The summer months are chugging on by without any signs of major terror.
There have been play dates and beach days, epic LEGO build-a-thons and museums. So far the boredom level has stayed at a dull roar.
That is until one morning I woke up with the most ambitious of wild hairs up my butt for that day's summer activity; a movie.
In theory, taking my kid to the movies to see a bright, shiny new kid's flick is great. A chance for me to sit, motionless (save for the piles and piles of over-buttered popcorn I'll undoubtedly shove into my face hole with my hand), in a cool, dark, air-conditioned room for a couple hours while surely Dylan will sit calmly and captivated by the motion of the animation on the giant screen.
In reality, the 45 minutes spent convincing a child in ultimate meltdown that the movie theater is "so much fun" and "not at all loud and scary like they remember last time" (that, honestly you were hoping they'd completely forget) should have been the cue that hey mom, A for effort but this thing just ain't happenin'. I mean you can really only show a two minute trailer for the movie you're about to sell a kidney to afford to see so many times before it sinks in that your kid will be down. Note: that magic number is 476.3 times.
Contrary to popular, understood, sense-making belief, not all concession stands are created equal. I know. I. Know. My kid's special movie theater treat is always M&Ms. Plain old, candy-coated chocolate M&Ms. So, tell me know, how do you have a concession stand that only carries PEANUT M&Ms and expect the Tasmanian devil not to come spiraling out of the expectant five-year-old barely peering over the counter in wide-eyed anticipation. How? Also, major apologies to the poor, zit-faced concession worker for having to deal with that mess. I offered my figurative high five you when you walked into the break room to vent that your first gig at minimum wage is so not worth this bullcrap. Now I know that in addition to the unnecessary stuff I bring with me in the giant beach bag to the theater, I've got to pack plain M&Ms. Check.
Upon entering our theater and struggling to convince Dylan that the front row is actually not the greatest seat in the house in the movie going game, and walking up three stairs, he's now become overwhelmingly tired and needs to be carried up the rest of the way or something about laying down on the ground and NOPE! UP YOU GO, BUDDY! I'm pretty sure, had there been a circus act recruiter in the audience that day, I'd have landed a headlining show with all the juggling I was doing without dropping a single thing. Except maybe my dignity. But that's a story for another day. At least it wasn't my underpants.
We sit down in our seats and then? The Pee-Pee Wiggle.
"Do you have to go potty, honey?"
"No." ::wiggle wiggle jiggle bounce wiggle::
"Are you sure? The movie is about to start so now's the time."
"No. I'm just dancing." ::grimace wiggle jiggle bounce wiggle wiggle::
One minute into the opening credits...
"...Mommy, I have to go potty."
What else is there to share about the pathetic attempt at the most expensive use of a movie theater bathroom that takes a sharp left turn for the lobby arcade? Not much of anything really. Not much at all.