Have a wizz-tastic time!” the sign at the water park said. I haven’t been to Water Wizz in probably thirty-five years, and honestly, I don’t think much has changed.
We rented a cabana — “shade included,” they said — which offered subpar cover at best on this hot-as-balls day. My jam? The beach. I’d go swimming here, but all I can think about is getting a fungal infection, so I’ll pass.
The kids are old enough now to have fun on their own, and thank God for that.
I am, at best, a half-assed mom in the world of moms I come from. I know that’s harsh, but it’s true. Other moms do this kind of stuff all the time — water parks, themed itineraries, matching swimsuits. I’m lucky if I pull off one trip like this a year. Disney? Out of the question. Not only can I not afford it — I don’t want to. Will my kids’ childhoods be incomplete as a result? Probably.
“Well, you did drive us clear across the country when we could’ve taken a flight to California,” J.D. said, full of sarcasm. “I did do that,” I replied, laughing. “I did. See?”
Here’s the thing: when I played soccer, I never cared much about winning. I loved the game — the movement, the rhythm — but I just didn’t have that fire. That edge.
My fire shows up in weirder, more creative places, which is frustrating. According to 23andMe, I have a genetic variant common in elite athletes. That might explain why I could do an alarming number of chin-ups at age nine.
But that fire? It never made it to the soccer field. Or the PTA. Or the world of competitive parenting.
I tried. I failed.
So here I am, having a “wizz-tastic” day — a little past the age to be here, a little too aware of it.
The squeal of kids rides the chlorine-scented air as the wave pool sounds its mechanical warning. A boy, maybe three, darts into my cabana and announces, “The waves are trying to kill me!”What a strong sense of metaphor for someone so young.
The boy dashes back out into the water, having survived the killer waves. The shrieks rise again. The scoreboard resets.
I sit in the patchy shade — no medals, no itinerary, no matching shirts. Just me, watching, remembering to breathe.
Maybe I’m not in the parenting Olympics. Maybe I never qualified.But I’m still here. I’m still showing up. And maybe — just maybe — that counts, too.