The wife had mentioned something called Babypalooza, and we were going to it. Saturday. Don’t forget. So I promptly forgot until a few days later when the wife mentioned it again. Babypalooza. Saturday.
Again, I didn’t really think much of it, except that it kind of stuck. Babypalooza. Babypalooza. What the hell is this thing she’s dragging me to? Oh well, whatever it is, it sounded kind of fun. Maybe not FUN fun, but neat. A neat word, at the very least.
I overheard that word again when she was talking to her mom on the phone about it. Something we’re going to and taking the baby. Saturday. Babypalooza.
It sounded like something that should involve trampolines and elephant rides. I started to feel excited about it. Maybe not EXCITED excited, but looking forward. Like maybe there was going to be free food.
“You’ll get to meet the moms in my mom group,” the wife said at dinner.
That sounded, well, not as fun as watching a fire-breathing Reptar riding a stuntbike while I shoved endless boxes of Cracker Jacks in my mouth. Never mind that I don’t even like Cracker Jacks. The thing is, I want to like Cracker Jacks. They taste so much better in the fantasy in my mind. But yeah, meeting the moms, that’s cool, too.
“And you’ll get to meet Brian’s bros. That’s what I call his friends in the group…”
She started naming his friends—I mean bros. And his girlfriends. Maybe there would be raffle prizes, prize wheels, and a dunking booth. They should totally have that at Babypalooza, if they don’t already. They should hire me as their consultant, if they want anyone to even come to this thing.
Babypalooza should have a ferris wheel, a petting farm with goats, a lazy river, a corn maze, a slushee stand, clowns, tacos, facepainting, apple cider, kettlecorn, and over one thousand ideas for crafts with beans and pipe cleaners, since moms are into that kind of thing.
“And Mr. Harrison might be there, too,” the wife went on. “Isn’t that funny? His mom always puts Mr. in front of his name when she says it.”
“That’s cute,” I said. Mr. Harrison and maybe a zipline, too.
So by Friday night, I was pretty pumped about it.
“I’m kind of looking forward to this Babypalooza thing tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh no,” she said, her voice full of dread.
My hopes instantly began to fade. She knows me too well.
“Whatever you’re picturing in your mind about Babypalooza, downgrade it by one hundred,” she said.
Okay. I’d get rid of the lazy river. But I was too stubborn to let her kill my hopes and dreams. I’d still be excited about this.
Except what she really meant was downgrade it by a thousand. There was no ferris wheel. There was however, a few tables set up with pamphlets about family activities provided in the county. There was no fire-breathing Reptar. There was however, a bored-looking man running the CPR class sign-up. There was no petting zoo. There was however, the wife’s OBGYN practice giving away free pens. There wasn’t even free food. There was however, samples of lactation cookies.
There wasn’t even MR. HARRISON. THEY DIDN’T COME. I mean, whatever, like I care, BUT COME ON.
But I’m still stubborn about this, determined to take something—anything away from this. I’m just going to write all my letters with my free OBGYN pen from now on. I don’t even write letters, but I’m going to start.