Chicken

Mason slept all the way to Wilkes-Barre Monday morning, where he went swimming for the first time and hung out with his great-grandparents. I'm not sure how he felt about the pool. I think he liked it. I mean, he was kicking his little feet and splashing... and he wasn't screaming or anything. He seemed really brave. I'd call it a success.

From there it was off to Knoebels, where he slept through his first ever train ride and won a giant puppy.



For three nights in a row he didn't get to bed until 11. His routine? Completely shot. I lugged him around all day at a crappy amusement park that he isn't old enough to enjoy and he barely made a peep. He was a little angel. The funny part about the whole trip wasn't Mason though. It was me. I've never been scared on a ride. Ever. I love rollercoasters, I love heights, going fast, everything. But when I got on those giant swings all I could think about was the chain breaking, sending me flying across the park to my death.

They aren't supposed to be scary. There were 10-year-olds on them with me. But I walked off those swings with my legs shaking, hands red from grabbing the chains so tight, holding back tears. I didn't want to make a big scene, but I felt like grabbing Mason out of his stroller, kissing him, and showing him that I was still alive. It was even worse after the rollercoaster.

Hopefully someday I'll be able to get on a ride again without silently composing my will in my head and worrying about who's taking care of Mason if I plummet to my death. And I hope Mason never finds out that he's way braver than Mommy.