All around me is noise, lights, and sensory chaos. I really want to go home, but we’re in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near Orlando. I think of the mothers of yore, slipping a last crust of bread to a hungry child, forgoing their own sustenance so their child could feel just a bit fuller. I square my shoulders and put one foot in front of the other. I guess this is my sacrifice.

I don’t remember my parents ever taking me to this sort of place. I don’t think my in-laws took my husband much either. We sit on the nonworking massage chairs and discuss it.

“Were these places even around when we were kids?” I reach deep into the recesses of my memory, touching on something reminiscent of yellow ball pits and large plastic tunnels. “Oh yeah, Discovery Zone!”

“Oh, yes.” My husband’s eyes light up. “I remember that one. We actually got a lifetime pass. But then they closed.”

“But there wasn’t much else, right?” I press. I think it’s time that our generation’s unique sacrifices be recognized.

“I think there were only outdoor places, like go-karts and mini-golf,” he says.

“Exactly,” I say, triumphant. “No one was expected to endure this level of sensory overload for”—I glance down at my watch—“over two hours!”

I decline to try the ropes course and decide that bumper cars might give me whiplash. Instead, I walk around, looking for my little ones. One daughter is on the climbing wall, another on the trampoline, and the third is flying down a large pink slide, grinning from ear to ear.

Even my husband goes on the go-karts with the girls and actually seems to be having fun.

Everyone is having a great time.

Well, almost everyone.

I spend the rest of the trip fighting off an impending migraine, trying to distract myself by texting friends, and eating snacks that were never meant for me.

I think I used to be fun? Or maybe what used to be fun just isn’t fun anymore. Have I always been like this? I turned 40 in June — maybe I can blame it on my age.

I decide that we really need to leave. It’s been three and a half hours, and I’ve hit my maximum level of sensory overload.

The grip socks come off, shoes go back on, we make a few last-minute trips to the restroom, and we’re finally, blissfully, outside again.

My daughters turn to my husband and me. “That was soooo fun! Thank you, Mommy and Abba!”

Little arms wrap around my waist, and for those five seconds, it kind of feels worth it. In the car on the way home, I feel relief and also guilt. I went with my kids to Urban Air, but I wasn’t really there. I tried to zone out in any way possible, even if my kids didn’t realize it. It was fun for them, but it wasn’t fun for me. What’s wrong with me, anyway?

A few months pass, and we once again find ourselves in trip mode. This time, my big kids are with us as well, and we are off to yet another iteration of “noise+lights+kids+trampolines,” this time at Round One. It’s a bit better this time. The noise level isn’t as intense.

This time, I’m determined to have fun. I settle myself on a bench, phone tucked away in my purse, and smile with purpose at my children. I play basketball with my sons. I’m all in.

And then I remember that, down the street, there’s a Trader Joe’s. The pull is too strong. I let everyone know that I’m going to go get some snacks.

Back in my van, the quiet feels transcendent. Trader Joe’s is that perfect blend of endorphin-producing color and sound. Not too loud, not too bright, just right. A half hour later, I return with oat milk chocolate, Takis, and a genuine smile on my face. The kids are happy, and surprisingly, I’m happy, too.

On the way back, I probe for the guilt, the exhaustion I usually feel after these trips, and discover that I have none. Yes, I left halfway through. No, I did not jump and follow my kids around the complex. And yet, everyone seems okay.

It’s been 17 years of parenting, but it suddenly hits me. Maybe my kids are better off when I do what works for me instead of trying to squeeze myself into the mold of what I think I should be.

We get back home, and along with the half-empty water bottles and smushed snack bags, I have a new realization to unpack. That, and a whole new bunch of grip socks to add to our growing collection.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 978)