Mooning the Islanders

Have you ever sat down on a public toilet only to discover a gi-normous hole in your pants just below your back pocket? Me neither, until recently at Kings Island. Hmmm . . . how long had I been hoofing it through the park with my left cheek hanging out? Classy. No matter. After all, it’s memories I was after.

The controversial ripped shorts incident (we never determined how or when said tear occurred) was fairly par for the course. Our day of supposed fun began with a 30-minute late arrival, thanks to the troopers on I-74 chaperoning an oversized truck for 10 excruciating miles during rush hour traffic. That’s what midnight to 3 a.m. is for, people!

This delay meant I’d had to ignore my desperate need to urinate upon entering the park in favor of helping our youngest obtain her long-awaited orange wristband, signifying she was finally tall enough to ride the big daddies. Did my husband and two boys kindly wait for us? Heck to the no. They sprinted for the Diamondback coaster without even a glance in our direction. No sunscreen application, no safety review on meeting at the Eiffel Tower if you lose your buddy, and no distribution of the four cell phones among the three groups. (My other daughter had a German friend with her, and they headed straight for the restrooms, the lucky brats.) Suffice it to say, I was livid and in extreme discomfort a mere 10 minutes into our annual thrill-seeking adventure.

I didn’t discover my “the hole” for another five hours, after being drenched on the white water rafting ride, so it was quite possible I had indeed bared my bum to a couple thousand Midwesterners in tanks and tats. Luckily, I had an extra pair of shorts and was able to spare these poor adrenaline junkies additional trauma.

What really made this a most precious experience was that I’d been up all night with our lovely dog. So even though I knew to avoid rides with the word “spin,” “whirl,” or “delirium,” subjecting my body to the continuous unnatural G-forces of the coasters increased the sleep-deprived nausea I was feeling, despite copious amounts of Advil and Pepto. Of course, it could have been the bungee dealio I rode with Doo; I’m not sure how I kept my breakfast down after being launched 100 feet into the air while strapped inside a metal cage. Or maybe it was the heat. Below average temps for most of the summer, but the Monday we pick, it’s 95 (degrees and percent humidity) in the shade.

Ah well. My best memories are from when life doesn’t go as planned, holey pants included. Peace out.

Danielle Wilson

I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, the same year Dick Nixon was elected. Along with my twin sister and three younger sisters, I attended Catholic schools for thirteen years. (Holy Mother, pray for me.) I spent two years as a cadet at the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado until I wised up and transferred to a more normal school, Indiana University, where I received a B.A. in history and a teaching license just for funsies. In 2001, I officially entered the ranks of stay-at-home moms to care for my two-year old son and newborn twins. I have mentally blocked all of 2002 and most of 2003. In 2004, I received a Master’s degree in U.S. History from I.U.P.U.I. and a fourth child from my should-have-had-that-vasectomy-sooner husband. From 2005 until mid-2010, I played Super Mom in the yet-to-be released indie film "Provide Daycare for Your Sister-in-Law's Children Because You Don't Have Enough to Do Already." I returned to teaching this fall at an undisclosed Indianapolis school where thankfully very few parents know who I am. I am considering developing a bad habit.

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