Chuck E and The Grinch

As I have mentioned before in this blog, one of the things I have tried very very hard to avoid as a parent is walking in the door of a Chuck E Cheeses.  Yesterday, my long string of successful days as a parent free from the images of that particular hell-on-Earth came to an abrupt end.

If I had been thinking clearly (aha!) I would have arranged for someone else to take Sierra to the birthday party and pick her up.  But clearly I was not thinking clearly.  I thought, somehow, that the Goddess of Serendipty-Do would intervene on my behalf and I would be able to arrange this drop-off-pick-up thing at the door.  Clearly I did not see how this would pan out.  I not only went inside with Sierra to drop her off, but had to stay about 15 minutes because the guest of honor was a little late and we were a little early. 

The Grinch who Stole Christmas comes to mind:  Oh the noise, the noise, the noise Noise NOISE NOISE!  That's one thing he hated....

That would be me playing the Grinch.  Just so you know, though, I don't hate Roast Beast, no sirree not at all.  Also I'm pretty sure my heart is the right size.  I had that stress test a few years back, you know, and my cardiologist said my heart was beautiful (after the EKG, the Echocardiogram, and the swearing on my part when I found out I'd be running uphill on a treadmill wearing a hospital gown and was forced by 2 nurses to surrender my bra first.)  He didn't mention anything about the size of my heart, though, so I'm probably only slightly Grinchy in that regard.

So the noise.  The lights.  The dancing and singing Mouse.  The too-cheerful staff.  Encouraging children to scream louder than the kids at the next table.  The games and the ...little kids shooting at the games...and people actually sitting at tables with their families in this environment as if it were a regular Friday night out.  Whew.  It boggles the mind and jars the soul a bit, don't you think?

So, I failed to save myself.  But on the other hand, that's not really the point of parenthood.  In fact it seems the point of parenthood is just the opposite, to surrender yourself to the agonies as well as the tender mercies.  I leave you with a story of my son, the athlete, the sister-teaser extraordinaire, and the little guy with a heart that seems to be growing by leaps and bounds.  Last night he asked me for his very own copy of the book The Prophet, which he has seen me reading of late and from which I've read bits and pieces aloud to him.  He brought the copy of the book I gave him back and said he wanted a different copy. 

Why?  asked the mom.

I want one with the drawings in it, answered the boy.  The same drawings that are in your big copy.

Oh, thought the mom, the drawings of naked people.  Hmm.  Ok, said the mom.  She found another copy (yes, I have a small collection of these books, they make excellent gifts for people who need a little spiritual nourishment or need to look at tasteful drawings of naked people or both.) and gave it to him.

Later when she went to tuck in the boy and say goodnight, he was reading his book.  He looked up and said, Mom listen to this: 

When you love you should not say "God is in my heart." but rather "I am in the heart of God."

Little glistening tears were in his mom's eyes as she kissed the freckles on his nose. All grinchiness melted away, again.  Again.