Raising children on your own is a job, and like any other employment it has its days when you are laughing at the water cooler, and days when you're banging your head against the cubicle walls. There's no retirement or vacation pay; no medical or dental, but there is job security. From the day your child draws breath you are a parent until you die. But this security doesn't come without a very high price. Trying to raise kids in this economy is like Snooki trying to pass the LSAT's; a desperate and risky venture. However, there comes a time. . .*
*In my case,the end of Christmas break when the short people had gnawed through their restraints
. . .when you throw caution and finances to the wind in order to keep your children entertained. I'm all about spending quality time with the shorties, but what does that even MEAN? Reading Proust by candlelight? Playing marathon games of Crazy 8's? These days, the phrase "quality time" has become a bigger catchall than Rosie O'Donnell's shirt after All-You-Can-Eat Riblet Night at Applebee's.
Left to their own devices my short people would spend the entire day gaping into a computer screen which drives me batshit crazy for two reasons: first, we only have ONE computer and Mama needs to get her blog on, and second, if I want to expose my progeny to artificial intelligence I'll make them watch Celebrity Week on 'Jeopardy'. When it comes to spending time with M and J I approach it with the same philosophy I use in all aspects of parenting: wear them out. I have found that both my short people and I are much happier individuals when we are simply too fucking exhausted to annoy one another, so with that in mind I shelled out the $60 and treated the three of us to two hours at Sky High Sports.
So. . .much. . .overstimulation. . .
Sky High is a renovated warehouse that is now home to wall-to-wall trampolines, a foam diving pit, and. . .oh Sweet Baby Jeebus. . .a dodgeball court. The kids obviously outnumber the adults here and they are fearless little bastards. They bounce around like Robin Williams on crystal meth, run from one trampoline to the next, flipping and diving like a one-winged Cessna. There were also two blonde 85 pound cheerleader/pole dancers in there practicing their jumps and eye-humping the 20-something staff member with the skin-tight shirt and tribal tat. Pfft! Step aside, ladies; let a veteran Cheerio show you how its done! Yeah, famous last words. You see, I have difficulty remembering that I am no longer in my twenties. On my last birthday I turned. . .well, let's just say my cake had more candles than an Enya video and leave it at that. So, of course the inevitable happened while I was showing off my mad handspringin' skillz and a fell ass over teakettle in front of everybody. Not one of my finer moments, but I was pleasantly mollified when Barbie and Skipper collided midair and one of them got her hair stuck in the trampoline coils. She wasn't physically injured so I didn't feel too bad pointing and laughing.
"We all float down here. . ."
My short people are especially fond of the foam pit, but I take umbrage with it for two important reasons. Number one, there is a large sign near the foam pit that clearly states "NO FLIPS!" Now, one of my dearest friends is Filipino and I just don't see where Sky High comes off ostracizing an entire ethnic group like that. Hatin' is whack, yo. And number two, the foam squares are suspiciously moist and are enshrouded by a stench that can only be described as a melange of ass and cheese. I shuddered at the sight of so many children in shorts and tank tops landing face-first in that Petri dish of shame and degradation; envisioning the spread of a Junta-like virus which would eradicate mankind as we know it. No. . .just. . .no.
You're goin' down like a dime-store hooker, Junior.
While I am not an advocate of bobbing for HIV in the foam pit, I am a huge proponent of the Sport of Kings: dodgeball. Never before has there been another sport that so perfectly combines speed, agility, and public humiliation as dodgeball. Yes, Sky High Sports has a trampoline lined dodge ball court which should level the playing field and limit collateral damage, but I was delighted to note that children are just as bloodthirsty as I was at their age. . .and still am. They were throwing some heat and aiming for the head with such lack of mercy that it brought a tear of joy to this jaded woman's eye. The beautiful thing about dodgeball is that there are no age brackets, and the rules are about as fluid as the food on Bob Dole's lunch tray. I don't care what that 7 year old harpy was complaining about; kicking the ball IS legal. Sure, when you do it, you'll have all these whiny little crothlings squawling "Hey! You can't kick the ba--" but they won't even be able to finish their sentence because they'll get a lightning fast rocketball right in the kisser on a direct flight from your foot. Learn your lesson kids. . .quit your bitching, and don't mess with the crazy old lady.
All in all, I'd say the trip was a success. The short people had a blast, I got a great workout, and no one on the dodgeball court pressed charges. I may not be one of those moms that makes organic vegan cookies in the shape of endangered animals or spends hours throwing more games of Chutes and Ladders than a Vegas prizefighter throws matches, but when it comes to learning how to decimate your opponent with a well-timed overhand pitch to the crotch, I'm your gal.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, PARTY PEOPLE!!!