Opening scene: an indoor playground

The Giggle Factory. An indoor playground full of runny noses and estrogen is where I chose to take the boys this morning. We go there occasionally so they can go down the slides, but they seem to be interested only in the snacks.

We were the first ones there this morning and enjoyed almost ten minutes of the entire place to ourselves. It was exciting to see Isaiah taking risks and Micaiah thoroughly enjoying himself. Then the flood gates opened.

As a preferred location for "play dates," when a mother of four rolls in, she's usually there to meet a few girlfriends who bring their children, too. Pandemonium ensues. Within 20 minutes, the Giggle Factory is home to over 30 kids and 16 parents (only 2 dads). Moms are frantically chasing their kids around the facility attempting to micromanage their activity and apply hand sanitizer to every square inch of exposed skin. One conversation near the padded stairs turns into tears because Mom is no less than smothering her rambunctious bambino. All at once, it seems, each mom throws up her hands and collectively decides to let kids be kids. A few moms head for the espresso bar for snacks and refreshments. My kids had been munching on Goldfish crackers back there since the others arrived, mind you. The women frantically dig in their diaper bags for spare change amidst the baby wipes and pre-packed snacks so they can buy something to take the edge off. They choose cappuccino, because vodka-tonic or margaritas aren't on the menu.

Kids being kids is a joyous sight. Genuine jubilation for life is difficult to ignore. I watch my boys climb, slide, jump and laugh without a care in the world. This is the life.

Then, in comes that mom. Judgmental stares emerge above the cardboard cappuccino mugs. Stares followed by more stares. You know who she is. The mom who lost all her additional "baby weight" during labor and probably wore 3-inch heels and skinny jeans home from the hospital. She's wearing slouch cuffed knee high boots and low rise silhouette True Religions that appear to be painted on. Where did she even fit a baby? Of course, she's accompanied by a crew of spiky haired little boys who double as a Gap models. They look more like accessories than her children. The mom who was wincing earlier from hitting her head on a pole in an area that was way too small for her makes a few snarky comments under breath, rolls her eyes and looks to the espresso bar to re-confirm that they don't have a top shelf of special drinks for the moms that aren't pregnant or nursing.

The other dad is lost on a smart phone, likely in a world of Fantasy Football updating his roster and my boys are already asking for round two of snacks when a "child care collaborative" group in matching yellow shirts arrives. The Giggle Factory has officially turned into a zoo. Almost 40 kids have morphed into animals. Isaiah observes the raucous, munching on Goldfish. How do I explain to him that this is actually normal behavior...for chimpanzees?

Three little boys gang up on a smaller boy and engage in a beating that looks like something from Robert DeNiro's A Bronx Tale. I almost step in to break it up. No one disciplines the three bullies, so I begin to plan my exit strategy in case these little guys start something with my kids. I think: if they so much as look at my kids, I might do something that I regret. I digress.

Seriously? Seriously. The dad who I thought was updating his roster in time for tonight's game on the NFL Network was actually summoning the troops for a birthday party. Enter more 3 year olds. I thought he was responsibly just letting his kids be crazy like dads do in these settings. I thought we were on the same page. So much for Band of Brothers. He wrote the names of the party goers on clear plastic cups. Head injury mom eyes the cups and reminisces about a time in her early 20's when she would use them for something else. That was long ago.

Another fight breaks out at the bottom of the red slide between two boys who tried to occupy the same space between the slide and the wall. There was scratching and clawing and then screaming and some laughing. A Bronx Tale is soon to become an indoor version of Westside Story on this playground. Sharks vs. Jets (I wonder what side Isaiah and Micaiah are on). Much to the chagrin of everyone over 6 years old, the instigator belonged to Knee High Boots. She was definitely out of her element and suddenly Head Injury felt like she was back in hers.

Isaiah patiently walks in my direction, "Daddy, can I have another snack."

In the back corner I hear rustling. Trying to make out what the little rug rats are saying, I imagine it sounding something like [queue music] "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way. From you first cigarette till you last dyin' day."

"No, Buddy. I think it's time to go."