Last night at the Homecoming pep rally, a couple of our friends mentioned a Touch-a-Truck event that was happening today at a local church just outside town. Since Cooper loves all things transportation right now, and since he’s unfailingly awake at the crack of dawn—HOW is my child a morning person?—I thought it might be fun to check out.
We weren’t disappointed. There were at least 20 different trucks and tractors, including tow trucks, a TV production truck, a school bus, fire truck, ambulance and even a big crane. Cooper knew the name of every single truck—he even knew what the cherry picker was on the local cable company’s truck, even though it wasn’t extended. He definitely knows his trucks.
We wandered around the field, checking out the trucks and climbing on some of them. There were free sno-cones and a face painter and a balloon artist (more on that one later). And Cooper spent a lot of time on the inflatable slide.
I’m not sure which part Dave is more disappointed that he missed: the trucks, or the chicken noodle and mashed potato dinner that was served.
But I’m pretty sure he’s not sad that he missed the epic meltdown.
We were getting ready to leave, and Cooper suddenly decided he needed a balloon dog. Against my better judgment (always trust your gut!), we went back and stood in line. Can I just say: any time you have a balloon artist at an event, you really need to tell them to pick four or five simple, easy balloon creations and give the kids a choice between those, and only those. None of this “what kind of crazy idea can you come up with that takes me ten minutes to make while fourteen other kids are waiting in line” business.
So we got in line. A long line. And it was hot. And we were tired.
And then, Cooper decided he wanted to go back to the inflatable slide. I said “Sure, we can do that—but if we get out of the balloon line, we’re not coming back.”
Pretty sure you all know what happened next. He went down the slide once or twice, and then decided he wanted a balloon again.
I said no; commence meltdown. Screaming, crying, throwing-yourself-on-the-ground meltdown. I laughed a little at the dramatics that were almost certainly inherited from his Aunt Stephie while simultaneously wanting to cry myself. I finally picked him up and carried him to the car, all giant 40 pounds of child, all the way across the parking lot field.
It was awesome. We went home, took a nap, and all was right in the world again.
I asked him later what his favorite truck was. To my surprise, he said “the Cars truck.” (Sorry Mike!) He didn’t really seem interested in that one when he was there; in fact, he spent most of his time in the fire truck and even got in it twice.
(He’s already perfected the annoyed teenager “mom, stop taking my picture” look.)