The mall carousel workers laid down the law today. My older boys no longer think it’s cool to ride the creepy horse, panda, kangaroo creatures. They want the seated spinning (heinous)addition to the pleasant carousel ride. I asked if I could NOT ride on the spinning thing with my kids. I could just stand right next to it, ready to rescue them in the event of a horrible spinning catastrophe. I didn’t get all over-dramatic and go into my long history with motion sickness. Perhaps I should have. After several failed negotiations, with the apathetic carousel employees, I determined that I have done much harder things in my life. (In hindsight, I puked after many of them.)
I would just close my eyes and take deep breaths and envision myself somewhere, anywhere else. Preferably somewhere not spinning. The old outsmart-my-own brain trick. Midway through the loud and awful kids bop song and the double spinning sensation, that of the carousel and my boys’ dynamic psychotic spinning thing efforts, my purse flew off. Onto the ground. Under one of the creepy horse mermaid creatures. My purse was, big surprise, not zipped up. I was forced to open my eyes. There, splayed on the ground, lay my purse contents. Keys. Wallet. Coins. Glove. Action figures. And random other long lost useless items.
With my eyes open, and my failing attempts at guided imagery interrupted, all of the sudden, I started getting hot. And not hot from the sun on the beach in my head. Bad sign. Hyper salivating. I could feel the puke in the starting blocks. Wondering how much longer this torturous ride could last, my youngest boy requests to hold my hand. Oh, man. He’s scared. You can hear it in his voice. The urgency. I reach for his hand and decide I will just throw up in my purse. Nope. I can’t. Oh yeah, it’s on the ground. Spinning around on the ground. I tell my boys in a “don’t ask why” voice that they have GOT to stop spinning this thing. And I grab the wheel and tell them, I guess somewhat threaten them, that I’m going to throw up.
Finally…the spinning stops. I slowly rise, as to not create more motion to fuel my puking sensation. I want to glare at that spinning vomit inducer. One of the carousel police officers/employees, helps pick up every important and random thing that has fallen out of my purse. How kind. She hands me objects that I, literally, have no clue what they are. Is that even mine? I want to throw up and shut that carousel down, just to prove a point. I know that plan will just backfire when my boys retell the story over and over until I die. So, we just exit the carousel, and I find a seat fast. I didn’t throw up. I win. Sort of. Mind over matter, baby.
I would like to be one of those convicted people who swears we will never go ride that carousel again. I don’t really swear. And I know in a desperate attempt to get out of the house, we will go there again. Next time with their father. The hero. I’m pretty sure that’s who they inherited the obsessive spinning sensation gene from anyway.