Up, Up, and…Get Me Down
Nothing to see here, folks. Except our screaming children.
Last week the four of us - two kids, Kyle, the brave soul who puts up with us every day, and I - slapped on helmets and harnesses for our annual romp at Monkey Trunks adventure park.
This year, with everyone of proper age and height, the main course beckoned with the caveat that our 7 year-old, Tess, had to stay "sandwiched" between two adults at all times. No problem, we thought. What a wonderful bonding experience this will be!
I went ahead. Kyle hung back as the other slice of bread in the kid sandwich. From each platform, she could choose between 2-3 obstacles. Swinging logs, tire swings, tight ropes that give your arms and legs a mind of their own. If nothing else, the course reminds you not to take yourself too seriously.
Not being much of an athlete, I basically looked like I was doing everything blindfolded. Picture lots of flailing and unattractive grunting noise. Tess kept choosing the most difficult obstacle (because it looked fun), watching me slog my way across it (making it look less fun), then abandoning me in favor of the easier path.
Every time she made it across something, Kyle and I cheered like she'd summitted Everest. But we could see her starting to freak out a little. Halfway across a swinging wooden beam 40 feet in the air, things went to pot.
"I don't want to do it," she cried. She crouched down and froze.
I reached for her. "Give me your hand," I said. "Remember, you can't fall." (You really can't. The park uses a Smart Belay system that makes it impossible to ever completely unhook from the ziplines.)
"I don't want to do it! I don't want to do it!" she screamed. Her sister, watching from a nearby platform, went into empathy mode and started panicking in her own right.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried. "It's all my fault! I'm sorry!" (Apparently she decided we were going to blame her for this.)
"I don't want to do it!"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
People on the ground snapped to attention and stared up at us. Kyle and I looked at each other and silently agreed, "this bonding experience is over."
In an instant, the kids' distress and our desire to get the hell out of here transformed us. We were superhuman acrobats. I leaped onto Tess's beam and held her in my lap, stroking her head and cooing to her like we did this in midair every day. Kyle glided across a wire in three seconds to grab the other kid. I put Tess on my back and pulled the weight of two across an obstacle I'd barely managed alone five minutes ago. For two people who haven't been to a gym in years, we were downright mighty.
As a reward, we pumped everyone full of ice cream, with a side of Advil for the adults, and the emotional turbulence inspired everyone to sleep in the next morning. Still a successful outing? You bet.