Late summer for me means amusement parks and fairs. My passion for rides and cotton candy goes back to my earliest childhood when my parents took me to Old McDonald’s Farm for my fourth birthday. Old McDonald’s was a tiny park that might have only had one or two rides, but to me it was magical.
When I became a mother, I was so excited to introduce my three sons, Nat, Max and Ben, to theme parks. But Nat was the only one who liked them and it took him a long time to get into it. Nat is severely autistic and needs a lot of time, repetition and familiarity to learn things – even to understand what the rides are about. So they didn’t really become fun for him until November 2010 when I took him to Disneyworld for his 21st birthday. That was a huge achievement for me because he has a lot of behavioral issues that I have dealt with easily.
But the greatest triumph was that we actually had fun together – not the kind of motherly fun where you feel happy because everyone else is happy. This was muscular, deep-belly fun, and we were both equally thrilled to be part of it.
But when Nat really grew up at age 22, we had to find him a good group home so he could be as independent from us as possible. And soon after he left our house, his two younger brothers grew up and went off to college and then to the real fun land: New York City. My husband and I had no more children, traveled, vacationed, and rode our bikes, and I tried to leave childish things behind.
Until one day a miracle happened: Nat’s group home was going to Six Flags and they invited us to come along. After much persuasion and begging, my husband finally agreed to come along too. After all, he loves going to the group home because the staff and Nat’s roommates are so friendly. And so we set off and agreed to meet there at lunchtime.
Traffic was terrible – what did we expect when we drove to the Berkshires on a Saturday in mid-August? And the line to get into the parking lot was just as long as the line to get on the rides. But at least we found Nat and his companions and made our way to a roller coaster – the only one made of wood in the park, built in 1941. It was spooky.
After a long wait, we finally got a car that would fit all six of us. Nat and I sat next to each other – it was almost too small for the two of us. But we squeezed in and after I checked our seatbelts and the padded metal bumper five to ten times, we were ready.
Before we even started the ride, Nat suddenly started shaking. I didn’t think he would be so scared. I did what any mother would do. I said, “It’s OK, Nat,” and asked him if he wanted to hold my hand. I grabbed his hand before he even answered because I realized I was scared too. Scared that this old, rickety thing was going to fall apart – and that my 61-year-old bones were going to fall apart too.
He held my hand tightly, which was so unusual for me, because Nat almost never holds out his hand to others. But when I felt those strong fingers around mine, my fear subsided. And then I noticed that Nat was no longer shaking. We had calmed each other down. This was a completely new experience for me and I felt a warm wave of joy that had nothing to do with the anticipation of the trip.
Of course we were jolted around, craning our necks and twisting our spines. But the bliss I felt knowing that Nat and I were feeling the same thing – the wild thrill of a rollercoaster ride – completely overrode our discomfort. And right alongside that crazy excitement was a tender new connection with Nat that was also very, very old.
