Near our home in suburbia is a commercial indoor playground. We've gone a few times when the weather has been bad and we desperately need an outing. Dalton loves the place. Within seconds of arriving, he disappears up into the colorful complex, showing no fear of heights or any anxiety about getting lost. Sometimes he waves at us from some tube or porthole at the top, other times he reappears at the ground level, allowing us to catch only a glimpse of him before he disappears up another climbing tower.
If we haven't seen him for a while, we will climb up into the complex itself. Invariably, he sees us first, usually from halfway across the thing, several levels away, with no clear path between him and us. He'll say something like "I'll come find you," and then will inexplicably appear in front of us 30 seconds later, laughing.
I love seeing him there. It is almost like he was born to live in a three dimensional maze.
Curie is more tentative, and she wants Dalton to stay with her and play on the lower levels. She yells at him to come with her. He indulges her some of the time, playing in the ball pits, jumping in the bounce room, riding dinosaurs in the toddler area. Then he disappears upward again. Sometimes she follows him part way, going just a little farther each time. She yells at him to stop and come back down with her, but by then he is several levels away, climbing through some tubes or riding down a slide, too far away to hear her. Then he arrives at the bottom again, often around the same time she does. Then they are off again onto the dinosaurs or into the ball pits.
The last time we were there, they emerged from the ball pit and Dalton came over to show me a pink ball he'd found; it was one of only a handful of pink balls in a forest of blues and reds and greens and yellows. I took the opportunity to straighten out his clothes, and noticed something odd.
"Dalton, why are your pants wet?"
"Oh! I peed a little!"
As we left, I glanced at the ball sanitizer machine and wondered how often it is used.
