The lanky amusement park attendant secures us in our seats, his teenage angst palpable with each mechanical click of the seat belt. He walks through the rows, lifts the bars, and exhales a sigh.
Click, click, click.
It’s been an eventful afternoon. My 3-year-old, Lily, has a golden ponytail that’s starting to unravel from all the play, her cheeks flushed from the sun. My partner, Mark, looks worn out from hours of chasing after our children, yet he wears a satisfied smile. Our youngest, Sophie, almost 2, is a bundle of energy, though clearly ready for a nap we skipped today. This will likely be our last ride.
Click, click, click.
I sit directly across from Sophie, my playful little one. She beams at me, waving her fingers in delight. I return her smile but can’t shake the anxiety about the walk back to the car. It’s consuming my thoughts.
Click, click, click.
As our roller coaster slowly climbs, I glance at Sophie, my heart heavy. I remember her tiny fingers wrapped around mine while I fed her, how she used to coo and play with my arm. Now, she’s bursting with life, often darting away, her laughter beckoning us to chase her. I think about her knack for unbuckling herself from her high chair and her attempts to escape seat belts. We start to ascend.
Clang, clang, clang.
Wait.
Clang, clang, clang.
She’s always trying to get out of her seat belt. I can’t help but wonder if the attendant strapped her in correctly.
Clang, clang, clang.
Oh no.
Clang, clang, clang.
We’re too far gone; the ride is in motion. The steel tracks groan as we inch higher. I silently plead with her. Please, stay seated. This isn’t a game.
Clang, clang, clang.
She begins to wiggle beneath the safety bar, fidgeting and preparing to stand. My heart races as I watch her, daring me with her bright eyes, proud of her cunning. We’re almost at the peak of the hill.
Clang, clang, clang.
I’m shouting, but the wind swallows my words. I’m panicking, desperate.
Please, sweetheart, sit back down. I know you’re just a little one, but this isn’t the time for games.
I can’t breathe. In mere moments, we’ll be racing down the hill. I throw my body against my safety bar, shaking the seat as I fight against the helplessness. I need to reach her.
Please sit down. Please? Mommy loves you. I’m so sorry.
Just before we plunge, she miraculously tucks her legs back under the bar. She looks at me with youthful mischief, completely unaware of the danger. For the next 45 seconds, she decides when to sit and when to stand, relishing in the thrill of my reaction. I never wanted to play this game, especially not here. Never again.
Clang, clang, clang.
The ride continues with six more hills, each one echoing the same scenario: she stands, then sits just before we crest. I beg, panic, and apologize, my body bruised from the strain of trying to save her while feeling utterly powerless. I put her on this ride, thinking it would be fun. As we disembark, I feel nauseated—not from motion sickness, but from sheer terror.