Late at night I become susceptible to a sort of ethereal reasoning and say and do things that feel monumentally wise at the time, and then in the morning I want to slit my throat.
Tonight, I'm copping to the fact that I hate the Gilbert House. That's right, I hate it. I know my crunch factor just dropped by ten thousand recycled hemp points, and I don't even care. I know I'm supposed to dress my kids in uncoordinating Hanna Andersson sweat suits until they are fifteen, and encourage them to memorize every exhibit, if not create some of them, and I know I ought to spend every sunny day there. But I just can't. Because I hate it. I'll try to restrict my explanation, as I've already hogged most of cyberspace tonight, but okay, I can't handle not being able to see my kids for thirty minutes at a time. Nor am I fond of them disappearing into some labyrinth of broken necks, into which I could not fit if I tried, and would therefore fail at rescuing them. (If you're wondering if know I'm crazy, I do, and I take a lot of pills, but I can't shake the pervasive safety phobia.)
Fortunately for my kids, we have a lot of friends who guilt me into going, paying little mind to my delicate mental state. The kids instantly enter that cage/maze/chamber, and are not be seen for half an hour, when they emerge asking for hot dogs, another fear of mine. So we go, and they run, which is wonderful, and they visit the exhibits and punch and choke each other in the shadow room, and I try to get a colorful educational vibe rather than a dank desperate vibe. I know one mom who agrees with me, and she had BETTER come forth in unity, for I fear after this gets posted, she may be my only friend left.
I don't want to get too detailed about why I'm uncomfortable there, because 40% of my friends either built it, or run it, or consider it a member of their family, and I'm not aiming to hurt anyone. But it's specifically configured to choke and/or hide your child(ren). I always want to take everyone into the baby room and sit safely amongst the shape sorters, but nine year olds are prohibited, and they get pissed when you try to hold them there. They want to be slopping around in that sticky bubble bullshit, or assembling people's garbage into crafts that must be brought home and cherished forever. I just can't take it. But, I'm a mom, first and foremost, and I shan't deny my kids these liberties just because I'm scaredy cat with ocd. So, if you're not busy setting fire to my house for this act of treason, and you happen to be headed to AC Gilbert's soon, and everyone else on your list turned you down, and you hate me, go ahead and call me. We'll probably come.