We were in Nashville over the holidays. Though Regina grew up in Nashville and though we got married there, it's relatively unknown parental territory for us. Therefore, after a few days, Regina and I fell into a trap that has captured millions of American parents before us. We decided Elijah needed "something to do."

So that's how I ended up taking my son to an ice fortress in the shadow of the Grand Ole Opry.

ICE (tm) has apparently been all the rage in middle Tennessee this season. A team of 35 Chinese ice-carving artisans spent an entire month working on the exhibit, which encompasses a 20,000 square foot "frozen fountain of youth." But Chinese artists don't come cheap. The exhibit costs $20 per parent/child combo if you have the foresight to go to Wendy's first and get a coupon. To help its guests survive rigidly-enforced 9-degree temperatures, The Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center, the exhibit's totally uncorporate sponsor, provides a semi-warm blue parka with a hood. Additional clothing is highly recommended.

We went with Regina's mother, Regina's sister-in-law Donna, our eight-year-old nephew Westlund (not a Jewish name), and our two-year-old niece Mackensie (also not Jewish). While Regina and my mother-in-law got to walk the baby around Opry Mills mall, which is a hideous retail concoction of chicken-winged amusements for the rural and the lobotomized, the task of icing the boys fell to Donna and I.

After donning our parkas, the first thing we beheld was a life-sized ice sculpture of Dolly Parton. I found this hilarious. Elijah, meanwhile, tripped on a piece of worn carpet, falling to the ground, jamming his teeth into his lower lip. He bawled until my sister-in-law, an experienced pain distractor, had him put his sore lip on the wall, conveniently made of ice. We stumbled toward the next room, comprised of wall-to-wall ice polar bears that happened to be drinking Coca-Cola, just like the polar bears in the TV commercial.

Next, we entered the ice-slide room, where we spent the next 45 minutes. There were three slides, of varying length, but really, they were all pretty short. Elijah took at least a dozen turns, as did Westlund. I went down a half-dozen myself. Meanwhile, we waited in line and Westlund, who is a kind, honest, sincere athletic boy who brags about stuff like the fact that his friend Jackson can hit the cover off a baseball, complained that Elijah was eating his own boogers and also that Elijah wouldn't stop saying "poo poo nuts." I chalked it up to regional differences.

After a while, Elijah developed his own sliding style, which involved an initial crawl, a quick shooting of legs up in the air, and a final straightening for velocity. It looked unorthodox, but at least he was actually sliding, as opposed to most of the under-five kids, who either scooted on their butts so slowly that I wanted to die while watching them, or they got to the top of the slide and cried until their parents took them away.

Then Elijah began to develop a nasty cough. He'd had a bit of a cold that week. Perhaps I should have considered that before allowing him to slide for 45 minutes inside an ice fortress, but sometimes the need to get out of the house impairs your judgment. We ran pretty quickly through an ice Candyland, and an ice choo-choo train, and then arrived at the Chinese ice artisans' crowning glory: A life-sized nativity scene that took up a room the size of a small community theater.

As a Martina McBride recording of "Silent Night" filled the room, the other patrons gazed with something between interest and wonder. Pictures were snapped. I stood in the middle of the room and howled with laughter. In some security office deep in the bowels of Opry Mills, a guard put down his Krispy Kreme at the first sign of a Dangerous Jew Alert.

My disrespect isn't usually so extreme, but I'd been in a sour mood all week. The first thing I saw in Nashville, as I drove away from the airport, was a digital billboard that began "Hey, PC Nitwits! It's Merry Christmas. Not Happy Holidays. Or Happy Kwanzaa," and so on. My mockery of the ice nativity was the only revenge I could take. But Christmas, as it is wont to do, struck back at me.

After we left the ice fortress, we went to a horrible place called The Aquarium Restaurant, which Regina's mother informed me was Westlund's favorite. One should always be wary of an eight-year-old's favorite restaurant. This particular abominable chain outlet featured floor-to-ceiling fish tanks, an exit that emptied into a gift shop, and calamari that tasted a little off. There was also worn blue carpeting, Muzak, and lighting apparently derived from low-budget 70s porn set in outer space. Our waiter informed us that grilled fish would be served with a "melody" of vegetables.

In the Department Of Mixed Blessings, Elijah couldn't eat any of this place's poison, as he suddenly developed a fever of 103. Subsequently, he vomited all over himself in the backseat of my sister-in-law's suburban. When we got him home, he ate three popsicles and immediately fell asleep.

This morning, I woke up at 5:30 to get ready to leave for the airport. I walked past Elijah's bedroom, naked. Elijah stirred and saw me. His fever had broken.

"Daddy," he said, "Don't get on the airplane like that. It would be inappropriate."

My son had survived the ice with his strange mind intact, but the inauthenticity of the whole affair made me sad. Something about the day just sat wrong. I didn't mind the Southern cheesiness. Hell, I visited Dollywood on my honeymoon, unironically. And I was born in Tennessee to boot: My mom took me to Opryland when I was Elijah's age. I vaguely recall, with the aid of photographs, petting a goat and eating ice cream. Now that may not have been any more real than what I put Elijah through. But in my memory, at least, it feels more honest.

On the way to the airport this morning, I grumbled to Regina. Why, I asked her, do today's family memories have to be constructed out of such cheap materials? Then we passed by the billboard calling me a "PC nitwit," and I embarked on a different cranky rant. Regina yes-deared me all the way to Departures, while Elijah sang happy songs to himself in the backseat.

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