Frightening Fare, Sickly Smells, and Rickety Rides

My children have betrayed me. Even the youngest one.

You see, I hate carnivals in a serious way. It goes back to when I was about five and my paternal grandmother took me to one along the marina in my hometown—Martinez, California. I have vivid memories of begging not to ride the Ferris wheel, then trying not to vomit as I viewed the city and its lovely oil refineries from a vantage point too high and unstable for my stomach's liking. The minute I got off the torturous contraption, I darted for nearby bushes, where I remained for some time, doubled over and heaving. That scene would be repeated many times over the years. And since I also get ill on boats, planes, mountain roads, and even spinning playground equipment, it's pretty clear I have motion sickness.

But motion sickness alone doesn't account for my extreme distaste for carnivals. The reasons run much deeper. For one thing, carnies scare me. Maybe I was overly affected by Gary Busey's disturbing portrayal of one in the movie of the same name. Perhaps it's because so many of them look like escaped mental patients, paroled felons, or both. And I suppose it could be because carnies typically don't seem to be the sharpest tools in the shed, yet you're putting your life in their hands every time you step on the rides they oversee. So sue me for being just a tad leery of them.

And then there's the rides themselves. I can bring myself to ride amusement park rides, except for the whip-you-every-which-way-then-upside-down-and-back-again-at-five-hundred-miles-per-hour variety, which will immediately induce me to vomit. But let's face it: those rides are run by established businesses, plus they’re built and maintained by engineers and other qualified professionals. Contrast that to rides which on a weekly basis are set up, torn down, dragged around on trailers, and then set up again. And don't forget that it's the aforementioned carnies doing the setting up. No wonder we hear about things like rides toppling over. How could we not?

Next, there's the overpriced crap they sell at carnivals. Why should it cost nearly as much for tickets to the handful of rides offered by the typical carnival as it does to visit a well-maintained, expansive, family-friendly amusement park? That it does makes no sense to me. And then there are those ever-popular suckers’ bets, the games. Even if I could fit the oversized basketball through the undersized hoop or knock all the milk bottles off the pedestal, I don't want a paper-thin, sawdust-filled Bart Simpson made in China or a goldfish that will die by the time we get home. But you can bet my kids do.

And last but not least—since there's no escaping it—there's the, um...for lack of a better term..."food." Who doesn't want a big blob of greasy, sugary, salty (insert "funnel cake," "cotton candy," or any item requiring a stick for deep frying)? Thanks, but I'll pass, even if there's no way to ignore the pervasive stench of the rancid, coronary-inducing oil it’s all fried in. And don't forget, all that yummy goodness is being prepared, cooked, and served by those same carnies. Gulp.

Yep, I loves me some carnival. And I actually do on one level: watching my kids enjoy them. From birth, Zach has gone into a frenzy every time he's spotted a carnival, and Zoë's even worse. Some of our happiest family memories have been made attending them. So despite my revulsion over the setting, I've gladly taken the kids to carnivals frequently over the years and done my best to focus on their glee while ignoring the horrors of the setting where they're having all that fun. And yet, I'll admit that I’ve held out hope that Zienna might not turn out to be carnival crazy like her siblings.

No dice.

A few weeks ago, when Zienna spotted the Ferris wheel being erected in our local mall parking lot—marking the arrival of our annual spring break carnival—she went absolutely berserk. Since we'd skipped the event last year and she'd been too young to attend the year before, she’d never been to a carnival. But based on her description of what she saw as we drove by, she obviously knew what one was—and how much fun they were supposed to be (no doubt brainwashed by her traitorous brother and sister). Kelly and I intended to take her, but we wanted to wait for the second weekend and he exodus of the crowds from Redding’s tourist-drawing Kool April Nights classic car rally, making for shorter lines and more opportunities to ride. But try explaining that logic to a two-year-old. She wasn’t buying it, and carnival hysteria made for a very long week.

When the big day finally arrived, Zach and I decided on the spur of the moment to head down to San Francisco for a Giants game, leaving the girls to venture out alone on Zienna's maiden carnival voyage. By Kelly's account, it was a huge, thrilling success, and Zienna chose the dragon roller coaster as her favorite ride, just as Zach and Zoë had when they were younger. The only damper on an otherwise perfect day was the fact that with few visitors left, the carnival closed early. And as it did, Zach and I rolled back into town, happy to help distract the girls and listen to their tales of rickety rides, frightening food, and memories made.

Sometimes, you just have to let kids be kids. Even when they’re traitors and there are carnies involved.