The Great America Swine Flu Roller Coaster Heat Stroke Calamity, or, What I Did on My Summer Vacation!

The kids have had a busy summer. First I took them to Alabama for their ritual Summer sunburning and to taunt them with the richness and normality of family life in the rural South; then I throw the girl on a plane to a University level full immersion Arabic language course;

[caption id="attachment_1676" align="alignleft" width="240"] Six Flags. No, seriously.[/caption]

then I go to school for two weeks and leave the boy to starve to death while watching an endless loop of McDonald's commercials; then I pack his lazy ass off to a two week long computer camp at Lake Forest college where he stays over night in a killer dorm after spending the day with other geeks who understand AllCap, the geek Ur language, which sounds something like WTFD? STFU! NK! Beast headshot, dude, beast!; then he got swine flu and had to miss the second week AND lose 2400 bucks in the bargain and THEN after a week plus of ultra-laze video-game and dope induced bliss and recovery I send him to Great America on the hottest day in the Midwest in a year so he can ride roller coasters all day, blister his feet into some kind of cephalopodic skin graft gone wrong, get heat stroke, come home and fall down the stairs.

There are certain precautions most parents take when delivering their prepubescent children alone into the roaring maul of an amusement park. For instance, the parent will send the child with the following items:

1. Cell phone. Charged. Ringer on "taze"


2. Cash.


3. Water bottle. Do not confuse with Vodka Bottle, which is what adults bring.


4. The right clothes: sandals, light t shirt, hat, a bag with extra in case of drenching.


5. Hat.


6. Sun screen.


7. ID card pinned inside their shorts so if they fall off the ride, the authorities know where to send the body.

I sent my son to Great America on a day that would've made native Floridians shake their head with wonder as the humidity and the oppressive heat slaked their skin off their bones, in the following:

1. white socks


2. heavy tennis shoes


3. heavy shorts


4. a black t-shirt


5. no hat.

He had plenty of cash and was instructed to spend it mostly on water and Gatorade, instructions given by a parent who has forgotten that water in a theme park costs the gross GDP of Belarus.

He was instructed to call us at least three times and finally a few minutes before he leaves so we could swing by and pry his hyper excited carcass off the lot.

Call  1:

"I! just! rode! the! Eagle! in! the! front! car! I! rode! the! Raging! Bull! seven! times!!!! This!!! is!!! awesome!!!! OMG!!!!!!! AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [garble, garble]!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   !   [ click].

Call 2:

[garble, garble; screaming] hands up but at the end!! I [garble, garble, garble, garble; music] huge wave hit me!!! [garble; click.]

Call 3:

You know the park closes in an hour, right? You have to leave now to come get us.

Call 4—29:

You heard what I said about coming to get us, right? Where are you? Should we run out to the highway? Can you see us? Can you see a McDonald's? Can you see McDonald's!

We get to the gate. Pull right up to the big WELCOME sign and the kid staggers out like a chunky prepubescent Frankenstein. He's holding his hands out from his sides and walking like he rode a sandpaper saddle all day. He's flushed and moist and squinting. I realize he looks exactly like I did when I was his age and did a six mile hike in Scouts along an open road in Florida in JULY and I realize the kid's in real pain.

We feed. We water. On the way home he tells us at one point during the day, he was dizzy, his heart was racing, and his mouth was dry. He starts to complain. He has a headache. His thighs hurt. His feet hurt. We get to his friend's house, drop the kid off, and my son starts to cry. He's moaning. We check him out, poke, prod. His head is hot and his hands are cold. We administer aspirin and Gatorade. He finally falls asleep in the back seat. We get home and he doesn't even want to go to his room. I make him a bed on the couch. We go upstairs.

An hour later, I hear a crash. Now crashes are not uncommon in our house and I always wait until the screaming starts before I react. 99 percent of the time, there's no screaming, so, no emergency and I can continue my Psych and Burn Notice marathon uninterrupted. Tonight, there were no screams, but a little while after the crash I heard whimpering. [My Attorney] and I leaped out of bed and found the kid slumped at the bottom of the stairs.

The poor kid, he was so exhausted, he kind of sleep walked and was going upstairs, god knows why, and laid his hand on my usual stack of magazines and books permanently perched on the third step and the whole thing tipped and he slid down. Didn't fall down the stairs; didn't flip over, hit his head, and paralyze himself down the stairs. But let me tell you, coming around the corner and seeing him puddled on the hardwood stopped my heart cold.

And it's all my fault. The kid had an absolutely fantastic day, except for the effects of bad parenting. To whit:

• I neglected to impart to my son the miraculously soothing quality of corn starch when applied to one's [insert preferred euphemism for one's "junk" here]. By the end of the day, you could've driven a clown car between his knees. He was walking like a retired cowboy.

• I dressed him like a retiree with bad circulation. I mean, seriously, the heavy lined shorts, socks, and a black t-shirt? We're lucky he didn't burst into flames.

It took him a while to get back to sleep. [My Attorney] performed her famous HIGH ENERGY LED FLASHLIGHT IN THE EYE CONCUSSION TEST wherein she uses a high intensity beam of pure radiation to cauterize the retina. I made him drink nearly a liter of Gatorade. He's fine.

I might not sleep all night, but he's fine.