Yes, that's Iain in a real, actual, authentic, not made up helicopter. It's an "exhibit" at a children's museum here. He LOVED it.
Gotta check your switches and buttons before you fire up those blades. Fuel? Check! Feet that reach the pedals? Uh...captain we might have a problem there.
So we went to a birthday party. Except that when I say we "went" to a "party," what I mean is that we spent 45 minutes trying to figure out how to access a party (25 minutes to drive across town at rush hour, 10 minutes parking, then 10 minutes walking across the Gateway only to look out and realize we'd walked in a huge circle), then encountered Iain's absolute and intractable refusal to participate.
He wanted to play with that helicopter, by God, and was not going to have any pizza, or cake, or costumes, or crown-making, or obstacle courses, or silk parachute flipping, or anything else. It was helicopter or freakout. Period.
Eventually, Mother and I convinced him to look at the rest of the museum, where he played with balls, a crane, a playhouse, a pretend farm, a Jeep (that you can gas up and whose tires you can inflate), and a water feature.
But when it was time to go? Howls. Screams. Wails. Protests beginning with the assertion that playing with the helicopter was "good for me!" and ending with demands to return "right now!!!"
He threw this fit all the way home. That's another 45 minutes, in case you're counting. Charles finally talked him down off the cliff, using orange segments and a firm but gentle insistence on quiet. Then Iain said, "I think I'll take a little nap."
Sweet silence. Sweet, sweet silence.