Friday is typically my day off. I don’t know how I managed that one, but it is. When my mom gets home at 4ish, she’s always tired, and I’m always bored because I’ve been waiting all day for her to get home so we can do something. I know I could probably call someone my own age who presumably has also been sitting at home all day, but my mom’s my best friend. She’s one of these people I can hang out with while still maintaining an introvert’s homeostasis.
So when she walks through the door, I’m already on her, asking what she wants to do. She takes her heels off and plops on the couch. Meanwhile I’m already up and putting my own shoes on. I know there’s a festival in Countryside, IL right near my house, so I suggest that, and because she’s my mom and not my dad she agrees even though it’s clear she’d be perfectly happy to just watch an episode of Criminal Minds with an icy Diet Coke in her hand.
The festival is smaller than our towns, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little disappointed with the lack of a Ferris Wheel (Random fact: I absolutely love Ferris Wheels). Suddenly, I feel bad for dragging her here, because it doesn’t seem like there’s much to do, and she’s probably only here because I want to be. But I hear some live music and head toward it like a moth on a lantern.
“Hey, maybe we can just get a few drinks and sit in the grass and listen to the band,” I suggest as we pass several fried food stands that seem to be taunting the two of us who are both attempting to diet.
“Yeah,” my mom says. I can tell when she’s not into something, and she is not into this, getting bitten by the hundreds of mosquitos that have spawned from our summer of thunderstorms and wandering around trying to make something of this Friday night.
We prop against the fence to the baseball field where the band, Spoken Four, is playing. I comment that the lead singer looks pretty badass, and she does with a floor length skirt and chunky biker boots. A few crowd favorites, like “Sweet Home Alabama,” and we’re both in a better mood for exploring the festival. I remember my mom telling me how music can do that to her, completely transform her negativity.
I turn around to face the rest of the carnival. Whirring rides with kaleidoscope lights move kids in nauseating orbitals. But there’s one that my mom seems fascinated by. It is a circular disk with seats all the way around. It spins on its axis while also being rocked side to side.
I try to gauge how interested she is by saying, “We should go on that. I don’t think it would hurt your back. It seems pretty smooth.” My mom’s had two back surgeries in two years, and even small movements can put it out of alignment. Sometimes when my brother or I are driving and we go over a particularly annoying pothole, I find her aggressively gripping the door handles.
I’m expecting her to say no and then offer to watch while I go, which isn’t usually any fun unless my brother is there too. Instead, she says something like “okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why not?” She says, but there is a hint of apprehension that she’s clearly pushing through.
The whole way to the ticket booth she keeps saying, “This is crazy. This is insane.”
We get on the ride first and have to wait a few minutes for more people to join us. She’s shorter than me and wearing a skirt, so it takes her a second to hoist herself onto the seat, but then the restraints are coming down and the ride is starting.
I keep trying to look over at her face, but the shoulder restraints keep me from really turning my head. We’re rocking gently at first, but after a few sweeps side to side, we’re gaining height. Every time the metal disk takes us down again, I have a panicky feeling that my legs are going to hit the metal barrier below us. An optical illusion nothing more, but I know my mom feels the same because she says so.
My hair rushes up towards my face, and I hold onto the barrette onto the back of my head, thinking it’s going to flying off. But then we’re slowing down, and for a brief moment we’re high enough and going slow enough still to see the rest of “The Best of Countryside.” It’s pretty with the lights coming from the other rides and games. The smell of fried dough mixes with the smell of fresh air. It reminds me why I tolerate the Midwest, where I was born and raised. They know how to do laidback better than anyone. It’s all jeans and t-shirts below us, beers in one hand and brats in the other.
We get off the ride, and I turn anxiously to my mom. I’d forgotten about her back during the ride. “So, how was it? Is your back alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. That was awesome. I can’t believe I did that! That was crazy!” Her shorthair’s messed up from the ride, but she wears a look of exhilaration that I don’t see from her often anymore. It makes me supremely happy that I pushed her to do this. She’s always been the “cool mom,” but two surgeries have dulled her a bit. We spend the rest of the night playing bingo at the Rotary Club tent and absentmindedly slapping at mosquitos. She keeps talking about the ride and how insane it was that she did it. She even makes me take a picture to send her friends.
People like to act like adventure and fun are synonymous, but they’re not. Adventures are fun, but they’re also a lot of work. It takes effort to choose to go out and explore rather than hit play on that next episode on Netflix, but from the look on my mom’s face I’d say it was worth it.
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