Playland fun

Last Sunday my wife had a "spa day" with a friend of hers, so I accepted an invitation from my cousin and his wife to go to the play area at the local mall to let the kids blow off some steam.

Of course, if you've ever been to one of these indoor mini parks, you're aware of the various hazards. First off, it's a simmering cesspool of bacteria like none other, with contagions literally coming out of each pore of every child in the enclosed area, which at peak times has to be around at least 30 or so.

And then my kids show up and all hell breaks loose.

We got there to see a full house, of course, and the kids leapt head-first into the raging waters of mall playland. Mikey, my cousin's son, was already there, so Riley and Jenna had some catching up to do.

It was a typical rush out the door, coordinating dress (including shoes) for the three kids by myself, so it was a bit of a surprise to me when we arrived and Jenna's jeans seemed a little, well, loose. In my haste I'd neglected to notice they were a bit saggy around the waist, and of course with her dodging, ducking, dipping, diving and dodging, it was soon apparent that a half moon was going to be out at 3:00 indoors.

Riley was having no such issues and was hopping from obstacle to obstacle, taking breaks in the big stationary cars, climbing, rolling, and vaulting over his fallen peers, Mikey right there with him the whole way.

Mason on the other hand was simply content to visit his relatives, showing off his newfound abilities to coo, laugh, and bounce on their lap.

Jenna's affinity for visiting public restrooms (but not actually using them) is well documented, and the food court restrooms at Castleton Square Mall are perhaps her (and consequently my) main nemesis when it comes to lavatories.

Jenna has flush anxiety, getting spooked when a toilet flushes. In a busy restroom with automatic flushers, she really gets nervous and usually ends up filling the restroom with shrieks that would make Vincent Price jump.

This time was no different. Her screams bounced off the white tile walls like a truck full of rubber balls the moment I pulled down her pants, so I pulled them back up and quickly ushered her out amid her own sobs and the puzzled glares of my fellow patrons.

But once we got out, in true 2-year-old style, she was ready for another round with her porcelain tormentors as soon as we got back to the playland. Soon she was skipping the asking to go to the bathroom part, deciding instead to skip to the pants-dropping part, which was doubly easy given her pants were so loose.

I decided in the end to tuck her sweatshirt in and give her the 80-year-old-man look with the waist of her jeans inching up perilously close to her armpits.

Making things more fun was Mason, who decided he wanted in on the action and started to squirm, making watching the two older kids, who have in the past established a penchant for sneaking out of the park at random intervals, a dicey proposition.

Riley, on the other hand, had taken to running with three other boys, sitting around like a gang of hoods, missing only their leather jackets and a pack of smokes folded in the arms of their t-shirts. They were sitting body-to-body as if they'd been friends for years, leaning against the giant caterpillar, watching as the other kids played.

Soon it was time to go, so I gathered up my brood over their protestations. I'm not sure how I got them to get their shoes back on.

Then came the next step: "Daddy, can we have ice cream?"