, as we drove to his weekly speech therapy appointment across town. As we drove, I thought of a few indoor activities we could do later – movie, indoor putt-putt golf, video games. Shopping, or going to any kind of mall, was out of the question five days before Christmas. In spite of my mental list, I knew where Cowboy wanted to go. But I was still holding out for something more lethargic.
As always, when Cowboy’s speech session was over, I joined him and his therapist, Mona, to hear how his session went.
"He did great today,” Mona reported. “He worked hard, and had strong sounds in his words. We just need to keep working on elongating his vowel sounds.”
Cowboy sat, smiling, as he turned his iPad around to show me what he had been typing. The words “Urban Air” stared back at me. Just what I’d suspected. And sly Cowboy was calling in reinforcements by telling Mona what he wanted. My internal Mom Peer Pressure spiked.
“Oh yes, he's been talking about that a lot today," Mona explained.
"Oh, I'm sure," I replied. "He's been asking to go for a couple of weeks. It's an indoor trampoline park, with a zip line. And he loves zip lines.”
“Oh, how fun. That sounds great,” Mona innocently replied, adding to my Guilt Factor.
Usually, I reserve physical activity outings for Flash and I to take Cowboy together. But Flash was on Day 4 of the Plague; like Wesley in The Princess Bride, he’d been “mostly dead” all day, and couldn't sit up for long periods of time, much less jump.
The day before, I’d suggested to Cowboy, "We'll go Saturday, if Dad's feeling better. If he's not feeling better, we'll go look at Christmas lights at night." Hardly a consolation prize. But, sitting there with Mona, looking at The Face No Mom Could Resist, as Cowboy’s eyes pierced my soul, I knew I had to woman-up and take him by myself. It had been a long time since the two of us had gone on an activity date, and with his recent progress, I knew we needed to try normal things again.
To say he was thrilled is a gross understatement. His patience was impressive, as we drove home to eat lunch and change clothes. But within 40 minutes, we were in jumping heaven. Energized by the Spirit of Christmas, I was almost skipping to the trampolines, as I called out behind me, "Let's go play, Cowboy!"
Never have more naive words been spoken. In hindsight, I’d forgotten my age.
Of course, Cowboy made a bee-line to the zip line. I held my breath, wondering if the adrenaline of this “fun” activity would trigger his anxiety. But he did well, and zipped twice in a row, as I stood on a nearby bench to watch him fly. It felt like a milestone was met for both of us.
Next, we spotted obstacle courses. Not obstacles on solid ground, but suspended over a large ball pit.
"Hey Cowboy, let's try this. This looks fun." Again, I thought I was 10 years old.
He obliged. We started with the easiest course – it had a horizontal rope ladder suspended a few inches above the pit. The goal was to crawl across the ladder without falling into the abyss. I traveled 2.5 inches before falling. Cowboy took a more direct route, simply jumping into the balls after a failed attempt to crawl on the ladder. In the midst of those clear, plastic balls, I thought about the zillions of snot-infested children who’d played there in the past week. I realized the impossibility of removing every single germ from every ball, just as Cowboy purposely buried his face in the pit.
“Cowboy, don't put your face there,” I hollered. Of course, he laughed at his germophobic mother, and took another nosedive.
I quickly distracted myself by trying to get back up on that ladder. It wasn’t a pretty sight to the onlooking parents – lazy parents who didn’t get in the pit with their kids. But I managed to get back up, and took a couple of baby steps on the rope. It was a torturous three centimeters; the rope was excruciating to my feet.
This is why I could never join the army, I lied to myself, knowing there are a plethora of reasons I’d never make it in the armed forces. Suddenly, I had even more admiration for those who’ve served our country. Obstacle courses. Not for the faint of heart or feet. I don’t know how those six-year-olds were making it across the ladder without crying; their young soles must be immune to playground pain.
Finally, after yet another fall into the pit, I waded through plastic balls to the other side of the course. And that, dear reader, is where my humiliation began. Okay, well, that’s where it deepened, forever scarring me. When I got to the other side, there was a small platform at the end of the course, about 12 inches wide. I tried to pull myself up by my arms. But the evil spheres keep me in place. I couldn’t move. Like the arm that came up from the ground in Stephen King’s Carrie, my arm reached out for help, albeit, without blood or scary music.
Nobody helped. Parents looked at me with disgust, shaking their heads and turning their children away from the horrific scene. Without their judging stares, I was eventually able to hoist myself up onto the platform, flopping onto my belly, and crawling like the Swamp Thing until I could get on my knees and stand up. It was not my finest moment.
Meanwhile, Cowboy was trying to hoist himself up on the platform on the opposite side of the pit. I’m not proud to say, it gave me some consolation to see my own much younger flesh and blood struggling a bit. Following in the footsteps of his mother, he belly flopped his way out.
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over, but expecting different results. In that context, I was certifiably insane that day, as I made my way to the second course. It had swings to step on, one after the other, to get halfway across the pit.
“I’m doing it,” I exclaimed, as I walked from the first swing to the second, and then to the third. I looked up to see a quite unimpressed young father gazing at me. Why on earth on you in there? I heard him think. You’re a grown woman. This is for kids.
Whatever, I replied in my head. You’re a lazy, chicken father.
As I stood on the last swing, halfway to my goal, I realized my pride was short-lived. Before me was some kind of platform swing hanging down. The top of the platform was over my head. There was no way anyone could pull up that far to get on that thing. It was then I realized that perhaps I was doing the obstacle course backwards; maybe if I’d started with the platforms, I could’ve made it to the swings and all the way across. That’s my excuse, anyway. I’ll never know. At that point, I was overboard again, and the balls were packed in even tighter than under the first course.
As I called for help, while Lazy Dad did nothing to rescue me, Cowboy successfully made it all the way across on the final course. I was proud of his perseverance, as I desperately made my way back to the platform and performed my Big Bass Flopping on the Pier trick, again.
Thankfully, Cowboy insisted we go to the Battle Bar, a padded beam, where each player picks up a large rectangular pad – like a padded 2-by-four – and walk onto the beam from opposite sides. The goal is to knock off your opponent from the beam, sending them into a sea of foam squares.
Our first round, we were polite. We strolled up to each other, and pushed our pads into each other’s chests. Then Cowboy jumped into the sea. That seems to be his favorite part, falling. He insisted I jump in also, so I did. The foam of the squares was clingier than plastic balls.
“This isn’t easy,” I told the twentysomething-year-old employee watching us.
She nodded in agreement, while I prayed to God that, as I pulled myself up from those spongy cubes, my yoga pants wouldn’t be left in the sea without me in them. I could see the headlines the next day, “Half-Naked Woman Crawls Out of Battle Bar Pit. Counselors on Hand for Child Witnesses.”
Thankfully, I was able to hoist myself up with all clothes intact.
For our second battle, Cowboy was feeling more competitive. He charged at me on the bar, and I went flying, hitting my head on the well-padded side of the pit. Shaking my head to get my bearings, I strongly encouraged Cowboy to not “charge at mom” again.
Trampolines were next. Thank God – there were no pits involved.
Now, dear reader, if you’ve never been to a trampoline park, prepare to be amazed on your first visit. There are people jumping into flips, twisting, jumping higher than I could have imagined.
I am not one of those people. I am the jump-up-and-down-and-try-to-not-land-on-my-butt person. Up and down. That’s it. Because the trampolines are separated by padded dividers, I thought I would try to jump over the divider from one trampoline to the next. With all my strength, I jumped into the air, hoping to land on the next trampoline, and landed a mere two inches from where I started, on top of the padded divider. It was anticlimactic, at best.
But Cowboy flew from square to square, smiling the entire time. He’s been known to jump on his mini trampoline in our living room for an hour or more without stopping, and he’s been jumping since he was three years old. When I warned him before he entered the Dodge Ball area, he walked in with no fear. After years of teaching him to “play nice,” I was telling him to hit other people with balls. He threw a lot while bouncing, not hitting many players, but loving every minute of it. After the Battle Bar debacle, I was too afraid to play Dodge Ball opposite Cowboy; all those pent-up aggressions and mom-inflicted issues could be too much for him to resist retaliation. I watched, and my heart warmed to see others including Cowboy in the game, but taking it easy on him when they threw the balls. Like a good mom, I kept my mouth shut, and watched the magic happen.
Next we found a trampoline that was next to a large plastic pillow; you jump onto the “pillow.” Now, that was something I could get into. Softness. No balls. No sponginess. Unfortunately, I belly flopped, and felt a twinge in my back as I landed as I prayed God would take pity on my folly. Cowboy and I stayed for a couple of minutes – blocking out the world in our cozy place. When it came time to get out, I thought about staying the night; like sitting in a bean bag chair during my pregnancy, getting out was harder than getting in.
There are many times when I’m thankful for Cowboy’s growing into a young adult. As we crawled out of the pillow and walked to the massage chairs nearby, I was elated. We were of one mind.
“Ah, Cowboy. This is my favorite part,” I sighed, as we wiggled and jiggled our way to heaven. I wanted to ask if we could stay until closing time, but he’d been so patient and accommodating with his old mother, I knew I owed him.
So we tackled the huge maze, next. It had tunnels and netting and platforms and slides and more tunnels. Like the old Discovery Zones, but for larger people, it seemed. It was tight at times, and hard to navigate, even with someone as short as I. It wasn’t until later, I saw the sign, “For those 46 inches and under.” That explained the awkwardness, but I was thrilled to finally be too tall for something.
As I wrote this, without his reading over my shoulder, Cowboy asked to go back to Urban Air. He and Flash left soon after. I was sure Flash would have an easier time than I did; he knew all the pitfalls.
But soon after arriving, I got his text. “Pulled a hamstring.”
“You have an injured back. You weren’t supposed to jump; I told Cowboy you would just watch him,” I texted back.
“Have you met me?” my hyperactive husband replied. Indeed. Putting Flash in a room with trampolines and expecting him to stand still is the equivalent of giving me Russell Stover and expecting me to save it for later. Ridiculous.
As they came through the front door, Flash reported, “Oh my gosh, there was this woman…”
I hoped that sentence was going to end well. Was it a limber woman? A woman who lost her clothes in the sponge pit? A twentysomething-year-old who came to the aid of his back?
He continued, “…who was amazing. She walked on the sides of that rope ladder as she held the hand of her toddler, who walked across the bottom of the ball pit. And she had a bag with her. And she was drinking a Starbucks. And she was whistling Dixie.”
Okay, that Dixie part wasn’t true, but you get the picture.
“I wanted to congratulate her,” Flash gushed.
“Wow. How did you do?”
“That rope ladder hurts,” he yelled.
Ahhh. It wasn’t just me.
“Two other dads didn’t make it across that ladder either. Man overboard.”
With each sentence of his report, I felt more equal to my unsuccessful parent peers. It was one of my finer moments.
Cowboy had zip lined three times, and jumped to his heart’s content, with no anxiety whatsoever. It’s a joy to see him bouncing back and enjoying life more. I’m sure we’ll be back to Urban Air again, soon; Cowboy loves it when his feet leave the ground. And I’ve been walking on air all week.