Catch the Air

I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.

For the penultimate edition of Mornings with Rainbow, we ventured across the great city of Austin to Catch Air, a raucous den of sensory overload, sticky surfaces, and just the tiniest whiff of pee. For the last six months, these Thursdays have been my escapes from the toil of my job search, brief respites from the shame of failing as a husband, father, and provider.

But I digress.

Car rides with Rainbow have become quite a thing. We listened to Barbie Girl, APT, and Who Let the Dogs Out on repeat. I can't tell you what that does to a healthy male brain because I no longer have the vocabulary with which to do so.

Catch Air requires you to sign a waiver. Mine had expired. Thus Rainbow had to wait and watch all the other little kids go in ahead of us while I signed my rights away on my cellular phone. We then paid the $18 fee, which seems high but is a smidge more acceptable than the nearly $30 they're charging at Indigo Play.

Places like this didn't exist when I was a kid, unless you count Shakey's, which I don't. Yes, there were arcades and roller rinks, but these kinds of elaborate playscapes with ball pits and slides and ziplines? Not in Reagan's America. Rainbow was, naturally, overcome. She ran with abandon from one room to the next, seeking out the flashing lights and beeping whatzits.

There is a room with a pneumatic ball mover. Its blower is loud. Too loud for Rainbow. There are also some guns in there that shoot balls with a short burst of compressed air. Very loud. Very unsettling. Rainbow withdraws.

They check our stamps as we dip out to the car to get the headphones. Once back inside, we find a quiet corner and just sit. She snuggles deeper into my arms. I play absently with a nearby toy to hopefully entice her back into play mode. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

I ask her if she wants to go play in the ball pit again, and she says yes. It's still loud. The fans are blowing, and the guns are firing. Somewhere, a child is screaming as if they've had their fingers chopped off. Rainbow comes out of her shell in the ball pit. She's happy again, and though I don't know what turned her around, I make a note that patience is key. I don't always understand my own emotions, so I certainly won't expect a three-year-old to control hers. Instead, we'll wait it out together. It seems to work.

We play. We climb. A child asks me why Rainbow is wearing headphones. I tell him it's pretty loud in there. He says, yeah, it's super loud and disappears into the maze of padded bars and uneven steps. We come to the sky bridge, and Rainbow goes right for the plexiglass holes. She's either fearless or I haven't taught her about gravity yet. I settle on the former.

An hour and a half passes before I realize it is getting late. Lunchtime is approaching, as is her nap. We find our shoes, put on our jackets, and head out to the big, bright world.

She is happy. I am happy.

I love that I found a job. I love that I will be able to support my family.

But I will miss Mornings with Rainbow on Thursdays. One day of her childhood is ticked away with every sunset, and I selfishly don't want to miss any of them.

I am making the fullest use of my time, which is all I think any father can do.