I’ve Got a Ticket to (Hurl?)

Over the weekend, my family and I took a little jaunt over to Seattle. The waterfront has a relatively new addition, the Seattle Big Wheel. Last year, we watched cranes erect a gigantic white Ferris Wheel right on the boardwalk, and have watched tourists and locals riding it around and around ever since.

The minute our car entered Seattle, my son insisted that the Ferris Wheel had to be ridden. Immediately. Sooner, if possible.

We bought tickets and then I watched my family file into one of the little cars, content to wait out the ride from the ground. The safe, not-likely-to-collapse-and-kill-me-ground, where there was absolutely no possibility of me getting motion sick.

My husband and kids had a marvelous time; Wes was considerate enough to record a short video for me to watch so I’d get part of the experience. The whole thing made me wonder, though: What exactly is my obligation to my kids vis a vis riding amusement park rides?

I used to be quite the thrill seeker, riding roller coasters with impunity. At some point, however, my vestibular system sought revenge in the form of crippling motion sickness that assails me viciously and often in cars, boats, planes, 3D movies, and sometimes plain old regular movies as well. (Sidenote: Dear Movie Directors, Camera shots that spin around or revolve around something are not cool. They are nauseating. Sincerely, Erika The Party Pooper)

I’m going to assume my kids will not have my motion sickness hang-ups, which leads me to wonder whether I’m obliged to just power through and do amusement park stuff with them anyway, or whether it’s acceptable to just let that be something their daddy does with them while I take pictures.

What did your parents do? Did it irreparably scar you to ride roller coasters without one of your parents?