Well, we did it. We joined the ranks of Superbowl winners,
selfie-stick wielders, and the entire Asian continent and spent a week at
Disneyworld. And now, only one of our kids can go to college.
Originally, my plan was to set up cardboard cutouts of
Mickey in the yard, take pictures when the kids were still too dumb to remember
anything, and years later say, “See, we did go to Disneyworld! What? Yeah, we
took the shed with us.” But we waited too late, and now Suttie is almost able
to tell the difference between the cardboard characters and the real ones.
Now, it’s not that we’re anti-Disney, as the kids’ playroom
and DVD shelf will attest, but before we had kids, Sutton and I were purposeful
world travelers. When we dropped that kind of money on a trip, we got to see
the Acropolis or the Roman Coliseum or some weird French dude making out with a
street lamp. So the idea of sacrificing Molly’s bail money (cause let’s face
it, that’s where it was going) for a saunter down Mickey’s Main Street U.S.A.
wasn’t the most appealing. There would be crowds, afternoon storms, the height
of merchandising, plus our kids would be there. So in the days before the trip,
Sutton and I had tempered our expectations to a mere wish for survival, which,
for the first two days of our journey, I wasn’t sure would be granted.
First, everyone was freaking tired. We had to leave the
house by 5 am to catch a 7 am flight out of Huntsville, so by the time we got
to Orlando, all four of us were short-tempered, and Molly tried to get on a bus
for SeaWorld. Once we got to our resort, we felt better, ready to change
clothes and hit the magic. But O’Neal luck had other plans. You see, somewhere
back in time, an O’Neal ancestor committed a Stanley Yelnats level of dumbassery
and cursed the rest of us with constant inconvenience. The bad luck is never dire; it’s just
annoying.
So, when we stepped up to the check-in desk, it was only
natural that we’d be the “special family” selected for a suite at a different
resort. Now, being natural skeptics, Sutton and I weighed this option heavily,
and I even went as far as directly asking the concierge if our “special” status
was the result of our room not being ready, but he assured us (and the kids)
that this suite would be amazing, themed from the Cars movie, and at a resort
that was totally kid-centric. It would make their trip, y’all. And Suttie
bought into it hook, line, and sinker while his dad and I exchanged sideways
glances. It didn’t help that while we were standing there, hearing the full
used car spiel, I received a text confirming that our room was indeed not
ready. But we decided to have a little faith and, after making it clear to the
concierge that we would be back for our original room if we weren’t 100%
satisfied, we hopped in a taxi to the new resort.
But upon opening the door to our “spectacular” suite, I
turned to Sutton who hadn’t even made it into the room yet and said, “Nope.”
The room was themed after the Cozy Cone Motel in the Cars movie, and it held up
to that motel authenticity. The carpets were orange, the lamps were made of plastic
traffic cones, the kids no longer had a bed but a fold out couch and the room
overall was smaller than the one we’d booked. So there we were, in a
crazy-looking room at a resort that was a lower value than the one we’d paid
for on a trip that I’d planned for a year and been up since 4 am to go on, and
I’m not gonna lie, I cried. Not a full boo-hoo cry, but a “I want to hit
someone” cry (women reading this will know the difference).
But this is where Sutton shines: in opportunities for being
a charming hard ass (I promise, it’s a skill). So within minutes, we boarded a
taxi back to our original resort, where my husband demanded extra fast passes
and meal credits and also forced the hospitality manager to admit that she had
overbooked the hotel, all while wearing his patented “this is going to happen”
smile. I know it well. It’s the same look he had when he first asked me out,
when he proposed, and when I tried to bail on our weekly viewing of Ax Men. I
honestly felt bad for her.
After all was said and done, we were treated with kid gloves,
satisfied with the outcome, and finally on our way to the Magic Kingdom…where
the kids rode two rides and fell asleep in the stroller before the Electric
Parade.
On to Day 2, which we spent at Hollywood Studios. I blame
the difficulties of this day on fatigue. Our entire family loves to sleep. We
thrive on it, we depend on it, we are worthless without it. My six year old
still takes naps, as do his parents on most weekends. So waking up early,
staying up late, and removing naps from the equation was a HUGE adjustment.
During the course of this day, Molly broke down a total of five-hundred-and-seventy-six
times, including right before the Frozen sing along where she threw herself on
the floor, kicking and screaming and making the poor Spanish family in front of
us feel completely uncomfortable. Thank God for “Let It Go” or we wouldn’t have
made it out of there.
Suttie was no angel either. His tiredness manifests as
whines, so all day he was hungry, hot, itchy, bothered by Molly, looked at by
Molly, breathed on by Molly, and generally uncomfortable. If his dad and I
weren’t numb from schlepping the double stroller and three (yes, three)
backpacks all day, we might have cared. Oh and make sure you ask him how he
liked the Tower of Terror. He will tell you it was terror-ble because he’s little and still relies on puns for humor.
He insisted on riding it and was fine through most of the
line until we entered a room showing a Twilight Zone-themed clip about ghosts
in the tower. When I saw him cover his ears, I knew we were in trouble. And he
kept those bad boys covered through the rest of the line, down into the “basement”
where we waited to load an elevator. And waited, and waited, until they figured
out that our elevator was broken (O’Neal luck, guys), so we moved in line for a
different elevator, where Suttie cried and cried and cried until the entire free-falling
experience was over, after which I thought, “Oh good, that’s done. He made it
through.” But when we met back up with his dad and sister, he decided that he
wanted to go again so that Sutton could go; in fact, he insisted on it. And
this time, he cried through the whole line, from start to finish. I have to
give it to him. He’s the only kid I know that will cry and cover his ears out
of fear for a full twenty minutes and not give a damn about what anyone around
him thinks. But they lived to tell the tale, and if you do choose to ask him
about it, be ready to hear that tale in its full HD glory because the boy does
not skimp on a single detail.
Yes, the first two days were a bit harrowing, but suddenly,
Disney enthusiasts might call it “magically,” our trip turned around. We
adjusted to the sleep deficit, we started to appreciate the grandeur of the
parks, and the kids’ attitudes improved (for the most part, I mean Suttie still
trended toward whiny and Molly threw fruit snacks at passersby, but it wasn’t
anything outside the norm). We rode rides, we ate food, we saw characters, we
ate more food. And most importantly, Molly got to meet ALL of the Disney
princesses.
If you know anything about my daughter, you know that, apart
from being, what are we calling it these days? spirited? Well, apart from that,
she is also a certified princess of non-royal blood. The girl lives and
breathes tiaras and dresses and ordering people around. So meeting Cinderella
and her fellow elite was the highpoint of Molly’s life, today and always. When
she would step up to hug these make-up laden locals, you could see that she was
among her people (and by that, I mean young girls fighting off gropey grandpas
while making minimum wage in Florida).
I could describe the rest of the week in detail—the shows,
the parades, Sutton getting violently sick on Mission:Space—but I don’t really
feel like it and I’ve got backed up episodes of Hart of Dixie to muddle through.
Suffice to say, we ended up having a wonderful trip. In
fact, several times, Sutton and I would look deeply at each other, smile, and
say, “This place would be a lot of fun if the kids weren’t here.” But they were
there, and when they look back on their childhood, they can say, “Man, Mom and
Dad screwed us up bad…but they did
take us to Disney.”
********************
Special thanks to my sister-in-law Amanda Rochowiak, who
allowed me to pick her brain for months in preparation for our trip and who
pointed me in the direction of the spiked Dole whips.
