I Wanna Go to the Carnival…
Today my husband and I took our children to the Georgia State Fair.
The fair was my husband’s idea. I didn’t really want to go at first, even though in the past, I’ve always loved carnivals. After all, they tend to happen in fall, my favorite time of year, and in the little Georgia town where I grew up (the nightlife of which could sometimes seem tedious to a certain kind of teenage girl who didn’t enjoy football games or aimless cruises around town looking for “the party,” ala Dazed and Confused) they always seemed so celebratory: food trucks with rows of ruby-red candy apples lined up under plexiglass, bags of fluffy white popcorn dangling next to them like exotic fruits, the dazzling lights, the frantic screams of folks braving rides with names like “Zipper” and “Screamer.” It was all so exciting.
These days, the normal anxiety I have always felt while managing the logistics of taking kids on an outing is now combined with my Covid-related fears of bringing my unvaccinated children*anywhere in public. Will it be safe? Will it be outdoors? Crowded? Will people be wearing masks? (Answers: probably, yes, kind of, and not so much.)
Anyway, I did the complicated calculus parents are required to perform multiple times daily in these weird times, decided the reward outweighed the risk, and we piled in the car.
We got right in with a parking spot by the entrance. In the middle of the day, things were not very crowded. Opting to skip the petting zoo, which is always so depressing, we headed straight to the ferris wheel.
The fifty-something ride operator, whose craggy face, surfer-esque bleached blond waves, and vans decidedly did not match the Atlanta Motor Speedway vibes, watched us impassively as we climbed into the pastel-colored ferris wheel buckets. My two oldest decided to ride together. My husband and I sat in the next car with the little one.
It was so lovely. The late summer/early fall weather still felt muggy but with a cool aftertaste, something crisp underneath all the fuzzy humidity. Just perfect. Up and down we went, and at the top we could see the whole midway spread underneath us — all the people and the rides and the colorful food trucks selling pizza and funnel cakes and baked potatoes. (The ferris wheel creaking noise was only mildly alarming and I was mostly able to put it out of my head.)
Next, I took my youngest on the Giant Slide, a three-story monstrosity with humps that looked like an enormous dragon tail. I sat on top of a potato sack with my kid in my lap and put my feet into the pocket at the bottom. I felt frightened I might tumble over and break my legs, but also exuberant. My youngest was, too. I squealed even though I tried not to, three times, once over each of the bumps. After we turned in the potato sack at the bottom, my husband showed up eating an enormous turkey leg, looking very pleased with himself.
We rode the baby roller coaster, painted to look like a giant caterpillar, and went around the track four times, my youngest grinning widely. My husband excitedly pulled me over to the Freefall ride where they were playing Soda Stereo, the Argentine band he hates but knows I love, so I could listen to the song. Later, for our dinner, I got surprisingly good tacos al pastor and churros at one of the food trucks and felt smug, knowing in my heart of hearts I had found the tastiest food at the fair.
The best part: my children were dazzled, the pure sort of excitement, unfettered by anxiety or unrealistic expectations, that I can barely remember anymore. My oldest, who has been trying to affect a cool remove reminiscent of a miniature Joan Didion, and who currently insists she is “too old” for Halloween costumes or trick-or-treating, was like a girl reborn. She shed all of her cool (as well as the clear, oversized glasses that make her look something like a very short Gloria Steinem) and literally cackled and squealed with glee alongside her siblings, inhibitions forgotten, at the prospect of riding the Hang Glider, Ye Olde Pirate Boat, and the bumper cars.
When it started getting too crowded and my tummy began to ache slightly from the churros and the kids got cranky, I knew it was time to go. I was reminded that life’s little happy, awe-struck moments are both wonderful and oh-so-fleeting.
General grumpiness abounded on the way home, but for a couple of hours at least, everyone at the fair felt free, or at least I did, watching the unbridled happiness of my older children, my husband’s pleasure at feasting on a giant turkey leg, and my littlest girl charging down the midway, determined to ride everything, proud and joyful and utterly without fear.
*this was written before my kiddos were eligible to be vaccinated
