As we buckle into the roller coaster, the awkward teenage attendant performs his routine checks with an eye roll that seems to scream, “I’d rather be anywhere else.” He strolls down the line, lifting restraints and exhaling dramatically.
Click, click, click.
It’s been a long day at the amusement park. My three-year-old daughter, Lily, has a messy ponytail that has seen better days, her skin glowing from too much sun. My partner, Alex, bears the weariness that comes from hours of chasing after little ones, yet he looks content. Our youngest, Mia, just shy of two, is caught in a whirlwind of energy and fatigue; we skipped her naptime today. This will likely be our final ride of the day.
Click, click, click.
Mia is directly across from me, beaming with her two little fingers waving in delight. I return the gesture, yet my mind drifts to the daunting task of walking back to the car. It looms large in my thoughts.
Click, click, click.
As the ride slowly advances, I lock eyes with my spirited daughter, reflecting on how much she’s grown. I nostalgically remember her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the way she would coo while I fed her. Now, she’s a bundle of energy, always eager to dart away, her laughter inviting us to chase her. I think about her skills at escaping from her high chair, how she treats seat belts as mere suggestions. The ascent begins.
Clang, clang, clang.
Wait.
Clang, clang, clang.
She has a knack for unbuckling herself. I’m suddenly aware of how securely the attendant strapped her in.
Clang, clang, clang.
Oh no.
Clang, clang, clang.
We’re too far gone to stop this ride. The metallic sounds echo as we climb higher, and I’m sending silent prayers her way. Please, stay seated, sweet girl. This isn’t a game. Why did we ever get on this?
I can’t reach her. My baby is perched precariously above the ground because of my choice.
Clang, clang, clang.
I watch in horror as she starts to wiggle and fidget beneath the safety bar. My heart races as I see her folding her little legs beneath her, preparing to stand.
She’s out! Standing defiantly, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, thrilled with her newfound freedom. We’re nearing the top.
Clang, clang, clang.
I’m screaming, yet the wind carries my pleas away. I’m panicking, my body drenched in sweat, flailing my arms. Please, love, sit down. I know you’re just a baby, but this isn’t a game.
I’m breathless. In moments, we’ll be hurtling downwards. I throw my weight against the safety bar, desperate to reach her. I can’t. I need to; I can’t.
Mia, please sit down. Please? Mommy loves you. I’m so sorry.
Just before we plunge down, she fortunately tucks her legs back under the bar. She looks at me with that impish grin, unaware of the gravity of the situation. For the next 45 seconds, she’ll decide when to sit and when to stand, playing her dangerous game without grasping the risks involved. I never wanted to play this game, especially not here.
Clang, clang, clang.
The ride continues with six more hills, each time she stands, then sits just before reaching the crest. My body aches from the impact against the metal seat. I’m filled with dread, helplessly witnessing my daughter teetering on the brink of danger again and again.
I thought this ride would be fun. I was thinking about the walk back to the car, dinner plans, and when to reapply sunblock. As we disembark, I’m overwhelmed and empty my stomach—not from motion sickness, but from sheer terror.