On showing up, shared laughter, and the moments we keep
A couple of months ago, a flyer came home from school.
Caleb’s band would be traveling to a local amusement park for a music competition. They needed parent chaperones. The students would perform, then spend the rest of the day enjoying the park.
Before I had even finished reading the flyer, Caleb told me he wanted one of us to chaperone.
I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t want to spend the day with him. Because I knew exactly what the day would ask of me.
In 2021, I developed a condition called POTS, a disorder that affects my body's ability to regulate things like heart rate and blood pressure. Heat is a trigger. Standing for long periods is hard. Walking all day can leave me exhausted. From the outside, I look perfectly healthy. Most people would never know that things that seem simple can take a lot out of me.
I worried about the heat. I worried about spending an entire day on my feet. I worried about loading and unloading instruments and babysitting a group of kids I didn’t know.
Mostly, though, I worried about whether I could physically make it through the day.
For months, I looked at the date on my calendar and dreaded it.
But Caleb wanted me there.
So I signed up.
And I went.
His band played beautifully.
There is something special about hearing those songs performed by the full group. At home, we hear fragments. A few measures repeated over and over while someone learns a difficult section. The songs become familiar long before the concert ever arrives.
But when the whole band plays together, those scattered pieces finally come to life.
After the performance, our group headed into the park.
For the next couple of hours, I mostly watched.
The kids ran from ride to ride while I looked for benches whenever I could find them. The sun climbed higher. My legs grew tired. I could feel the familiar soreness settling in.
Somewhere along the way, I paid an outrageous amount of money for a giant souvenir slushie cup and watched Caleb proudly carry it around the park with bright blue lips.
Eventually, our group split up. For the last couple of hours, it was just Caleb and me.
And suddenly, sitting on the sidelines wasn’t really an option anymore.
I used to love amusement parks. Years ago, I would have been the first one in line for every ride. But these days are different. Heat, dizziness, and exhaustion have a way of changing the experience.
But Caleb wanted to ride.
So I rode.
Twice in a row, we climbed onto the Music Express while Justin Bieber’s “Baby” blasted through the speakers. We whipped around the track while I sang along badly and Caleb laughed.
Then he decided he wanted to try the Time Machine.
He wasn’t sure he could do it. He stood there debating, looking up at the ride and working up his courage.
And then he did it.
We were launched into the air, spinning in circles. He was terrified and delighted all at once. We screamed. We laughed. We got off the ride grinning.
And for the rest of the afternoon, I followed wherever he wanted to go.
Even when I was dizzy.
Even when I wanted to sit down.
Even when my muscles ached.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about how tired I was.
I was too busy watching Caleb.
He’s always been a little more serious than most kids his age. He likes rules. He likes plans. He likes knowing what’s expected. He’s usually thinking three steps ahead, taking everything in, figuring things out.
So getting to spend a day watching him laugh freely felt like a gift.
For a few hours, he wasn’t thinking about a performance. He wasn't stressing about a test. He wasn’t worrying about doing things right.
He was just... a kid at an amusement park.
And then before I knew it, the day was over.
I felt a wave of relief as we made our way back to the car. I folded myself into the driver’s seat and headed for McDonald’s, already thinking about the large Diet Coke I’d been craving all day.
We got home exactly as I knew we would. I was sunburned. Exhausted. Sore. My face was red and my hair was tangled and all I wanted was to sit down.
But the funny thing about days like this is that those parts never seem to last.
Years from now, neither of us will remember how many times I needed to sit down. We won’t remember the heat. We won’t remember the aching muscles or how tired I was when we finally got home.
We’ll remember singing along to Justin Bieber on the Music Express.
We’ll remember Caleb deciding he was brave enough to ride the Time Machine.
We’ll remember laughing so hard we forgot to be afraid.
And I hope, years from now, that’s what stays with him.
Not that the day was hard.
Just that we laughed.
Just that we were brave.
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