My father's a bit flighty. He's one of those people who, in moments of excitement (or insanity), will make rash decisions based on how he's feeling at that moment rather than weighing the practicalities of the situation. You know, the kind of person I'm striving to become more like each day.
When they were younger, these rash decisions often involved Las Vegas.
In the middle of the night, my father would frequently feel an overwhelming urge to get in the car and drive from Los Angeles to Vegas.
"Let's go to Vegas" was his battle cry to my mom. This meant, "Clare, pack up the car and tell Mamma and Daddy (my grandparents) that we're going to Vegas."
"Mamma" and "Daddy" entered the mix because we lived with them and they were my sole babysitters.
One night, for some reason, they didn't consider the implications of bringing a toddler to Vegas and loaded me into the car along with their tan Samsonite luggage.
This was my first trip to Las Vegas. I was three or four years old.
Today, with the amusement-parking of Las Vegas, bringing a child to Sin City is as logical as bringing a child to the Grand Canyon. It's all about water-slides and roller-coasters, pirate ships and pyramids, volcanoes and pseudo-European attractions.
In other words, Circus Circus is not the only option.
The novelty of bringing a baby to Vegas wore off the moment my dad realized that he was tired of gambling alone. Despite my mom's protests, they decided to find a babysitter.
Let me take a moment to emphasize that during my entire childhood, meaning before and after this trip, I never had a babysitter other than my grandmother and grandfather. My family is a worrisome lot and, for the most part, believe that you can't trust anyone.
Apparently, my parents decided that, in times of need, (and when free drinks and money enter the equation) you can trust some people. After calling the hotel concierge, my mom told me to "pack up your Barbies."
For someone who still had a pacifier at four, a trip down a dark hall into a strange room was as bad as it gets. Despite my tears and protests, my parents plopped me down on some shag carpeting and told me they would be back soon. Devastated, I imagined being abandoned and left to fend for myself. Where was I, I wondered, and who was that strange woman with the cigarette and the bad dye-job?
Amazingly, my pint-size anxiety attack passed quickly, and the remarkable happened: I found myself playing Barbies with another little girl. A new and exhilarating experience, I was socializing with someone my age.
Ten minutes later. A knock on the door.
Mom: I can't do it! I can't leave my baby alone!
Babysitter: She's fine.
Mom: She's only a baby!
Babysitter: Whatever.
Me: I don't want to go.
Dad: Let's get out of here.
Sure, it was only fifteen minutes. But what a liberating fifteen minutes.
