The Savage called Indoor Water Parks
Band-aids, blood, buffets that will make you barf, and a barrage of endless concrete steps were the theme of this past weekend’s family “vacation” to the indoor waterpark. I would be lying if I said I had been looking forward to it. As terrible as it sounds, no, I was not. My newly-turned-11-year-old daughter was naturally pumped with the enthusiasm of a stadium full of Swifties, and I was genuinely envious. Instead, I was pumped full of anxiety as I packed baby items for our 10-month-old son, Cat-In-the-Hat-style, looking like I was about to party crash on some unknowing brother/sister duo’s rainy day.
Why do the littlest beings always require the most stuff? The stroller was a given, but I clearly couldn’t push it through a wading pool, so I brought the baby seat fanny pack. While the easiest and least cumbersome, it tends to hurt my back, so I also brought the more supportive front carrier. Naturally, I needed to bring both front carriers in case one got wet. Now I have four devices to hold a single child and everything transitioned quickly from Cat In the Hat to If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
We were barely gone three days, but I packed an entire sleeve of diapers which were shoved in my suitcase next to enough menstruation paraphernalia to last a lifetime. Because if you force a mom into a swimsuit, she’s going to need a period to make it even more excruciating. Like kids, periods know when you’re supposed to be doing something fun or relaxing. Those are the moments when they shine.
The car ride there was the most relaxing part. My son was content babbling and sleeping, my daughter was cuddled up with her squishmallow and earbuds, and my husband was driving. We had not just one, but several full conversations, and I sipped on my beloved Dunkin coffee like a lady of leisure. I felt a glimmer of hope that this waterpark excursion might actually be a vacation. The lies coffee tells you.
I am not quite sure what I was expecting, but the lobby of the waterpark lodge where we were staying was underwhelming. Sometimes I forget that I’m 41, not 4 or 1, and places meant to be magical take on a whole new perspective. My nostrils filled with the smell of chlorine, chaos, and feet. Speaking of, there were lots of them. Everywhere. Many of these feet were bare, gripping the carpet in a sweet little dance between skin germs and fibers that aren’t easily sanitized. I couldn’t wait to watch my son crawl all over it later.
We wrapped up check-in and jammed ourselves into the lodge elevator. Whoever designed an elevator, meant to house whole families, that is roughly half the size of a normal elevator should be either fired or forced to work as the elevator operator during hotel rush hours. Luckily, the room was cute — a little lodge within a lodge — where my sweet family would “camp” for the next few nights. The little bunk bed nook was especially precious and the perfect spot for our son’s pack-n-play. My tween girl did not have the same warm fuzzies for this cozy spot next to her brother and insisted on sleeping on the creeky little pullout couch next to the queen bed. We settled to the best of our ability while my daughter asked repeatedly if we were going to the park. Feeling spry, I told her I would take her while the boys rested.
It was evident it had been a minute because I somehow forgot that my bathing suit had a deeper V than my tiny chest could handle. As long as I stood up straight, it would stretch enough to get the job done. However, I couldn’t seem to follow my advice as I kept crouching over to see if my tampon string was hanging out. Nothing makes you feel less confident about what’s-hanging-out-where as you walk up an endless amount of concrete steps in a semi-loose bathing suit with people behind you peering at just the right angle. Thankfully my daughter is of age where I can be candid, and I put her on tampon-string-watch duty.
We enjoyed a few slides before I couldn’t take it and had to make the first trip to the water park bathroom. Hiding the tampon in my hand was the easiest part of the experience. I found a private, family bathroom that looked like it had been road hard and put away wet (very literally). Seeing that things were very close to catastrophic, I reached for the toilet paper with my semi-wet hand which is never a good combination. In my struggle to get a sufficient amount for the situation, I scraped my knuckle on the jagged edge of the toilet paper cutter. I quickly finished up and rushed over to the sink to take care of the next bleed only to discover at the sink mirror that my recent professional hair dye, a dark reddish brown, was dripping down my body. I was Carrie, but the 2023 horror version as a middle-aged mom. Convincing my daughter it was time for dinner, we shuffled back to the room to freshen up and/or wash off the many shades of red.
We enjoyed the food at the lodge dinner buffet. By “enjoy,” I mean the convenience because that’s where it ended. Rubber chicken nuggets and overly salted steamed veggies were the highlights. I ordered a glass of wine. Then, I ordered a second. We rolled out into the lobby to tie the night off with a staff-led dance party where my daughter and I tore it up. I forgot about the buffet. We were thriving.
We thrived our way to sleep to prepare ourselves for a full day of family fun. The waterpark gods were with me because a Dunkin was built into the lobby. The breakfast buffet hit a little better than dinner. I passed on the carbs because the last thing period bloat needed was more fluff to join the bathing suit soirée. My son needed a nap which gave us much-needed time to digest. Then we unpacked our stuff from our suitcases, re-packed them into our park bags, and went on our way.
It was like a scene from a Richard Scarry book (emphasis on the “Scarry.”) The towels, people, and toys were the worms driving apples-cars and the cats piloting helicopters. My husband immediately told me he would try and rent a private cabana no matter what it cost. I gave him the look of solidarity and wished him Godspeed while I ventured off into the Busy, Busy World. (If you get these references, you probably need a heating pad permanently plugged in next to your bed like me.) My whimsical daughter immediately pounced into the water with reckless abandon.
The day was a true blur of tag-team — mostly my husband with our son and me with our daughter. We ordered some terrible food at one point. My daughter was lounging in the cabana, chewing on french fries, watching Back to the Future on the mini TV with absolutely no volume due to the wave-rider attraction right outside our tent sounding like hurricane-force winds on repeat. During one of many trips down the family slide with my daughter, our tube turned around, leaving me heading down the slide backward. I would never be the same after that one. My feet were killing me from walking barefoot on the cement, my back hurt, and I was woozy. It was time for me to wave the white flag and confess to my daughter, standing in line doing tikTok dances and giving me a million hugs, that mama was almost as fried as the food in the park. I tagged in my husband and gladly pushed our son around in the stroller as the crowd in the park began to dissipate.
That night we ordered a pizza from the lodge. Honestly, it wasn’t terrible. I think we were all extremely happy to just be dry, in bed, and stuffing our faces. I forgot to mention it was also our wedding anniversary. The creaky sounds of my daughter on the pullout couch and the mass amount of farts that filled the space made it all the more romantic.
No one asked to return to the park the next day, so we opted to check out and use the rest of our afternoon to check out the outlet mall nearby. We were all exhausted and ready for a vacation from our vacation.
Parents, in general, are fairly superhuman and are used to withstanding enough discomfort to take their children on destination vacations. Is it always enjoyable? No. But would I give it up and miss seeing the joy on their faces? Also, no. (I will, however, opt for the indoor waterpark with non-carpeted surfaces next time.)
