It's spring break and the kids are home from school, so I recently decided to drop the equivalent of a decent-sized car payment on a trip to the aquarium.

I'd signed them up for a camp for a couple of hours a day, but after that was canceled, we were left with only screen-based diversions.

"Why does it keep saying 'We'll be right back'?" my older son asked about the cartoons he'd been watching, cartoons from the olden days.

"It used to have a commercial there," I explained.

"Ugh," he said, rolling his eyes. "Why can't they just cut that out?"

That's when I decided to take them to the aquarium.

The next day, we piled into the car.

"I'm bored," one kid said during the drive.

"I was bored all the time when I was a kid," I responded.

Boredom, in fact, was the chief feature of my childhood. I was bored when it rained, bored in cars and on planes and standing in line with my mom at the grocery store.

Even when the TV was on, I was usually bored. I didn't want to watch the news or football or "Matlock." I wanted to watch cartoons, and those were only on for about an hour and a half after school and then for a luxurious four hours on Saturday.

But like all children before them, my kids don't want to hear my complaints. They feel a little sorry for me, but mostly my sob stories just bore them.

At the aquarium, I paid an extortionate sum for parking, then walked for 20 minutes from the lot to the aquarium's front door. Once inside, I requested two children's and one adult ticket.

$127?

I briefly considered instead taking them to a restaurant with a lobster tank. We'd even have something to eat afterward.

Eventually, though, I acquiesced, paid and we were inside, where we were treated to a panoply of sea creatures — everything from jellyfish to sea otters. My kids were definitely almost partially entertained.

They were, however, enraptured with one part: Inside a glass case, an aquarium employee rearranged the plants inside the Amazon rainforest exhibit.

"He's standing in the water!" my kids exclaimed. I had to drag them away, reassuring them that they could watch people care for plants at home, promising that I'd let them know the next time I was about to prune the rosebush.

Soon, we entered another spot that impressed them mightily: the gift shop.

I'd had enough of fighting the costs and rolled over like my snoring husband after a prodding.

"Can I have this stuffed dolphin?" one child asked.

"Yes."

"Me, too?"

"The same one?"

He nodded.

"Fine."

I even paid for the $5 plastic bag they sell so they don't have to hand out plastic bags. That's fine with me, just as it was fine with me that the aquarium cafeteria didn't have plastic straws. You know, to save the environment. They were thoughtful enough to give you a giant plastic cup when you ask for a straw.

"Good thing you're not giving out straws!" I thought as I put the cups on the tray.

After lunch, and more wandering, we left the aquarium. My older son dragged his feet, worn out from the day.

"Come on," I said, "pick up the pace."

I feel like I'm always ordering them around.

Do this, don't do that. Hurry up, don't run. Stop touching that, here hold this. I must sound like an impossible scold. Without my drill sergeant instructions, though, everything goes to pot.

As we walked the mile or so back to the parking lot, my son asked me a question.

"You know what I'm tired of?"

"No. What?"

"Walking," he said, and that's when I knew for sure that he was my child.

"Me, too," I said, finally loading us, our stuffed dolphins and plastic bags into the car at the end of the day — exhausted, a little bit educated and seriously financially depleted.

But on the plus side, at least it'll give them something to complain about when they get older.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: Sonyworld at Pixabay