When you’re hurtling through space at 120 miles per hour, there’s no time to worry about the emails you haven’t returned, the lack of milk in your fridge and the bills that await when you return home. You don’t even have a second to consider that an errant bird may fly into your face leaving you with just one eye. Your mind is wonderfully, impossibly, remarkably blank.

As we walk from one section of the park to another in search of more dizzying, gut-churning fun, I’m able to impart small bits of wisdom without coming across as overbearing, the way I might at home.

“The stats on how often tongue piercings get infected are actually pretty alarming,” I caution. “Probably best to skip that whole business, right?”

Moments of pure magic occur as we wait among the sweaty, heavily tattooed masses to become human slingshots. My 14-year-old tells me about an older girl who gave her phone number to his good friend thinking he was 17 because his curly hair makes him appear taller. Would I have heard this story if we were waiting in, say, the orthodontist’s office? No. Normally, it would be easier to get my cat a job as an Uber driver than it is to get one lone anecdote about high school out of this kid.

As we prepare to board the world’s tallest roller coaster and be hydraulically launched 45 stories into the sky, my 11-year-old, his eyes as blue and hopeful as the clear summer sky, looks up at me and asks, “Can we hold hands?”

This is the same child who bolts out the door and forgets to say goodbye to me 40 percent of the school year.

“Of course,” I say and pinch his cheek. He doesn’t pull away.

When I tell friends and family that I’ve taken another day off from work to spend at this glorified carnival where sensory overload and overpriced nachos reign supreme, they grimace.