The five things I learned at Dinosaur World

Posted Apr 15, 2009 by Mike Winter

Updated Nov 16, 2009 at 12:10 PM

Helping to chaperon two dozen preschoolers on their first fieldtrip can be an enlightening experience. I learned several things during our three-hour visit to Dinosaur World, insights both profound and unexpected.

The first and most important of these was that the majority of five-year-olds can outrun me. This is a depressing discovery. For years I’ve labored under the mistaken assumption that in a flat-out sprint across the room to the last chocolate chip cookie or mini-pizza, I would emerge victorious. Surely my longer legs and enhanced coordination would provide all the advantage necessary to claim the prize.

But my confidence has been undermined. Preschoolers may have little legs, but their lower center of gravity and squirrel-like reflexes makes them formidable racers. They can scoot under a table or chair while adults are forced to circumvent such obstacles. Sure, we can make up ground on the straight-aways, but just when it seems victory is at hand – boom! You collide with a bench and spend the next five minutes staring dazedly up at a giant fiberglass Apatosaurus as your shins throb in sync with the bump on your head and seven gloating pigmies polish off the last of the honey-mustard-onion pretzels bits Miss Jenny brought for everyone to share, and that includes chaperoning dads, not that any of you little gluttons care.

The second thing I discovered is that I’m not a very good chaperon. I base this judgment on the fact that I had only one child to watch – my own – and I still managed to lose her. Granted, we were in an enclosed space with only one entrance and exit, but it was a BIG space with many places to hide. I turned my head for only a moment to snatch a toddler from the closing jaws of a bull gator (isn’t that the way these situations always begin?) and the next thing I know my daughter has hightailed it to some secluded corner of the attraction.

Being the reasonable and rational adult that I am, I did what any other reasonable and rational adult would do: I ran screaming from one end of the park to the other fearing the worst. And by “screaming” I mean calling. And by “running” I mean power walking. And by “fearing the worst” I mean roving packs of hungry armadillos.

I eventually found Tess in a large sandpit, happily digging for Tyrannosaurus bones with three other tots whose parents were also calling and power walking and envisioning armor plated mayhem. As the first one to arrive I became the de facto representative for the adults.

“Why did you run off like that?” I demanded of all four.

“We didn’t run,” my daughter said. “We walked very quickly.”

“Well you just walked very quickly into a whole mess of trouble, young lady. Do you realize how scared we were?”

“Daddy,” she sighed. “You shouldn’t be scared. These dinosaurs don’t even move.”

The rest of my insights came in a rush at the end of our excursion. As we trooped across the parking lot toward the bus I decided to find out just how much science the preschoolers had absorbed during our “educational” outing.

“So, what did we all learn today?” I prompted.

“Finney’s uncle has six toes!” one boy offered.

“Five kids can fit on a tire swing, but not six.” (Most of our time was spent carousing in the playground near the park’s entrance.)

“Dinosaurs come from bears.”

So there you have it, proof positive that it’s never too early to instill in children a love for gossip, tire swings and bears. The jury is still out, however, on giant fiberglass dinosaurs.