We took Jacob to a local fair last weekend. You know the kind: 4H animals, gut-wrenching rides, cotton candy, mullets that put Billy Ray Cyrus to shame, over priced food, games you can never win, and fat old men that make you cry.
Oh, I have to clarify that last one? Ok.
We got to the fair and Jacob immediately started squealing over the carousel ride. He walked right up to the little gate surrounding it, pointed at the horsies moving up and down, and screeched wildly. I was excited too- I really wanted to take him for a carousel ride. So, with my husband reluctantly in tow behind me, we marched all over the fair looking for a ticket booth. When we found one, I purchased four tickets- the amont required to ride the carousel. It's such a racket. Four tickets doesn't sound expensive right? Well it came out to nearly four bucks! Oh well, my precious Jacob is worth every penny (this is the sentence that frequently follows all massive expenditures that I have to justify to my husband).
Then the lady who sold us our tickets might as well have flung poop in my face. She looked at me and solemnly declared, "Only children 2 years and older can ride the kiddie rides." This was synonymous to telling any child that Santa had just been killed by a stampede of wild buffalo. I was shocked.
"Not even the CAROUSEL?" I asked.
"Not even the carousel."
"But the carousel has benches that are nailed to the floor. He can sit in my lap!"
"Sorry." was her response. That bitch. She didn't sound the least bit sorry.
I walked over to my husband and explained the horrible news. As I was doing this, a sneaky thought crossed my mind. Why don't I just SAY that Jacob is 2 years old? I mean most people don't have a clue how old babies are. Plus, babies grow at different rates. I can just say he has some sort of "problem" or that he's small for his age... And besides- are they going to ask for his PHOTO IDENTIFICATION? My plan seemed solid. The sadness started to drain from my body. My husband looked at me like I was Momzilla (Bride-zilla's more crazy older sister).
I grabbed Jacob and marched him right over to that carousel. The man handling tickets was old and chubby. He looked so vulnerable. Little did he know he was about to be victim to my cunning prowess. I had him for sure! He looked at Jacob as we approached over the rim of his glasses and asked, "how old is he?" This was the moment of truth, or to be more exact, the moment of non-truth.
I looked at him bodly and opened my mouth. But as the words, "he just turned two" were forming in my mind, my conscious got the better of me and before I knew it, my resolve was crumbling under the weight of my principles and fear of authority. "He's almost two," is the best I could do.
"Sorry," sad the man. "He has to be two years or older."
My eyes welled up with tears as I turned around in the ride line and had to march Jacob away from the shiny, moving ponies he loved so much. This, people, felt like ripping a bottle right out of his hungry mouth. It hurt SO MUCH. Recounting the memory is making me tear up all over again. I walked toward my husband and started to BAWL. Tears streamed down my face, my nose immediatelty stuffed up and I explained in-between wails, "They won't let Jacob ride the PONIES!" I was almost hysterical and full of sorrow.
It must have been quite a site for passerbys. To see this hysterical momzilla bawling her eyes out in front of the carousel because, the world is ending, and her baby can't ride the PONIES. I'm sure my husband thought I was a total whack-job. But he quietly rubbed my shoulder, said "it's ok, we'll bring him back next year" and bought me some cotton candy.
Later, my husband did make the astute observation that I have a problem with lying to a carnival employeee but have no similar quams with lying to him...hmm, well, you can't CHOSE your conscious can you?