Me, Myself, as Mommy: Learning life lessons at Lagoon during a Utah rite of passage
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- The author’s 11-year-old son, Bodie, poses for a photo in front of the Colossus roller coaster at Lagoon.
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- Meg Sanders
Being married to an Eagle Scout, it was often plotted that our children would also participate in Boy Scouts. My middle child is currently in the throes of his first year of Scout Camp up at Hunt. After begging him to pack basic hygienic needs, not just eat Cheeto Puffs and promise to send me daily “proof of life” photos, he’s off to what my husband called “the time of his life.” At the time of this writing, he’s only called once asking me to pick him up — or as he put it, “I’m in need of evac.” If the bugs don’t kill him, earning the Environmental Science merit badge will. Scout Camp is a rite of passage for a teenage boy.
Concurrently, my daughter is off backpacking through Bryce Canyon with both kids and leadership from the amazing Weber Communities That Care program. It’s her first string of overnights away from home where I can’t get to her in just 20 minutes. She’s rooming with another girl similar in age where she’s learning what it’s like to poop with a stranger on the other side of the wall and how to socialize when she’s burned out, all while keeping to the schedule of others. She’s in the middle of her own rite of passage.
Left back at home with me is my youngest, Bodie. For a week, it’s been just him and me. Our schedule of events includes swimming, “Stranger Things,” Toads Fun Center and the thing I’m dreaded most — Lagoon. The last time I set foot in the seventh circle of hell, my kids still found ultimate joy from Bulgy the Whale. With a price tag of more than $600, our time of enjoying Lagoon season passports ended years ago. Now that I was down to a single child, it seemed cost effective if just the two of us enjoyed the rides. Surviving the ins and outs of Lagoon is certainly a rite of passage for not just this kid but thousands of us around the state. Kids on the East Coast have sleep-away camps to teach them real-world skills like clandestine smoking, making out with a random kid or wearing that shirt you’re forbidden from wearing back at home. Here in Utah, we have our parents dumping us at Lagoon for the day to teach those skills.
A rite of passage is a moment in time that welcomes a child into the realm of adulthood. During this rite, they have adult experiences and mature while often struggling to overcome an obstacle. Many Indigenous people hold a rite of passage to mark a coming of age. This is also found in bat and bar mitzvah in the Jewish faith. I recently had my own, welcoming me into middle age with a colonoscopy. My husband had his own with his Mohs surgery. For an 11-year-old, seeing all to be seen at Lagoon is a rite of passage into tweenhood. Lagoon is just one big obstacle to overcome.
As we entered the park, I explained to my child that children actually run the park. Adults move among the shadows, pulling the strings, but it’s these kids who are the face and take the brunt of the happenings at Lagoon. These kids are in the hot sun, paid minimum wage, mediate with the public, and quickly learn why jobs in quiet cubicles with central air, where talking is at a minimum, are a win. Because of this warning, Bodie was friendly and always said “thank you” to the kids loading and checking his seat belts. In return, most of the employees were cordial and patient with him. He learned the skill so many still have not honed — you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. Case in point, a recent viral video of a man in line for the Lagoon ride Rattlesnake Rapids.
The greatest life lesson came in my altercation with a park vending machine. After a fruitless search for a drinking fountain to fill my emotional-support water bottle, as it seemed all free water sources were tucked away into the dark recesses to the park, I fell for the dark marketing of Dasani water. I accepted my fate of a $4 water, stepping up to the machine that proudly flashed it “accepts credit cards” and gave into its siren song. Card scanned, notifying me that it was charged, I pushed every round button with promises of water. None had anything to give. Yet, my money was gone. I gave something for nothing. Dare I use the word scammed?
We marched up to “Guest Relations” where a fresh-faced girl let me know that somehow the magical accounting department knew I wasn’t vended any water, therefore the charge would “drop off” and my money would be restored by midnight. Standing directly to my left was another woman with a son of similar age explaining that same machine took her cash for no water. I fear she was hooked to a polygraph machine to recoup her cash. Despite my advice of letting patrons know that machine was out of order so others could avoid our fate, nothing was done. My Guest Relations facilitator told me if the charge did not “drop off” I should contact the Lagoon accounting department the next day. She couldn’t give me the number, but instead directed me to call the Lagoon general number. Wheels were in motion for my 11-year-old son to learn the life skill of red tape and hoop jumping.
There for five hours inside the gates of Lagoon, Bodie experienced patience, dismay, fear, achievement, frustration, elation and logic shortcomings. He lived the joy of being an only child for a short blip of time. He learned the phrase “getting your money’s worth,” constantly tracking this illusionary number that can actually only be measured by the memories you make.
It was the next day he completed his rite when it was discovered the vending machine charge did not drop off and that it was impossible to reach the accounting department at Lagoon. Instead, I was placed on hold for nearly 10 minutes. The Guest Relations facilitator eventually picked up, only to give me a phone number for the vending machine company to get my money restored. As it turns out, the number didn’t work. Instead, he watched me swallow the bitter pill that sometimes we have no recourse. We gut it and move on until the next rite of passage that tests us on what we’ve learned so far — like never trust a vending machine.
Meg Sanders worked in broadcast journalism for over a decade but has since turned her life around to stay closer to home in Ogden. Her three children keep her indentured as a taxi driver, stylist and sanitation worker. In her free time, she likes to read, write, lift weights and go to concerts with her husband of 18 years.
