Espen loves the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. It's a Portland icon for children of all ages, and thanks to my bestie Lynsey, we discovered early on that there's a kids room chalk full of amazing kid activities. Giant sandpit with the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. Waterville where you can splash and play in the safety of an OMSI provided smock. Faux grocery store where you can weigh your fake veggies and meats and set them up in attractive displays.
We got a membership soon thereafter and Espen now squeals "OM-EE!!! Om-EE!" and holds out his hand for a "Samp" (stamp) whenever we get close to it.
Most of the time we go directly to the kid rumpus room, but on this particular day, Espen wanted only to ride the escalator UP and the glass elevator DOWN. (And then up again, thank you very much.) I figured it wouldn't be the first time he'd be fascinated with moving staircases and flying glass boxes, so off we went. A test of my fortitude, you see.
For the next 45 minutes we made a giant circle between two floors in every conceivable combination of ascents and descents. Up the escalator, down the stairs. Up the elevator, down the stairs. Up the stairs, down the elevator. No down the one-way escalator (yet).
Provocatively, I was finding myself being lulled into a gentle, meditative state. OMSI is situated at a particularly picturesque spot on the Willamette River. Espen was a captive audience, so I could mostly stare at the water and enjoy the view.
That is, until the 17th ascent via escalator.
We had made a plan at the bottom.
Me: Ok, Espen, do you want to ride the elevator up AND down this time?"
Espen: Yeah!
Me: Alright, so when we get to the top and the doors open, we just stay there, OK?
Espen: Yeah! UP!
The ride up went smoothly. The waiting was fine. The doors started closing.
Espen looked at me, cackled, and dashed out.
The doors continued to close.
I jammed the "door open" button. (or was it the "door close"?)
Furiously.
Nothing. Except a last look at Espen's face as he realized I was not behind him. I was, in fact, hurtling downwards, away from him.
The wailing began. It was a high whine for the first five feet the elevator dropped and quickly built to a full fledged howl.
My mind raced. Would it be quicker to exit the elevator and run up the stairs or ride the elevator back up as soon as it touched down?
Espen continued to shriek, his vocal projection abilities shattering the impressive din that only hundreds of kids can generate.
Somewhere in the midst of his yowls of Infinite Sadness, I realized the fastest way back to him was staying on the elevator and doing nothing but pressing "2".
While I also realized that the elevator travels no more than 14 feet max, it was like waiting to see if you got a high enough D to graduate high school. You may graduate but you're not getting any medals.
The door slid open and I looked down. Espen was no where to be seen. Slight panic slid around my throat until I heard, "MA-ma!!!" and looked into the eyes of a stranger mom who was holding my kid.
"It's ok," she cooed. "See, your mommy came back."
Le sigh.
I thought about explaining the story but instead took Espen back and said thank you. It'd just sound like an excuse for running to get a latte' and blaming the kid.
Espen waved to the lady, clutching all the while at my neck. Then he looked at me and smiled.
"Poo."
Sure enough, aromas like last night's dinner were wafting out of his britches.
We walked to the car, Espen stretching out his arms, pleading, "OM-EE!! OM-EEEEE!!!!" to everyone we passed along the way.
Good practice for a lifetime of awkward parenting moments.
Suddenly, I find myself with a little boy who demands both his mother and his bibs at the drop of a hat. Whereas, not two weeks ago, going bibless was like handing him a candy bar, now he looks at me with disbelief and shock when I show up with food sans bib. He jabs at his chest, furiously motioning to his tummy and trousers and insists on, "Bee! Bee!" And silly me, I spend about 5 minutes trying to figure out what he wants so desperately. 