The Playland Event

Yesterday I had the great fun of taking Zane to the Witte Museum to meet up with a couple of my girly-type friends and their little boys. There is an exhibit showing at the moment of these huge animatronic insects/arachnids, and if there's creepy-crawlies to be examined, that's where most boys are. Zane was very excited, although as soon as he walked into the exhibit and was greeted by a ginormous wasp, his normal exhuberance was a bit dampened.

After the museum we all went to the nearest McDonalds for lunch, because that's what moms who want to wear out their little ones do. There was a playland at this store, so we got our food and let the little ones loose while we gossiped and chatted. All three boys are around the same age and size, and they were romping and chasing and climbing all through the playscape like they were having the best time ever. I naturally turned my head toward the sound of my son's effervescent and quite enthusiastic laughter...

...to find that Zane was not wearing pants. Or socks. He was in his pullup and his shirt and nothing else. I said what anyone in my shoes would say, which is WTF. Then I went over to my son, who wasn't really bothered by his pantsless state.

"Zane, where are your pants?"

"Up there," he pointed somewhere above vaguely.

"Go and get your pants and socks and put them back on!" I wasn't yelling or anything, and I was proud of myself for my restraint. My own mother would have had a major coronary.

"Don't want to put pants on," my boy says.

"Look, Zane..." I took a deep breath. "Do you see that sign?" I point to a sign that says that you must be under 4ft tall to play on the playscape. "That says that you have to have pants on to play on this ride."

Yeah, I lied. Sue me--other parents were starting to look at me funny. Hell, if I wasn't the one whose kid was running about half naked, I'd be looking at me funny, too.

"No," Zane stated unequivocally. I didn't want to resort to drastic measures, but a line had been drawn in the sand. Do NOT mess with Mama!

"That's it--I am calling Santa!"

I pulled out my cell phone and made like I was punching numbers. I held the phone to my ear.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Zane screamed, and of course, started crying piteously. So now I'm the mother of the half-naked kid having a meltdown at McDonalds. Who is also an evil bitch for torturing my son with Santa. Great.

Just then, another little boy brought me Zane's pants, which he had retrieved from the tunnels above us. I looked upon this child as a savior, because I am so severely claustrophic that there would be no way I was going up there. Zane was still sobbing. I made him go up there and find his socks and bring them back down, then helped him get dressed.

"Do you think you can manage to stay dressed, or do I still need to call Santa?" I ask my son. He agreed to remain entirely clothed for at least as long as it took him to forget the whole thing. Which, in Zane's World, is "five minute".

At least I got to finish my cheeseburger.