Mean Aunt Dawn

The temperature is hovering near 105. The liquids are limited because it's Six Flags and prices are high. I'm hot, sticky, sweaty, grumpy and tired.

My sister in law turns toward me with a smile, "you don't mind watching the kids while we ride the Goliath, do you?" I look up as I take a bite of my frozen lemonade treat. I'm about to laugh when I see her and her husband run hand-in-hand as fast as they can toward the ride. Actually, they're just running. They don't care where they're going. The need a few minutes. A few kid-free minutes in the hot Georgia sun. I look at my husband. My panic is visible. I can see it. He can see it. The kids can certainly see it.

I swallow the frozen lemonade. They deserve this time, I think. How long can one ride take? I can handle this. I'll be fine.

"Um, what should we do?" I ask the kids. I'm greeted with silence. The husband has disappeared. The kids, who were laughing and smiling just seconds ago, are now whispering and staring at me. I have a flash-back to my babysitting days where four kids managed to actually tie me to a chair while we were watching a video. Time to establish some boundaries, I decide. I dump the frozen lemonade into the nearest trash can (must be a good role model) and stare back at the kids.

"Well, I guess we'll just sit here and wait" I tell the kids in my most authoritative, adult voice. The kids stare back with a glint of respect just as the husband pops up and says "bumper cars." The kids share a loud "Woo-hoo" before running (yes, running) toward the husband.

"Don't run," I say, as the group takes off. We get in line. The kids are fine. They're answering my questions and being polite until the husband decides to sit on the top rail of the bars that surround us in the line. Immediately all the children hoist themselves onto the rail. I give the husband my mean stare. He's confused. This look is usually reserved for wearing dirty shoes in the living room, forgetting to take out the trash and failing to place a used dish in the sink. He shrugs his shoulders and flicks the ponytail of his nearest niece.

Thus begins my half-hour of "Don't kick your sister." "No standing on the rails." "Don't punch your brother." "Be nice." "Do you want a time-out?" and the generic "Stop it."

And, yes, I did go there. "If you don't keep your hands and feet to yourself, we will get out this line right now," I threaten. Of course, there is no way I'm getting out of that line. I quickly realize I can have a few gripe-free seconds if I don't hop into a bumper car. Let the husband face the wrath of three kids. I'll hold the two superman capes, one extra large plastic drink container and whatever else won't fit in the tiny cars. I'll proudly stand at the exit to this "ride" and take photos.

We're up. The husband runs to his car. The kids run to their cars. I'm running too, toward the exit sign. I duck under the chain marking the end of the track and stand against the wall. I wave at the kids. They stare back at me. They're unsure of what to do now that bumping me isn't an option. I point to the husband. Hit him, I sign. Smiles. The race begins. The husband is sneaky. He may have an advantage, being the only person on the track with a driver's license. He drives fast. He causes accidents, but he never gets tangled up in one. He laughs and drives. I wish I was in a car. I wish I could bump him. The kids try. They try hard. It's futile. The ride is over. The kids come running. The husband comes running. "Did you see me," they ask?

"Yes," I say, "and look who else I see, mom and dad," the kids race toward their parents. "Don't run," I say, one last time.

The husband puts an arm around me. "Did you see me out there," he asks? He's grinning as if he's w0n the Indy 500. I suggest we skip the milk and get a frozen lemonade instead. The parents talk about their two rides on Goliath. The kids brag about their driving skills. One kid hits another kid. "Stop it," says the mom.

I say nothing as I take a bite of frozen lemonade. It's a good day to be an aunt.