For the last two years, ever since she noticed it on the corner of Quebec and County Line, Katherine has had one goal in life:
To go to Chuck E. Cheese’s.
We tried, Lord knows.
“Aw, you don’t want to go there. I hear they have really bad pizza.”
“No! They have bad pizza, and they have good pizza!”
Anyway, we finally gave in to the mouse, and told Katherine she could go for her birthday. Glee!
And …
… well, the pizza is pretty bad, though it was hot, and hot pizza is, at its worst, only mediocre. I didn’t dare order the wine on the menu (tempting though it was). The ambience was claustrophobic, a number of the games were out of commission, the animatronics were lousy, and …
… and, well, Katherine had a ball. Which is, of course, the important thing.
And I’ll also confess that, at 1 token per game, there were some pretty good deals for the few video games that an adult would be likely to want to play. And if you’re clever (we weren’t), you can go to the web site and download coupons before you go.
Her friend, Thomas, from Margie’s office day care, was there, too, so there was someone for her to go running around with in the Habitrails, and play games with, and so forth.
So, overall, a success, and a fun way for her to celebrate her birthday.
Now to see if we can keep it down to just one visit a year …
I neglected to mention that Katherine ended up throwing up during the night. Twice. Spaced a good half-hour-just-enough-time-to-drift-off apart.
First time was the standard disaster. She was out of bed, coming to the door, I entered to her cries of lament, she spewed. I grabbed her, headed for the bathroom, spewage continuing, got to the bathroom, set her down, spewage continuing, noted the toilet lid was still lidded, opened it …
Spewage stopped.
Remind me to thank the Testerfolk for their purchase of a mini-carpet cleaner again.
Second time, though, she was out of bed, distressed, I entered, hugged and held her, she started to swallow, said, “I’m going to the bathroom now,” dashed off, got to the toilet, confined all spewage right there, and looked remarkably (and justifiably) pleased with herself.
I’m not saying it was the pizza, mind you. Margie noted that, with eleventy zillion kids running around and touching everything, the whole place was a germ factory and distribution center non-pareil, and, no, I forgot entirely about her washing her hands before doing the pizza thang.
Ah, well. She informed me on the phone this a.m. that her tummy was much better.
Welcome to 4.
Lucky you – last time I went I was in a dress and still had to make it through the hamster tubes with the kids. I actually required a bit of a rescue: I was trying to find “down” not “giant fan.” [grinning]
I recommend the purchase of a sturdy, plastic trash can for next to Katherine’s bed. I still have the one that was in my room growing up. (Plastic seemed to last longer when made in the 1960s.) It’s a little larger than the traditional bedroom trash can. With my father not able to move rapidly, grabbing the can was a good move. And cleaning up a plastic can is preferable to the carpet or the floor (even with a good carpet cleaner).
I recommend the purchase of a sturdy, plastic trash can for next to Katherine’s bed. I still have the one that was in my room growing up. (Plastic seemed to last longer when made in the 1960s.) It’s a little larger than the traditional bedroom trash can. With my father not able to move rapidly, grabbing the can was a good move. And cleaning up a plastic can is preferable to the carpet or the floor (even with a good carpet cleaner).
Well, she does have a trash can, and Margie was clever enough to move it next to her bed between bouts 1 and 2 (had I been clever enough to think of it during bout 1 … but it being 1:48 a.m., perhaps I may be forgiven for thinking less clearly).