A Chuck E Cheesey Mother's Day

Just last week I told a friend how fortunate I'd been to have attended only two birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese these past 11 years.  I jinxed myself.


The envelope was sitting in my son's cubby at preschool.  Pleased that one of his classmates thought to invite him, I opened the envelope containing a one-two punch.  A party.  On Mother's Day.  At Chuck E. Cheese.  


Tinkerbell looked up at me from her glittery purple flower perch.  "You wouldn't decline, would you?"  Ugh.  Fairies are supposed to make wishes come true not deliver guilt trips. 
  
My son will be thrilled to go, I thought.  Arcade games, pizza, cake and neon colored candy are a kid's dream.  In a moment of insanity, or because I had recently read stories about kids birthday parties where no one showed up, I replied "yes."  I got punked by Tinkerbell.


Chuck E. Cheese parties are as much fun as going to the dentist.  They even offer the same cheap plastic toy prizes.  While I can't stand the place, I conceded the mom was smart to host the party outside of her home.  Who wants fossilized cheesestick nubs under their couch or to sweep up pulverized goldfish?  That soda spill?  The syrup will make the carpet fibers more durable because it's not your carpet.  The noise? With any luck your ears will ring long enough to mute the sounds of the guaranteed overstimulation-and-too-much-sugar meltdown.


After 45 minutes of Skee-ball and basketball I was ready to go but the pizza and cake had yet to be served.  Cursing myself for being punctual, I meandered over to the table where a couple parents sat.  Conversation, which normally comes easily for me, was stilted because I was tired and irritated.  They were lovely people, and meeting them was the best part of the afternoon.  I wish I could have been fully present.


At last the program began.  Our teenaged party hostess tried, but was unable, to look cool while leading a "Happy Birthday!" cheer competition between tables.  We were then greeted by the life-sized mouse, waving, high-fiving and thumbs-upping his way around wary four year olds. Videos of saccharine preteen actors riffing guitars blinked on the screen behind him.  Had Dante lived in the 21st century, this forced cheer would have been one of his seven levels of hell.


Two hours and cake later, we were sprung.  I am glad that my son had a good time with his friends but I will never again sacrifice Mother's Day.  And the next time the kids are invited to Chuck E. Cheese their father will have to take them because I'm now lactose intolerant.

Hooky for the Home Team

For some it's the college bowl games in January or the Superbowl in February.  For others, it's March Madness.   I look forward to late April, the end of hockey's regular season and the start of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Playoff hockey is intense.  The play is so fast that I don't dare look away from the TV because I could miss a critical play.  The split-second shifts in momentum leave my heart racing long after the last siren sounds.  It's a rush.


This time of year my husband resigns himself to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles for dinner.  Our bathrooms may be dirtier than a truck stop's, but I do fold the laundry, and then only because I can do it in front of the TV.  He learned the game to watch it with me otherwise he'd be a lonely man.

So, there we were last night, the entire family watching the Capitals play the NY Rangers.  Bedtime had come and gone.  The youngest child lie on the floor, fighting to stay awake.  When the Caps won in regulation, everyone cheered, and I hatched a plan I called the Red Surprise.

The next morning I said, "Wear red today."
"Why?" they asked in unison.
"If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise."

Later that morning I collected the kids from school and we drove to Kettler Capitals Iceplex to watch the Washington Capitals practice skate.

There was a respectable fan turnout but the rink was not as crowded as I had feared.  Having never purposely sought autographs, I spoke with several veteran "stalkers" who offered tips on where to approach players.  We found our post and waited.  Our patience was rewarded.

When the first player, Nick Backstrom, left the iceplex, the kids hung back.  Feeling their eyes on me, I approached him and asked if he would sign their Capitals hats.  He politely obliged.  They watched a tired Michael Neuvirth and John Erskine sign and became excited.  Then came Karl Alzner.  

It's difficult to recognize players without their uniforms, even more so when they sport traditional playoff beards and don't look like official photos.  After three trial runs the boys approached Karl on their own.  When one of them asked if he was John Carlson, he laughed and said, "No, I'm not that Carl," and then graciously posed for a photo.

The boys talked about it all the way back to school, where they shared their spontaneous adventure and autographs with classmates.  When we watch Game 3 tonight they'll look for their new heroes and cheer loudly.  Skipping school for a few hours was worth the memories made.