The Children’s Museum Would Have Been Awesome. If It Hadn’t Been for the Children.

Because Heather and I could always use a little more stress in our lives, we decided to take five kids to the Children’s Museum over winter break.

Had it been a regular school day or even your typical weekend, it wouldn’t have been as stressful. I’m not saying I still wouldn’t have felt compelled to rocket my van off a cliff on the way home, but at least I’d have been able to do so without downing Paxil like Pez.

Driving off a cliff drug-free is important because I wouldn’t want the paramedics rifling through the smoldering wreckage to think I was just some drug abuser who lost control of his vehicle. Instead, I’d want them to see the calm look of relief on my deceased face and unanimously agree, “The man obviously just snapped.” All while the five strapped-in instigators continued to argue over who touched who first on the way down.

For any parent out there who may be thinking it’s a great idea to take your children to a children’s museum over school break (or even during regular business hours), let me assure you, it isn’t.

Why? Because anyone and everyone within a 600-mile radius who either has children or has heard of children will come up with the same great idea. You may think it’ll provide some great bonding time or perhaps some lessons in socialization, but in reality, it’ll only provide lessons in self-preservation and survival. I know. I’ve been there. And I was naive enough to think it’d be fun as well.

I expected to walk through those double doors and see happy children playing happily with happy toys and even happier exhibits. Instead, I found myself wandering into a chaotic scene reminiscent of acid-amped chimps breaking free from their cages and then running amok through the laboratory.

Touching everything.

Originally, it was just going to be my wife and myself along with our 10-year old son, Michael, and our 3-year old daughter, Kamryn. This way, we could at least maintain a 1:1 adult-to-child ratio. Still overwhelmingly outmatched, but at least we’d have a fighting chance.

But then Michael wanted a friend to go. Then another. And then Kamryn felt it was unfair that she couldn’t invite the 12-year old girl from down the street. Before the dust settled, our little family excursion had turned into a neighborhood charter with four kids ranging in age from 10 to 12 and a 3-year old who proved to be the most mature one of the group.

Before we even left the driveway I turned to deliver the rules.

There was to be:

No whining…
No fighting…
No bickering…
No tattling…
No bossing…
No murdering…
No teasing…
No crying…
No touching…
…and no talking, unless it was constructive, helpful, or positive in nature.

I actually didn’t think these kids could do it but Heather and I were both giddy with amazement when we made it all the way out of the driveway before the first rule was broken.

Collectively, our passengers had 46 years of experience in needling.

And they used every single minute’s worth.

By the time we completed the hour-long trip to the museum, every single rule on the list had been violated. Except murder. Unless I can count the clubbing of my sanity.

To better paint a picture of that afternoon, I invite you to sing along to the tune of “The 12 Days of Christmas” (minus the joy and happiness):

On the first leg of our trip
these five kids gave to me:

Five Whiners Whining
Five Fighters Fighting
Five Teasers Teasing
Five Touchers Touching
Five Tattlers Tattling
Five Kids a Bickering
Five Bosses Bossing
Fiiiive Kids Cry-ingggg
Five Begging Birds
Five Ex-Friends
Five Little Shoves
and Five “I didn’t do a thing” pleas…

After we tallied the third offense before we made our first turn, Heather and I decided to motivate them into silence with “The Quiet Game.” The winner…the person who stayed quiet the longest…would win extra video game tokens and be crowned Champion of the Quiet Game Universe.

We hoped that it would grant us a few minutes of peace but all it resulted in was a barrage of fake punches and pokes as everyone tried to get everyone else to break silence. It also led to what is probably the first recorded “Time Out” in Quiet Game history.

Kid #1: “Time out! Kid #2 is poking me!”

Me: “NO POKING OR TOUCHING. Ok, game on. Ready…set…go!”

Kid #2: “Time out! I didn’t touch him. I pretended to touch him.”

Me: “NO PRETENDING TO DO ANYTHING. Unless you want to pretend being quiet. Ok? Ready…set…go!”

Kid #3: “Time out! Kid #4 is…”

Me: “STOP! Don’t you all think that time outs defeat the whole purpose of the Quiet Game? There are NO timeouts. Starting right now I don’t want to hear ONE more word. And that includes “time” or “out” or “pause” or any other loophole you try to come up with. Ok? Ready…set…SHUT IT!”

Needless to say, they all lost. And probably in record time.

When we pulled into the parking lot we noticed a big sign that read, “Parking Lot Full.” Never a good sign considering the parking lot accounts for half of Rochester’s square mileage. Two security officers approached the van and directed us to a parking garage six blocks away where a shuttle bus would meet us for a ride in. Had we not driven an hour, I would have skipped the museum, but I felt exiting the vehicle gave me the best chance of shedding a few children.

When the shuttle bus pulled up to the museum entrance I thanked the driver and asked him to just drop the children off at the nearest detention center. I promised to retrieve them later but he declined my request. Seeing how he’d probably already ferried no fewer than 6,000 children to the museum that afternoon, I can’t say I blame him. In fact, I envied him. He could shut that door and drive on into the sunset in an empty vehicle. Just him and his thoughts. As for us? We had to walk on into a veritable zoo filled with uncaged animals.

The first thing I noticed when we walked in was that every single exhibit was three or four kids deep. Even exhibits that are traditionally barren of attention were mobbed to the point that some kids just resigned themselves to play with the hallway’s wall sconces.

Those waiting to interact with the various toys and exhibits kept themselves busy by coughing onto other children and wiping snot on the very hands that would soon be grappling everything in sight. Those fortunate enough to actually have a crack at the various gadgets enjoyed roughly 26 seconds of joy before their parents hurried them out of the way so other kids could have a chance to snag a virus.

We sent the three boys off into the prepubescent wilderness and guided Kamryn and her 12-year old friend around the museum’s sights, sounds, and smells. Lots and lots of smells.

We sought refuge on a nearby bench as Kamryn played with a broken Slinky exhibit and observed the chaos that surrounded us.

Moms left and right were losing their shizzle on their kids and walking around in a frantic catatonic state trying to keep tabs on their galloping offspring. They’d randomly shout out names and threats, often to no one in particular, in the futile hope of being heard above all the noise. It was like attending a Tourettes convention for those afflicted with the condition.

Some moms would just pluck a passing child from the crowd and go apeshizzle on him because they couldn’t locate their own. It became practical and acceptable to just randomly berate passerby’s because they probably deserved it anyway. It was kind of like a “moms helping moms” mentality where the village raises the child. Only this time through frazzled hostility.

Most of the dads I saw were either tapping furiously on their smartphones trying to find their happy place or administering anti-anxiety pills to their spouses by the spoonful. And if they weren’t subtly boxing out other children from accessing the exhibits their children were playing with, they were exchanging sympathetic nods with other dads in the vicinity.

Not even an hour into our visit, all five kids swarmed around us saying they were hungry. Having ignored my directive to eat lunch BEFORE we left for the museum, they were now on the verge of collapse. Fortunately, the museum has a Food Court where you only have to pay 2000% above inflated retail prices for pre-cooked food being warmed by the same kind of lights that incubate baby chickens.

They selected their food substitutes and sat down for what I told them had to be a fast meal. After enduring 30 minutes of open-mouthed chewing, I explained that the museum would be closing in 90 minutes and they’ve spent as much time in the Gift Shop and Food Court as they have in the actual museum.

Everyone but the 12-year old girl slammed the rest of their food down their gullets and proceeded to charge for the exhibit floor. She in turn started to cry saying she didn’t want to throw away her leftover piece of pizza and breadstick. When I explained that they don’t allow food outside the Food Court area, she broke into hysterics and said she’d just put them in her pocket. I considered it when she started to embrace the wall for comfort but didn’t want a phone call asking why her pockets reeked of marinara and garlic.

After nearly 20 minutes of uncontrollable sobbing, Heather took over Operation Balanced Hormones and I escorted Kamryn to Sesame Street so she could stand and watch other kids cut in front of her and ignore her very existence unless they were stealing whatever item she happened to be playing with at the time.

The closer it got to 5pm, the more the museum started to thin out. Until finally, with about 30 minutes left, we seemed to have free reign over the exhibits. It was Go Time!

Only the boys were back in the Gift Shop staring at overpriced trinkets they couldn’t afford and the 12-year old was still huddled against the wall mourning the loss of her leftover lukewarm pizza. Kamryn was the only one playing diligently and exploring everything she had been denied prior.

When the closing bell sounded, we made our way to the exit and stood in the frigid air awaiting the shuttle. All the while, the kids were complaining that they didn’t get to spend much time playing with the exhibits because they were either eating or hanging out in the Gift Shop. Quite obviously, I was entirely to blame.

Whether fatigued, frustrated, or bored, the four eldest spent the entire ride home bickering, whining, and being generally catty to one another. Only after being threatened with a call to their parents did they finally relent and behave. And I gotta hand it to them. Not one ill word was spoken for the rest of the ride home.

It was the best nine minutes of the day.

When we arrived home, Heather and I just collapsed on the couch and held each other. Partly for moral support but mostly to prevent us from throttling these children. It was a trying and taxing day both mentally and physically, and we chalked the entire afternoon up to a well-intentioned loss.

Fully expecting the kids to whine about how much they hated the trip for the next 30 years, we were shocked to get phone calls and text messages from their respective parents saying how much their children enjoyed their time and couldn’t wait to do it again.

Thrilled by the news I told them that we’ll definitely arrange a repeat.

I just need to figure out when hell is freezing over.

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