Written approximately at the end of February, 2022

Hey! It’s Sunday night, and boy, do my arms hurt! It’s like the part of my arms underneath the arm- part. It’s the carpal-tunnel part? You know, that part? If you pretend you have flippers, like little flippers and flap your hands, it’s the part that hurts when you flex your hands. That one.

I have to ask myself why this part hurts. It’s a weird part of the arm! I wrote a lot of papers recently, but I don’t think that’s why.

Yesterday, we drove 2 hours to a Chuck E. Cheese. Yes, I know there’s a war and global warming is real and there’s an ongoing pandemic, and gas prices are f*cked, but we went anyway. YOLO: it’s not just for millennials anymore. My husband wanted to take the lad skiing this past Saturday, but when we looked at the cost ($200 or more without me tagging along) I said, maybe we should do something else. Boychild was consulted on the day’s activities and Chuck E. Cheese won! Since there’s no Chuck E. Cheese in Vermont, off we went to New York.

Anyhow, on our way to Chuck E. Cheese, I had this tickling in the back part of my brain and I said to Husband, “Wasn’t Chuck E. Cheese named something else back in the day?” He looked at me like I was going mad. “No. I don’t think so. It’s always been Chuck E. Cheese.” I countered, “Really? I coulda sword it was under another name.” Later, I told my mother the same thing. She said the same thing as Husband, basically. No, honey, it was always Chuck E. Cheese. I was feeling the Mandela Effect. Could I have blinked over into another timeline where there was no precursor to Chuck E. Cheese? Could I have accidentally floated through a wormhole into another dimension? Suddenly, a way-back memory came to me: my best friend in high school and her boyfriend hanging with the animatronic creatures, singing the song “Venus” and us singing along, substituting the word “Penis” for “Venus.” Was I even there? Or was it hearsay? A name haunted me: Showbiz Pizza.

Yes, friends. Showbiz Pizza existed. And it was frightening and hilarious. There was an animatronic floor show which provided Stephen King-level nightmare fuel. It was the competition of Chuck E. Cheese, but then they merged and became one.

So, we went to Showbiz er, Chuck E. Cheese’s and had a great time. My son, bless him, is so susceptible to advertising. He saw the Chuck E. Cheese ads on YouTube and just kept asking us about it saying, “it’s where a kid can be a kid.” We countered with, “But you’re a kid. You can be a kid anywhere. In fact, it’s really hard to find a place where you can’t be a kid.” We had a great time. I blew off some steam at several machines. I kicked a ball at Homer Simpson, blasted dinosaurs and assaulted some Minions.

So, do my arms hurt because I beat the ever-loving crap out of the Minion Whack-A-Mole game? Or was it from carrying my tired child to the bathroom at the diner because he took his boots off under the table and couldn’t find them?

Friday was kid-at-home day for us. No daycare, no school. And there was a snowstorm. Great conditions for cookie-baking and sledding, or so the weather led us to believe. The cookies turned out very well: yellow butterflies with sprinkles. Boychild was the mastermind behind the entire cookie-making enterprise. Only drawback? He kept filching the dough. I’m pretty sure he ate a pound of raw dough before the butterflies even went into the oven.

Later in the day, we decided to sled. There’s a fab little spot across the street where we’ve had some delightful sledding adventures, so we took our disc and our two-person sled and trekked out in the snow. Husband warned us that the snow was very light and that we would probably get a face-full going down the hill. He was not wrong. He and Boychild went first on the two-person sled, then I followed behind on the disc. Cool thing about the disc- you spin. I spun. Right round. Like a record, baby. The snow pelted me from all sides until I came to a stop, covered in snow. It was in my hair, face, legs. It was down my pants, up my shirt, and probably in my cooch. However, I stayed upright the whole time, and was ready to get back up the hill! But no! See, while the snow fell, it covered something nefarious underneath: an icy waterfall that coated most of the hill. Honey, I could not keep my footing. I tried and I tried, but every time I took a step, my feet slipped and I landed on my stomach. I’m sure it was funny as hell to Husband, who made it to the top precariously, but in tact. Man, I felt like I was trying to climb an ice cube. And I was. Boychild was right beside me, slipping and falling and laughing, but his spry little self made it to the top eventually. Meanwhile, I was at the bottom of the hill falling and trying and failing! So, I just stopped and thought, “What the ever-lovin’ biscuits am I going to do?” I threw the disc down- no sense trying to carry it up with me if I couldn’t carry myself. I said “See you in hell” to the disc, then I began to crawl. Yes. I crawled up that icy snow-covered hill, and I got myself back to level ground. Then I told my boys, “I’m out. This is beyond me.” And I went the f*ck home! Not mad at my boys, mind you, but mad at the ice that made me look like a dumbass.

So, do my arms hurt from climbing the hill? Maybe. I also accidently put apple juice in my coffee this morning which meant I’m one cup down today. Maybe my arms are suffering from caffeine withdrawal.

Here’s what I’ve learned from having to crawl like a baby up a hill: next time I will be sure to let others sled and climb up before I do. They can be the guinea pigs. I will watch them to see if I need spikes and a pick-axe to get up the hill. Winter sports are not for the impoverished or those scared of iced hills. I’ll take my chances at Showbiz Pizza Chuck E. Cheese.