Argh, I just don't like the Mouse Place. Too many children and too much screaming and too many noises and lights and smells and small strange children grabbing my legs. But my daughter loooooooooves it, and this past Thursday she finally got an "all-clear" from her doctor after having broken her collarbone in early January, and I thought she deserved a celebration.

So we packed up Emily and her best friend (if we're going to go for chaos, might as well absolutely maximize the experience, no?)), as well as Jacob and my husband and me, and we all headed off for the hour-plus drive to Chuck E Cheese. The girls giggled non-stop the entire way there, it would have been funny except after about 45 minutes it started to sound a bit edgy and hysterical. You know that guy in college who always hung on until the very end of the party and then ran around pestering everyone to stay a while longer? It was that sort of feeling of desperation that the girls were exuding - "We sure are having fun NOW, aren't we?!?!?!?!? Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee..."

But we made it without incident, and as soon as we got there the girls evaporated into the haze of children and lights. I was thrilled to have been able to arrange to meet a couple other moms there, so I was able to hold pseudo-adult conversations for a while (we talked about non-kid things, but it was at the top of our lungs while another adult dressed in a mouse suit lumbered by, too surreal to be a real grown-up experience).

But then the girls asked me to take them over to watch the stage show put on by mechanical animals (thank you, Marilyn Manson, for forever coloring that phrase for me) set to tinny, off-tempo music. Okay, fine. So we went over, and got to listen to "The Mailman Song." Wanna know how it goes?
The mailman brings my letters, he brings my letters, he brings my letters to me.
He brings my letters, he brings my letters, he brings my letters to me.
He brings my letters, he brings my letters, he brings my letters to me.
He brings my letters, he brings my letters, he brings my letters to me.
Second verse:
Oh, the mailman brings my letters, he brings my letters, he brings my letters to me...

You get the idea. I'm developing a big flat spot on my forehead from trying to pound that song out of my head.

I did have the delightful experience of watching an employee almost totally lose it. It was while I was escorting my daughter's friend to the bathroom. (I just LOVE how some kids wait until the last possible second and then they practically drag themselves by the bathroom-related parts to the rest room, hopping and muttering the whole time.) After she was done, she was watching her hand, as an employee was cleaning up the bathroom. The employee reached over to remove the garbage bag from next to the sink, when it snagged on something or other and burst open all over the employee's shoes. Now, let's take a moment to consider the clientele at your average Chuck E Cheese's... lots of kids. Small kids. In diapers.

Yeah.

So the bag filled with diapers burst all over this poor woman's shoes, and you could tell that all she wanted in the world at that moment was to say lots of short, pithy words starting with letters like "S" and "F." But she showed admirable restraint, just strode out of the bathroom in search of stronger garbage bags (and, I would hope, a hug or at least a sympathetic look from a coworker).

We made it home, and I'm still overstimulated, but am also amazed that we made it all the way there and back without a single tantrum from anyone in our little party. Just amazing.