Messy Minded Momma

Last week in Ontario, primary schools were off for March Break. Something about March Break makes children absolutely feral, so I knew I was in for a long week when I received an email from my son’s teacher just days before, saying his behaviour was concerning.

Because my husband and I both work full-time, camp isn’t optional on PA days and school holidays, it’s survival. In our town, my son usually goes to the YMCA. It’s in a basement and there are crafts are toys. He hates it. The toys are “boring,” and there’s no outdoor playground. Unfortunately for him, this is where he spends most of his school breaks.

So, as March Break approached and the familiar chorus of “I don’t want to go to the YMCA” echoed in my ears, I decided to switch things up. I signed him up for camp at the Children’s Museum. It had just been renovated and relocated to a beautiful new building. Surely, boredom would be impossible here. Dinosaurs, water play, STEM rooms, Jungle gyms and child-sized towns. This was going to be magical. He was going to love it.

Monday morning proved… otherwise.

On the drive there, his anxiety started to spike as it always does. We practiced deep breathing. We did the 3-2-1 grounding exercise. I gave him countdowns: 10 minutes until arrival, iPad off when we park. The usual transition prep.

Then we pulled into the parking lot. No spots. We circled. And circled. And circled again. I assumed it was just a bunch of parents like me, first-timers with no idea how drop-off worked. We finally made our way up to the fourth floor, where the double doors painted with cheerful butterflies were wide open to what can only be described as absolute chaos.

Children and parents crowded around two overwhelmed camp counsellors, all trying to check in at once. Kids were sprinting through the tiny gift shop to the left, grabbing toys and attempting to fish money out of the plexiglass donation box beside me. Boots, jackets, and backpacks were spilling off a 12-hook rolling rack. The bright buzzing lights, the noise, the movement, it was pure sensory overload. I immediately thought of that scene in Mean Girls where Lindsay Lohan compares high school and the girl world to animals in the wild. That was this. This was the wild. Part of me wanted to grab my son’s hand, turn around, and run. But the adult in me knew I had a job to get to… so I left him to the lions.

Pickup was no better. In fact, it was worse. The parking lot was somehow even more full. After circling for 10 minutes with no luck, I made a bold (and questionable) decision: I double-parked, blocked in a smaller car, and prayed I’d be fast enough to escape unnoticed. It was chaos… again.

What I failed to realize is that the museum doesn’t actually close to the public during March Break. In fact, it seems every family in the city had the exact same idea.

My son made it very clear he did not enjoy camp. He fought me every morning for the rest of the week. He wanted to climb, run, and jump, not sit in a room doing crafts and participating in dance parties. There were no dinosaur exhibits or water play. I felt terrible. But… I had already paid for the week. So, like any reasonable parent, I told him we were making the best of it.

The parking situation continued all week. Every day felt like a test of patience I did not study for. By Friday, we were both completely over it. The chaos, the crowds, the crafts he didn’t care about. It was all too much.

Turns out, the only thing worse than March Break is surviving it.