The Young & the Restless | We always show up

Besides the one year we went to the Melbourne Royal Show, my kids haven’t missed a Shepp Show since they were born.

There have been years where I’ve thought my money could be better spent elsewhere on a new or different experience for them, but FOMO (fear of missing out) kind of catches us in the final days leading up to the event.

You drive by the showgrounds and see it filling up with trucks and mobile homes, livestock trailers and showbag vendors; you watch the rides being assembled on your daily commute to and from work and school, and you see the bright-coloured lights casting an alluring glow across the night sky.

And all of a sudden, you’re sold again (and maybe your house/car/kidney is too to pay for a single day at the show). You can’t possibly wait that agonisingly long for the next one if you miss your chance this year.

After all, a year in the future seems so much longer than a year in the past. I think that’s because the future is empty, waiting to be filled, so it feels like a vast void of the unknown. Whereas the past has already been written, it’s finished, familiar and complete.

Decision made, so we toddled along.

Now, when I talk about so much changing in a year, it’s not the show itself. I don’t feel like a great deal changes there from year to year except for the north-drifting prices.

It’s my children and how they respond to it, what they’re interested in there, who they want to share their experiences with, how much braver they are than they were 12 months ago, and what rides they dare to go on with that amplified bravery.

It’s the tightening of their purse strings when they start to grasp financial concepts, like the two-for-$7 bags of Freddos on special at Coles last week netting them 24 chocolate frogs, compared to just 10 chocky frogs in a show bag with a comic book they’ll never read for six bucks at the show.

Or the “I could pay $15 to play a sideshow and win a prize I could buy for just $2 at Kmart” internal voices that speak to them — despite my trying to teach them that they are paying for the experience of playing the game, like they pay to go on rides without receiving any prize for it (even though I kind of agree with them).

I mean, I’m not suggesting games are rigged. Still, star basketballers rarely manage to shoot hoops at sideshow rings, star pitchers rarely manage to knock down stacks of cans, and star fishermen rarely catch rubber pond duckies with big numbers on their undersides.

But it’s not about winning; it’s about trying, right? And having fun while doing it.

This year, my 16-year-old firstborn didn’t come with us at all, opting to go with friends to celebrate one of their birthdays.

My middle child (14) did come with us, but — after loading me up with his showbags like the packhorse I’ve always been — took off with some of his friends so they could go and thrill-seek for an hour or two.

This left just two of us: myself and my 12-year-old, who’s been unwell most of the year, so wasn’t interested in going on any rides at all.

Last year, he was drawn to all the fishing games. This year, they were apparently games for babies, and all he was interested in was food (specifically crocodile hot dogs — or crocdogs — from the Bush Tucker food van), fidget toys and showbags.

So, I suppose we could miss one year of going to the show, but how much would my kids grow up in those two years between shows? Would we miss a fleeting era where they might have played this game or that, ridden this ride or that?

The show brand of fun is its unique brand of fun you can really only get there. Yeah, it’s expensive; yeah, it’s corny; yeah, we’ve been what feels like a gazillion times already.

But will we keep going?

Yeah, we will.

I think it’s time I give up ever considering missing a year and give in to accepting. I should probably open a specific show savings fund to save all year for the next one instead.