Took Mark to his very first circus last night. I was so proud of myself--look at me, creating childhood memories, and spending quality time with my son! I thought he'd be amazed by the daring trapeze artists, the humongous elephants, the ferocious tigers growling at the brave tamer risking his life for our entertainment. I thought at least the motorcycles in the Iron Ball of Death (or whatever they called it) would impress him, if not the little goats riding on ponies (c'mon--goats! on ponies! bleating and riding around the ring!)
Instead, he was most impressed with the giant box of popcorn he stuffed into his sweet little mouth with alarming speed, and the clown who made rude noises while popping bubbles.
I relayed this sad fact to my mother. I was expecting a sympathetic ear, but instead, she professed that she had no love for the circus, either. "I hate it," she told me. "Just hate it. In fact, I hated it so much, I ran away from the circus when I was a little kid."
(I paused to picture that, because don't most people run away TO the circus and not away FROM it?)
Anyway, next year I'm gonna save myself a hundred bucks--instead of the circus, I'll just plop Mark in front of the T.V. with a big box of popcorn. He'll have just as much fun.
My mom likes this plan a lot--which is good, because I told her she's gonna babysit Mark that night, and I'm gonna take my dad with me to the circus instead!
