I am the Queen of the Slide


Spring Fling was today. For $10 Rhiannon got a bracelet for unlimited access to two bouncy castles, a bouncy slide, a bouncy obstacle course, a bouncy thing with a bungie cord at one end, a bunch of non-bouncy carnival games, and a dunk tank. "Dinner" was extra and included a hot dog (consumed before the carnival), popcorn, a Rice Krispie treat, and a "small" sno-cone covered in electric blue "flavor" called "cotton candy (blue)".


Somehow this child survives. I wonder if I am a bad dad for letting her choose the menu today, and upon further review, there is no penalty. Tonight is hers, and who am I to set rules?

She and I arrive at five and stay until eight when it's finally dark. She bounces. She slides so many times that she comes up to me in the dark and cooler than any child should be allowed to be whispers, "Dad, I am the queen of this slide". She owns it and she knows it. The "carnie" (a bored girl of about 16 who keeps looking at me) lets her do whatever she wants. Which is what queens do. Rhiannon mixes things up by sliding sideways, frontways. She jumps and then bounces down the slide in three hops. Bored with her queendom, it's time to get some teachers wet.

As the admission fee goes to charity, many of the school's teachers volunteer to sit in the dunk tank and wait for a student with a good arm and good aim to hit the button with a softball, triggering the collapse of a metal perch, casting said educator into the drink. Rhiannon cannot wait. In fact, it's all she's talked about for days.

"DAD!"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"I am SO going to dunk Mr. Jacobs!"

Mr. Jacobs is her PE teacher who is a rather nice, non-threatening gym teacher. In fact, one kind of feels sorry for him, sitting there, smiling nicely, this nice man who is confronted by a line of at least 30 hooligans all bent on mayhem with a ball, a button, and a tank of tepid water that five teachers have already christened.

Rhiannon stands on line. And she stares at Mr. Jacobs on his seat. Mind you she is at the back of the line and she is already trying to get inside his head, make him afraid. She even taunts the poor man.

"You are not going to be dry for long!"

This from a five-year-old girl in ponytails and a skort snarfing popcorn and wearing purple Crocs who only seems to be able to throw the occasional tantrum much less a heavy ball. And let's face it: she throws like a girl.

But Rhiannon is smart. She's told me as much. And for her, it's all mental. So she stares her teacher down with cold, blue eyes. And soon it is her turn.

"Okay, Rhiannon," Mr. Jacobs says. "Let's see what you've got."

Rhiannon stands at the line like Greg Maddux and delivers a ball. Maddux did this sometimes, setting up a batter with a couple of bad pitches. It's all mental, remember. The second pitch is errant, too, and Rhiannon has Mr. Jacobs right where she wants him. The third pitch hits the button dead center, but Rhiannon hasn't put enough mustard on the ball to drive the button home. So another carnie pushes the button for her. Down goes Mr. Jacobs. As he is climbing back onto his seat, Rhiannon says:

"How do you like me now?"

After that, it's back to the carnie games including one where she gets to shoot a foam RPG at military targets in the desert, including a Red Cross Jeep. She let's that one go, instead aiming for the tank that is almost upon her. The kid knows her ordnance and makes the proper decision, hitting the target just in time. On our way out, we scan the field for foam IEDs. You never know.

Probably the most surprising carnie game of the night is Monkey Poo Dodgeball. I shit you not. Here's a photo:


Players are handed rubber monkey feces (that is to say rubber feces, not feces from rubber monkeys) to throw (presumably) back at the simian offenders. Rhiannon scores one hit in three and is thus eligible for a "prize" which, in this case, is what I can only describe as a plastic throwing star for ninjas in training. Awesome. I try to get Rhiannon to take two because, you know, there might be foam Arabs around.

The night ends well with Rhiannon sliding a few more times in the dark, and then it's back to the apartment to recount this amazing afternoon. Rhiannon and I are both wiped out, and I tell her another Rhiannon Story at bedtime, this one about a never-ending slide. She yawns.

"I know what you're going to say, dad."

"What's that?"

"That I have to climb all the way to the moon to get to the top of the slide".

"Nope."

She hesitates.

"Nope; you only climb to the clouds, but then you slide through the center of the earth and then out into space where the gravity of Mars catapults you back to Earth again."

"Oh."

She kisses me goodnight. Tomorrow she is going to a birthday party at Pump It Up, an indoor arena full of nothing but bouncies.

Rhiannon. Queen of Cute.

Andrew (Papa)