Tonight, as I sunk into a steamy, near-scalding bath, I cursed myself for planning this vacation. I must have been feverish when I browsed online travel packages at Orbitz and Expedia. I must have been in the throws of delirium when I breathlessly talked my unwitting husband into “five days at Disney – for a pittance – really, a trifle!”
Somehow, I’d forgotten how much I hate being in a sea of people, how weirdly germ-phobic I get at theme parks (I am convinced that I would be able to see the collected amalgamation of germs and bacteria on the hand rails that divide the cattle lines IF ONLY DISNEY WOULD TURN UP THE DAMN LIGHTS. How do all the tottering grandparents see where the hell they are shuffling?) and how much I really, really hate Disney for how aggressively they market to children. I also forgot how child-like my husband becomes in these situations. He is not a childish person, but when forced into situations like this, with little hope of escape, he cycles between petulant, needy, and exasperated. “Do you have any gum?” he asks, huffy and expectant as a teenager as I riffle through my bag. Engrossed in the work email he can’t help but read and respond to, he wanders off in the wrong direction while typing missives on his phone, forgets where we’ve left the stroller that Little A must have because her “feet hurrrrrt,” and sighs dramatically at every sign posting the wait time for every ride. In this relationship, I usually own the sarcasm, but enforced enthusiasm brings it out in him: “Oh, you’re hungry? Well, I spilled mustard all over my jacket and my sweater. You could lick that off. It should tide you over until we can find something to eat.”
I should have known the vacation was going to be a disaster when we told Little A that we were going to Disney World. Last week, when we told her, she cried. Not tears of joy, but bitter, spoiled tears. “I don’t want to go! I’ve already been there! I don’t need to go again! Your plan to surprise me has been crushed!”
I should have transferred the vacation plans right then. I should have called my desperate to babysit in-laws and asked them to take her for a week while my husband and I went to Key West or visited friends in New York or spent a week anywhere but here. But I didn’t. I powered through, plowed ahead, bound and determined to have a good freaking time regardless of all the signs in the universe and tears of my child telling me not to do it.
I’d just taken her last spring, for one whirlwind day while my husband had a business meeting in another part of Florida. She and I had a lovely day at the park. I’d packed my bright orange carry everything bag well, prepped my child well, had a specific budget and a plan, and I stuck to it. Little A had a plan for that day, too, and it involved a princess makeover at Disney’s on-site salon (and by “salon” I mean child beauty pageant warm-up station). Although it went against every fiber of my being, I let her do it. When she emerged from the salon, she was delighted by her glitter-encrusted princess bun and loved her purple eyeshadow and red lip gloss. At least she chose to dress like Belle because, according to Little A, “she’s smart and loves to read.”
All day, she was fawned over by park staff and complimented by strangers (child beauty pageant approving strangers, I assumed). She screamed with delight on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride, dashed through the Pirates of the Caribbean line to squeeze in a second ride before the park closed, and cheered during the fireworks display over Cinderella’s castle at the end of the night. “Momma, all my dreams came true today,” she said as we made our way out of the park.
It was too good. I shouldn’t have messed with it, but I did. One great day was not enough. No! Daddy was busy last time and missed it! We should go as a family, share the magic, blah de freaking blah. Why can’t I ever just leave damn well enough alone?
I try to laugh in the face of adversity, even my own homemade variety, but instead, today, I whined, grumbled, cajoled, and hand-sanitized my way through the happiest place on Earth. As I soaked away the pain (and croup germs some little weasely toddler spewed in my direction), I felt a bit better. I made it through, a little battered and bruised, vowing never to come here again.
Of course, we are going back on Friday, for one last day. I mean, while we’re here, we might as well…
