F is for Failing to Plan

            Tuesday was the day. Community Day at the Stampede. I promised my child that I would take her after swimming lessons to meet the Paw Patrol. I expected there to be children in various states of emotional disrepair, screaming and throwing their pacifiers at Marshal and his ilk. The plan was simple. Park at Brentwood station and take the train to the grounds. I packed up the bag with sunscreen, train tickets, hats and water. I was ever so responsible. Look at me adulting.

            The first snag in my perfectly laid simple plan occurred while looking for a parking spot at Brentwood; there weren’t any. I cruised up and down, wasting time looking for a coveted blank space. I thought I found one, but it was between two cars in the handicapped zone. I am not one to prick park and I moved along. To Dalhousie station. Where it was much the same. Until I breezed into the four-hour parking lot. Perfect! Now I have an excuse to get off the grounds and keep her from any five-alarm melt downs. We exited the car just in time to see the train we needed pull away from the station. Rather than sprinting, like I would have prior to the child we opted to patiently wait for the next one.

            The train ride was incident free. Things were looking up. We arrived at the Victoria Park station and were met with a man with a megaphone directing we, the non-ticket holder and non-senior people, to the left. I looked at where he was directing the growing crowed and cringed at the line. There were eight people in a tiny booth attending to thousands, neigh hundreds of thousands, of people.

            I briefly contemplated just getting on the next train north. But no. I made my little girl a promise. I took a deep breath and we walked down the stairs at an agonizing pace. Yeah, I was THAT mom. I didn’t pick my kid up and she negotiated the stairs like she was a cross between a sloth and a snail. We arrived at the bottom and I briefly looked back to see a crush of dazed people who were disoriented by the new directions into the grounds. Pulling my child along, I went in search for the end of the line. Just when I thought I had found it, I noticed the line was now curving back the way we came. Annoyed, we turned around and got in the first of a few lines of the day.

            Blissfully, a cowboy-ed up man with a radio suggested that those who could walk go to the Olympic Gate. Our march continued past the Cowboy’s tent. Yeah, the tent where walks of shame begin and sometimes end. Head up, I marched my kid past, refusing to entertain any enquiries about what is happening inside. We arrived, sober and unscathed at the Olympic gate to a line that was glorious to behold. Barely a line at all. We stepped up and I paid my $2 entry.    Next was a stop at security. I placed my daughter’s unicorn backpack on the table and it was rooted through by a man with a drumstick. I was going to ask him if he was about to tap out a sick beat while he probed between the hats and sunscreen, looking for any weapon-like items. He gave us the go-ahead to move on and we were promptly accosted by the kindest most imposing Calgary police officer.

            “You going to have fun today,” he asked her.

            “Yes,” she mumbled.

            Next was to find the Paw Patrol. It was raining quite heavily and I decided we should head inside to where I believed the BMO Kid Zone would be. We stopped at an absurdly small bathroom to ensure that we would have no incidents, since extra clothes was not something I had packed in that particular bag.

            “Where are we Mama?”

            “The smallest bathroom in the history of man.” Unsolicited chuckles ensued from a woman who was standing inside but not in line. Once a stall opened up we got down to business. For some reason when that stall door closes, my child loses her inside voice and she became a stand-up comedian. Now I don’t remember exactly what she said but it sounded like the opening of an episode of Seinfeld.

            “What’s up with all this toilet paper? Why is it on such a big roll?” The ladies around us couldn’t contain their laughter. Mortified, I took my time and may have checked my phone until the room cleared. Refreshed and unencumbered by biological waste, we went in search of the Paw Patrol.

            Having not planned our route, not consulting a map and feeling cocksure of where we were going, we plunged into the market hall in the BMO centre. I fully expecting to run into the Kid Zone if I just walked straight. We walked as fast as the crowd would allow us. The show was on between 11:30 and 1:30, and it was 12:45. We were running out of time. Rushing past fancy knives which never lose their edge, flat irons, skin creams and deluxe corndogs, I was beginning to lose hope. Maybe we were in the wrong place. We ran into a wall, no Kid Zone. We went outside into the hall and proceeded toward the fancy ballrooms. Skeptical that they would allow so many hooligans to tromp on their glorious carpet, we kept walking. Then we ran into a set of closed double doors. Aggravated, I pulled out the free map I was given at the gate. There was no Kid Zone that I could see through my blurred red haze-over vision.

            I pulled out my phone and consulted the Stampede website. Once I found the Kid Zone page, I was horrified to read the words, “we have moved to the south end of the grounds!”

            Son of a bitch.

            I looked at the gathering crowd near the doors and figured the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Dragging my child, we wound our way through the throng of weather related loiterers. When we finally reached the door and it was absolutely pouring. It was somewhere between downpour and monsoon. Fuck it. Paw Patrol or bust. We plunged into the rain. You may have noticed a lack of coats in the list of contents in the unicorn backpack. They were also not on our persons. They were at home. Dry and snug. We were fast becoming the opposite.

            We scooted past the Coca-Cola Stage which was empty. The midway was shut down due to lightning in the area. The puddles were many and some were rather deep. Heads bent to the rain, we arrived at the BMO Kid Zone., which looked to be deserted. No Paw Patrol. All that was there was an empty stage and a few people milling about a face painting tent.

            I overheard someone say something about a show cancellation. I relayed the message to my little Paw Patrol fan. She was in a word devastated. There were some sad eyes and a pooched out lower lip. If it had pooched any further and she would’ve stepped on it. Now what? I had to think of something fast to get her back to happy.

            “Would you like your face painted?” She thought about this for a moment and gave me a single nod. We waited in yet another line and were given limited options for what could be done. Which was OK. More choices would probably lead to a debacle of the face artist telling her no and more disappointment. She picked a panda face and all seemed to be looking up. Once the artist was done she was given a mirror to look in. Her response was teenaged angst at best. Which matched her somewhat goth look.

            “Do you want to get something to eat?” She nodded a yes, I put her hat on to protect her makeup and we headed off for some lunch. More puddles. More lines. More wandering around looking for a table. We were finally offered a spot by a nice family who was about to leave and shared lunch. A gaggle of teenagers joined our table once the family had left. The leader of the group was bold enough to ask if they could sit with us. The stragglers were too shy. I wondered when the stranger danger phase ended. We finished up and went to Cin City and bought a bag of doughnuts to share between us and even saved a few for Wade.

            On the way back to the BMO Centre we passed the Coca-Cola stage again. This time there was a performer and a few brave fans out in the rain. For a brief moment I considered how awesome and hilarious it would be to have her start a mosh pit and possibly body surf. The moment passed and we headed for a drier place. We went to the Western Oasis in the BMO building. I was positive I would be suffering from Stampede Swamp Foot by the time I got home.

We squelched our way around the art work and took in my favourite part of the Stampede; the craft show. She perked up at the sight of the fountain at the entrance and seemed happier dragging me through various artisan booths. The rest of her stampede experience was disappointment. She wanted to go see the farm animals. My elation about finding parking lost its shine when I checked the time and noted we didn’t have enough of it to go to the Agrium building. Gah! I briefly looked at Kid’s day to see if returning Wednesday was a possibility. Free entry between 7:00-9:00am. Double gah! So much for that.

At least our Stampede experience was bookended with rides on city transit. I hope it was enough to make up for the disappointment of not seeing Paw Patrol. Worst case, I know what her birthday theme will be this year.