The ride of your life

(Originally posted 4/6/2010)
Waiting at the top of “The Power Tower” at Cedar Point. That’s what waiting to have a baby is like.

For those of you who have never been on that particular thrill ride, allow me to explain. The Power Tower is a drop ride, meaning all it does it take riders 240 ft. up in the air before dropping them straight down for a free fall/ bungee feeling. And while I could go on and on about the thrill of the fall, I would argue it’s the moment before you drop that makes the ride.

It’s all about anticipation, you see. First, you decide this is a ride you want to go on. Maybe it’s to prove something to yourself, maybe your friends are pressuring you, maybe you just always planned on going on it or maybe you took a wrong turn on the way to the teacups. Regardless, you’re in this long line, and you’re watching everyone ahead of you take their turn. Finally, you are ushered into your seat and buckled in for the ride, which starts with a jerk and makes a “click, click, click” sound as you slowly begin your ascent to the sky. Click, click, click-- and the world you know starts looking further and further away. Click, click, click, as you inch impossibly higher. Click, click, click, as you begin to wonder why the hell this sounded like a good idea in the first place. Click, click… then nothing. You’ve taken this ride as far as it goes and even though there was frustration in the wait and terror in the climb, that’s all nothing compared to this new sensation, as you dangle so far removed from the safety of solid ground and the anticipation of what’s to come. And for a moment, there’s no clicking, no climbing, just the breathless pause before the drop.

That moment, to me, is the same as the last few days before having a baby. You know it’s coming. You’ve known all along that this was, God-willing, the end point of this ride. You waited your turn and have been impatient to just get this thing going so you can hit the snow cone stand. But then there’s that feeling of standing on the precipice of great change, but not knowing exactly when it will happen or how it will feel or even if it will really all be okay in the end.

It’s only a moment in time. Barely long enough to take a breathe, really. But it’s also somehow timeless, existing in a vacuum separate from the reality that is and the one that will be. And it’s awful, but also strangely wonderful.

And then someone, somewhere pushes a button and you drop.

And it’s fun and terrifying and exhilarating and exhausting and endless and brief. And then it’s over.

Suddenly you’re back where you started, but it’s different somehow. Your feet aren’t as steady and the sun seems too bright. The logical part of you says it’s you that has been changed by this experience, not the world itself, but the world seems removed from that which was normal nonetheless.

And it takes a while to find your footing again, but you do. And it’s not clear if reality becomes what it was or you just adjust to what it is, but things eventually feel normal again.

At some point, though, you find yourself looking back at that ride--remembering everything from the wait to the pause to the drop-- and smiling. Because it was one hell of a ride, and you’ll never regret taking it.

You may, however, realize that if you ever want to go on it again, you should skip the breakfast burrito. Live and learn friends, live and learn.