Sometime last year, a speaker at the mom’s group at my church made some comment about how moms need to let dads be dads. That our children have two parents for a reason and each brings unique qualities out in our children. She told us not to mother our husbands and hamper them from putting our children at risk of _______ (getting dirty, spilling, failing, falling, you fill in the blank).

So when my husband first suggested putting my baby in an open air log boat that cascades over a waterfall to plummets forty feet through the air, I didn’t balk or argue or refuse. I simply replied that it would be fun to do sometime. Emphasis on sometime. I assumed he would forget and that sometime surely would not come unit Ava was five or even better ten!

I could not have forseen that standing at a bright, sunny curb waiting for the spray of candy that is supposed to be the fourth of July parade, we would be handed tickets (lots of tickets) for that insidious place with that odious ride.

The minute the tickets hit Nate’s palm, he started spinning tales to Ava about the glories of the “fun rides” and especially the “log boats” that awaited her. And believe me when you tell a three-year-old about something exciting that is going to happen for them, they do not forget!

For the next two weeks, I heard nothing but “when Daddy takes me to the fun rides,” and “I going to go on fun rides with Daddy.” She even started creating jobs for herself just so she could earn those “fun rides.”

Last Sunday, Nate came to the firm conclusion that we needed an extra garage door opener, and it just so happened that he had a gift certificate to a hardware store that was in very close proximity to the very amusement park that we had tickets to. Even though it was nearly 7:00 at night, Nate was sure that shopping and thrill-seeking were the order of the evening. And then, Ava fell asleep in the car. It was remarkable. He could not wake her up, so we had to go home without rides. Disaster averted.

Of course, the remote didn’t work with our antiquated garage door opener. And since we have replaced every mechanical aspect of this home, why would we possibly keep an old opener? Nate was sure we needed the new opener, which meant we needed to return to the store by the rides.

Now with a fist full of tickets, a “need” to return to the store, and an animated Ava, there was no stopping the festivities. It was time to pull out the protests:

“Nate, she’s only three.”

“She’s tall enough.”

“She’s still only three and she will be scared.”

“She’ll be fine. I’ll hold her, she’ll love it!”

Once there, I tried to delay the inevitable by convincing the thrill-seekers to leave the most exciting log boat ride for last. Perhaps I was unconsciously hoping that Ava would get crabby or forget to go to the potty and that we would have to go home.

But as any mother can tell you, children only wet their clothes when you are on the third floor of the Children’s Museum six blocks from your car or when you are waiting in line at the library on a tiled floor that slopes right down to the Librarian’s open-toed sandals. It never happens when it would actually be a benefit to their safety and your sanity.

So we filled the first hour with kiddie rides.

She even got to ride in her own gorgeous balloon!

What more could she possible want? I was quite certain that this was really the most fun that we could have, but before I knew it we were standing in line for the infamous log ride.

Of course, they don’t send you straight to the plunge, they coarse you through roughly four minutes of tunnels, twists, and turns. And while I had anticipated that the frightening free fall, I had completely forgotten about the terrifying possibility of animated puppets. If you are at all familiar with Ava, you would be keenly aware of how sensitive she is about mechanical manikins.

It possibly all started with her grandparents life size Santa Claus that waves, sings, and says, “ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.” Ava screamed and hid the first time she met “Boots,” and honestly refused to go into her grandparents basement for a year for fear of encountering Boots.

So you can just imagine how delighted she was to be swaying in a tippy canoe under a giant Paul Bunyan waving an equally giant ax or to have a giant blue ox spit water on her face.

She was standing up and clambering all over her dad trying to escape the giants that were surely going to get her. Did you catch that? She was standing up in a canoe that was seconds away from forty foot drop. If there was ever a time for seatbelts and safety helmets this would be the time.

Hysteria does not even begin to describe the panic that I was experiencing. In the blur that followed, Nate managed to get Ava in a seated and upright position. After my screams had ceased to ring in my own ears, I heard a little voice in the front of the canoe saying, “I didn’t get wet. Look, Daddy, I didn’t get wet.” Followed quickly by, “why were there giants in there?”

Generally I don’t go for overpriced, kitschy souvenirs, but really how often do you get a picture of your child that looks like this?
Chad, Emily, Sasha’s Mama, Grandma Great, Miss Lori (her ballet teacher), actually everyone Ava has seen since Friday night has heard, “I went on a log ride with the giants. I was scared of the giants.”

And now that the giants have conveniently moved into the church tower across the street from our house, Ava has plenty of opportunities to spy on and hide from the giants. So now there is no possible reason to stick her on any more level four thrill rides until she is ten or at least five.

As for the old garage door opener, Nate’s planning to post it on Craig’s List:

I think it’s destined for the dump truck, but I promised not to mother him.