Friday, February 8, 2013

What doesn't happen at Disney

You win Parent of the Year. Sure, everyone else's progeny is losing their sh** on line for Dumbo, too, but maybe not about the specific color of cotton candy you just paid $10 for.

Sex. At the end of a day at the parks, you either don't have energy, or privacy, or both. And if you did, you don't have children, or in-laws, or both.

Your moment of Mickey Magic happens when you design it to. It will happen, but only after you've lost the camera and given up on all the time, money, and gray hairs you've spent planning the trip. And you will melt.

Snow. My hubby and mother-in-law actually had me convinced it might be a little nippy and I wore boots the first day. She considered long-johns. It was 82 degrees. In February. I grew up in Florida. There is no excuse for my being so impressionable. Shorts and flip flops, folks. Shorts. And flip flops. 

Rebellion. Everyone wants the same thing, and to ride the same ride, and to eat lunch at the same time, and to see the fireworks, and get on the train, and to see the show, and the parade, and the characters, and get back to the hotel, and to go to sleep, and to not move a muscle until the next morning's call to Mickey Mouse's house of worship occurs. And we do it together. And we get out of each other's way, and we commiserate about the wait, and we share an acknowledgement of the wonders of childhood and that we love children. We choose to share. We do not huff and puff. We think it is real life, for this little while. We think it is right to spend $2.50 on 8 ounces of water.

Oh, that reminds me of one more:

You save money.

For reals, though, you know I had a great time and will post more later!!

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