The lanky amusement park worker secures us in our seats, his teenage moodiness palpable as he goes through the motions of checking our restraints. He ambles through the rows, lifting bars with a sigh.
Click, click, click.
It’s been an eventful afternoon. My 3-year-old’s golden ponytail is starting to unravel from all the fun, her skin kissed by the sun. My partner, Michael, looks weary in that familiar way that comes from chasing after little ones for hours, yet there’s a satisfying glow on his face. Our youngest, Lily, not quite 2, is both playful and fatigued; we skipped her nap today. This will likely be our last ride.
Click, click, click.
I sit across from my spirited Lily, who beams at me and wiggles her fingers. I return her smile, already dreading the trek back to the car. It occupies my thoughts.
Click, click, click.
As our roller coaster starts its slow creep, I gaze at my daughter, out of reach. I’m reminded of how much she has grown. I remember her pudgy fingers clasping mine during feedings, how she would coo and stroke my arm. Now, her playful spirit is emerging, and she loves to dart away, her laughter inviting us to chase her. I think of how she has figured out how to unbuckle herself from her high chair, treating it like a fun challenge. We begin our ascent.
Clang, clang, clang.
Wait.
Clang, clang, clang.
She loves to escape from seat belts. I’m not sure how well the attendant secured her.
Clang, clang, clang.
Oh no.
Clang, clang, clang.
There’s no turning back. We’re inching up the first hill, metal grinding against metal, the sound haunting. I will her with every fiber of my being, my heart racing.
Please, my love, stay seated. This isn’t a game. I regret getting on this ride.
Clang, clang, clang.
She starts to squirm, wiggling beneath the safety bar. I watch helplessly as she folds her tiny legs beneath herself, ready to stand.
She’s out—standing there, eyes sparkling with mischief, proud of her cleverness. We’re almost at the summit.
Clang, clang, clang.
I’m screaming, but the wind carries my pleas away. I’m frantic, sweating, waving my hands.
Please, sweetheart, please sit down. It’s not a game. I love you.
I struggle to breathe. In moments, we’ll plummet down the hill. I bang my body against the safety bar, desperate to reach her, yet powerless.
Please sit down. Please? Mommy loves you. Mommy’s sorry.
Just before we drop, she miraculously tucks her legs back under the bar. She looks at me, full of vibrancy, playful yet unaware of the risks. For the next 45 seconds, she decides when to sit and when to stand, oblivious to the consequences. This game delights her because it provokes my reaction, but I never wanted to play it here.
Clang, clang, clang.
The ride has six more hills, each one repeating the same pattern: she stands but sits just before we crest. I plead, panic, and beg each time, my body bruised from my frantic movements. My mind goes numb as I watch my daughter teeter on the edge of danger, while I remain utterly stuck.
I chose this ride. I thought it would be fun. As we disembark, I feel the urge to vomit—not from motion sickness, but from sheer terror.