Skating Party

It wasn't that I didn't want to take Gio to his first ever roller skating party, at the same rink I skated in, as a kid. No. The problem was, his party would interfere with my ability to sit on the couch, in my pajamas, all day long.

However, guilt got the better part of me, and off to the shower I marched, to get ready for the par-tay. Since Gio had no previous roller skating experience, I assumed the party would be a complete disaster.

We arrived 30 minutes late, about the time, it seemed everyone else showed up, too. Yay! I'm not the only one who follows the rule, "arrive late, leave early," for kid parties.

When we walked into the rink, we were immediately instructed to, "go get skates in the back."

As I laced up his skates, Gio confidently sang, "this is going to be so easy."

"Don't worry kid, I'll peel you up off the floor, when you fall down," I thought to myself.

I offer to hold his hand as we walk over to the practice area, but he insists, "I can do it myself!"

And he could, but we were still on the carpet.

He agreed to hold my hand when we got to the practice area, but only for a three or four passes.

He wasn't exactly gliding on the skates. However, he was happy clunking along the hardwood floor, and therefore, so was I.

At the end of the day he joyously claimed, "I only fell ten times!"

He wasn't bothered one bit by any of the wipe outs, though, on one occasion, he asked, "did you bring my knee pads?"




I, on the other hand, was tormented by the noise. The mobs of happy people, and the mysterious smoke.

"They must be burning frozen pizzas in those toaster ovens," I thought to myself.

"Why is this place so smoky?" I ask another Mom.

"Smoke?" The Mom asks confused. "No, they don't allow smoking here."

"Don't you see the smoke," I say, wondering why she thinks I'm talking about cigarrette smoke?

"Yes............I see it, but I don't smell smoke," The Mom says.

"Well, you probably don't smell smoke because you've gotten used to it," I say.

"Used to it?" The Mom asks perplexed. "Nobody smokes at home."

Again, with the cigarette smoke? I'm talking about toaster oven kitchen smoke, lady. Maybe she's a closet smoker, the way she keeps going back to cigarrettes.

"No, I mean used to smelling smoke, here, for the last 30 minutes," I clarify.

"Oh right," The Mom says and walks away.

"Hmmmm, maybe it isn't smoke, afterall. "Maybe it's mist!"

"Do you think they have a mist machine here?" I ask a Dad feebily.

"Chaaaa, yeah," he says, in the cool sea turtle voice from Finding Nemo.



Upon hearing his words, I could breathe better. My smoke inhalation headache was gone in a flash of, er, mist. I quit fretting over how I would remove the smoke smell from my favorite purple jacket.

"Mom, can we go back to the skating rink tomorrow?" Gio asks.

"Oh no," I say.

Even guilt can't make me do that two days in a row.