As my friends know, I live with a gaggle of Disney freaks. My husband and children love all things Mickey. We have annual passes and make the 7-hour trek 3 or 4 times a year so they can park hop until they drop. I, however, do not share the same feelings toward the mouse that my tribe does. I go only because I love them. In fact, I have traveled south on several occasions and never stepped foot on Walt’s property with them. Instead, I spent my time shopping, sunning, or just relaxing on the couch with a good book while my family fast-passed their way around Disney World.
However, this year’s annual Thanksgiving trip was different. Our littlest one will be four soon and is a Mouskateer in training. He is also not as oblivious as he once was. This meant I had three choices: (1) to fabricate a clever tale about why we were the only two not going to the park or vacating the premises by lunchtime, (2) to admit the selfish truth that mommy wanted to check out a few sale racks at TJMaxx before kicking her shoes off and binge-watching the Hallmark channel, or (3) to suck it up and endure the busy parks for the happiness of my children. I endured but not as gracefully as I had hoped, and I would like to say a few things to some people who I encountered at the happiest place on earth:
o To security at the park entrances: step it up. Your profiling of my husband is one of the few things I actually enjoy about Disney. He is harmless, of course, but still, I wait excitedly to see if you will perceive him as a threat and do extra pat downs and wand scans. It is always fun to watch other park goers eye him up, as well, when you pull him off to the side. This trip was a bit disappointing, as he didn’t raise your suspicion even once. (He blames the lack of cardio in his workouts and says it has made him appear less like a member of a Polynesian terrorist group and more like Maui from Moana.)
o To all the people who walked out in front of my stroller: please commit. If you take that step, please keep moving in the same direction. You can't stop a locomotive on a dime, and I am using body weight (and there is a lot of it) to propel my child's mode of transportation forward. If you second-guess your decision to enter my pathway when we are nanoseconds from colliding, I can’t be held responsible for your ankle or toe injuries. It’s like a real-life game of Frogger with you people.
o To the driver of my first Kilimanjaro Safari ride of the morning: you need a raise. You are different from your other tour guide cohorts. You were not monotone, and you did not follow the script. You were witty, and it was breath of fresh air to those of us who have ridden the attraction ten thousand times. I especially liked how you mocked the man on the second row when he pointed to the African painted dogs and told his daughter to look at the Hyenas. We all know those aren’t the same. My second trip around the Harambe Wildlife Reserve 20 minutes later with the nasally blonde tour guide left me less than satisfied. So kudos to you.
o To the wives who made their entire family wear matching shirts to the park: next time, consider changing your husband’s vinyl lettering from glitter to mat. It is bad enough he has to walk around matching his mother-in-law and his 6-year-old daughter, but save a portion of his dignity and don’t make him sparkle too.
o To the gentleman who chased me from the carousel to It’s a Small World to return the shoe my toddler kicked off during a temper-tantrum (that he threw because he doesn’t understand that you can’t just stay on the ride indefinitely): thank you for biting your tongue about his bratty behavior and choosing just to smile at me instead. I am sure it was a pity smile, but I promise you I addressed the situation in the nearest bathroom.
o To the lady in the stall next to us as I addressed the situation: He is just fine, and he will be a well-adjusted adult because of it.
o To the man at the Enchanted Tiki Room who had the audacity to lead his family of four in cutting the line (in front of 10 other families who had been waiting patiently) to get front row seats to watch a room full of fake birds sing: I hope you enjoyed your view, and I said a prayer for you. It involved real birds pooping in your 1980’s Rick Springfield hair, but I prayed for you nonetheless.
o To the park goers who believe in “what you wear at Disney stays at Disney”: you are brave, and I strangely admire the risk you took when selecting your park attire. (And you may or may not be among the pictures I took to giggle at with my hubby when we get home.)
o To the dozens of employees that humored my son Asher each day as he met his “asking employees their names” quota (when your name is very clearly printed on your very visible name tag): You rock for playing along as he practiced “being more intentional" with people around him. (You got me- maybe it’s a badge they are working on in Royal Rangers.)
No. I do not love this place any more than I did before. I will never be a fan of large crowds, overpriced food and merchandise, and waiting in long lines. I also do not like being forced to listen to Christmas music before I have eaten turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie. However, on the drive home, I, at my husband’s request, perused sites for places to stay when we return in just a few months for the annual birthday trip for the kids.
Yes, I will go again and again and again and continue to bear the madness of that place because four people (whom I absolutely love) absolutely love Disney.
