G has been begging to go to Chuck E. Cheese, so this afternoon I took her, on the condition that we were just going to play games and not buy food. Yes, Chuck E. Cheese on a weekend afternoon -- just go ahead and hand my Mother of the Year statuette over right now.
I'm a germophobe at the best of times, and Chuck's is just a seething petri dish of contagion: runny-nosed four-year-olds everywhere, dirty tables piled with people's gnawed crusts and used drink cups, and let's not forget the games themselves, which are invariably slick with old pizza grease and smudged with hundreds of fingerprints. If there were a place where the urban legends about hypodermic needles in the ball pit were true, that would be the place. I sucked it up for G's sake, and she had a great time, but you'd better believe we both washed our hands when we left. Yuck!