Chick-fil-A Playplace: Decadent & Depraved

For years, I stayed strong. I refused to meet friends there. I turned down playdates. When I felt weak – and oh, I felt weak, especially at eight months pregnant with rambunctious toddlers – I read the studies and statistics and swore, not me, not my kids, no freaking way. They would remain blissfully ignorant.

It took baby number three, a desperate need for lunch and my godson begging, begging my son to come, please please pleeeeeeeeeeeease (how many e’s can we insert here? Only a toddler knows). And I caved. I did it.

I let my kids in the Chik-fil-A playplace.

You’re thinking it’s because I’m a self-righteous hippie foodie. Nope. The highschool girls working the drive-thru know my name, credit card number, and license plate (it helps that my car window is permanently stuck. The chick with the omg-a-toy-r-us-exploded-in-her-front-seat SUV opening her entire driver’s side door to fork over her plastic? Totally memorable). Osama Bin Laden could be manning the fryer and I’d be first in line for more nuggets. I will die of a heart attack and waffle fries will be the culprit and I will not regret one greasy bite.

But the playplace.

Oh, the fast-food playplace. I loved it when I was a kid… and I once found a used band-aid in the bottom of the Burger King ball pit. Playplaces are filled with MRSA and stickiness and other people’s savage children. I knew once I caved, I could never go back. That long, peaceful drive-thru line which gave me ten good minutes of Facebook time on a slow afternoon? Oh no. It would be the playplace or screaming.

But I did it. The results were predictable.

Squeaky ate three fries and raced off to join his best friend. Snuzzy ate for five minutes – he tends to take food more seriously in general – and tried to join them, except he’s too small to open the door. So I had to lurch over, with newborn, and semi-exposed boob, and trailing baby wrap, to open it for him. Because there is never a seat close to the door. You’re always halfway across a restaurant praying your kid isn’t maiming someone else’s while every parent in the place remains deaf to their screams. Because hey, Facebook and nuggets.

And there will be maiming. Those things are Lord of the Flies with a twisty slide. Always, always, some kid is doing something that, if he were an adult, would culminate in a long prison sentence. Shoe to the head! Sneak attack! Random punching! Wrestlemania! Squeaky thinks, SWEET! Just like me! And cheerfully kicks the kid in the head. Snuzzy weeps. Except sometimes when Snuzzy weeps he passes out (Luckily this has not yet happened in the playplace. But one day, it will).

Some kid is snotting all over. Some mom spilled her tea in there (probably me). There’s a child way, way too big and old climbing on the outside of the slide. His little brother wails disconsolately. Some other mother is glaring at you because she thinks your kids are the spawn of Satan and you’re an inattentive, ineffectual idiot of a parent, and you’re glaring at a third mother because you wish she’d get off her damn SmartPhone and wipe her kids’ noses, or at least stop them from beating the baby crawling on the floor. It’s hell.

But oh my gosh is it worth it.

Because here’s the thing… the nice, nice Chik-fil-A people bring – to your table, no waiting at the counter – food that you did not cook. And condiments, if you ask for them. They refill your drinks. They say “My pleasure” when you thank them and offer you more napkins. So you can eat nuggets, drink tea, and, if you were smart enough to call your mama friends, talk with humans who are not hobbit-sized and demanding something without using the word “please”.

All while you ignore your children.

Those glass walls are pretty much soundproof. Did I mention that you didn’t make lunch? Your small children can battle other small children until naptime, and then the sweet Chik-fil-A guys will give you tea to go. If you’re lucky, the kids will pass out in the car, and you can log quality time playing Candy Crush while you sit in your driveway with the car engine running. You could even listen to music with a Parental Advisory. I recommend Pretty Hate Machine. Your midday moment of zen.

Forever after, your kids will scream when you go to the drive-thru. Mine do. It’s a small price to pay.

A mama to three sons, 4 and under, Elizabeth dropped out of academia to procreate and spend way too much time tie-dying. A certified educator with Babywearing International, she still misses teaching freshman English. Elizabeth practices attachment parenting out of sheer laziness, and writes about social justice and crunchy parenting at Manic Pixie Dream Mama. Her work has appeared on the Huffington Post, xojane, Mamapedia, Today Show Parents, and Time.com.