A few weeks ago, in a rather atypical moment of impulse, I texted my husband “Screw it, I want to take the kids to Disneyland.” For clarification: a) I can’t do anything “normally” b)Our oldest is 7, which means I have actively been avoiding the “D” word for about 7 years now, and c) I had not been to there myself since I was 18 (Let’s pretend that’s not over a decade ago.)
It’s not that I dislike Disneyland; it’s just that Disneyland is a big trip: money, people, events—it’s a trip that requires planning and preparation. For years, the price tag that comes with that trip has overwhelmed our single-income budget and I was okay with that. If I was going to take my kids to experience Disneyland, I really wanted them to be able to appreciate it.
The Saturday before my impulsive decision, we had taken the kids to run errands that included shopping for some house and yard things. Between the four stops we made, I was calculating how we nearly spent the amount needed for tickets. Sure, it was on “necessary” stuff for the house. When you buy a fixer-upper built in 1956, most stuff that you buy is for the damn house. I looked at my seven and five year old boys reading their new books (we don’t completely deprive the poor things) and then I looked at my one-year-old, and I was completely overcome by the knowledge that it was just yesterday that my mature, responsible, caring seven-year-old boy had been a bubbly toddler.
And if I waited until there were no more house projects left to complete, then that seven-year-old boy would turn into a young man, who may still appreciate the fun of Disneyland, but would not ever be able to see the park with the magical vision that young children have. That’s why I chose to text my husband on a Tuesday that I wanted to go. And that’s why the following Wednesday—the week before my finals—we were headed down to Anaheim with three clueless children and a minivan full of magical anticipation.
In the nights leading to our trip, my husband and I would talk about details after the kids were asleep. “They better appreciate this,” my husband chuckled after booking the tickets. I agreed, but after seven years and three kids-worth of experience, I know not to put grown-up expectations on little people.
You can’t expect a little brain to fathom the significance of trading a bathroom renovation budget for a few days of irreplaceable memories. We also agreed that we would have to be patient and understanding: we were cramming a full two days of Disney theme parks into the middle of a busy time for us. There would be sleep-deprivation, too much sugar, too much stimulation, and not enough down time.
I was sure there would be squeals of delight when they discovered where we had taken them. I was also sure there would be some emotional meltdowns sprinkled throughout the two days. But I was wrong. First, it’s hard for kids to be squeals-of-joy excited for a place they have never been. My seven year old showed some sign of acknowledgement when he opened his goody bag to discover Mickey Mouse attire in the early morning hours before the others were awake.
My five-year-old was legitimately more excited that he had his very own pack of watermelon gum in his bag. And the meltdowns? Almost non-existent. We ran on caffeine, sugar, and what I can only assume is pure Disneyland magic. We waited in lines over and over; we barely stopped to sit down and eat ever. There were moments when my clearly exhausted five-year-old would inquire why we had to wait in lines again with only minor irritation. There was one crying episode from the seven-year-old as we were leaving to go home, but that was due more to an accidental head-on collision from a game of chase with his brother.
Even my one-year-old was blissfully cooperative. The girl who rarely let my in-laws hold her and who basically made date nights extinct thanks to her refusal to peacefully leave my side, spent many happy hours with my mother and father-in-law over the span of the trip. She napped solidly in her stroller despite the noise and activity swirling around her and was in awe of the rides she could go on.
The carousel in Fantasyland elicited squeals of joy from her and my heart just melted all the way down to my feet (had a Disney employee approached at that moment and asked me to sell my home in exchange for annual passes, I would currently be sitting under a bridge typing on my laptop). Burned forever in my memory is the image of looking back at my two boys riding with their grandpa on Thunder Mountain for the first time. They had those smiles plastered on their faces, you know the kind that you can’t control, that emanate from your soul and just take over your entire being? Those smiles.
I would give up “stuff” for the rest of my life to see those smiles over and over again. I would trade an old, outdated bathroom for those smiles any day. And that smile wasn’t just on their faces: it was on mine, and my husband’s, and my father and mother-in-law’s face, and even my little girl’s face at different moments during our trip. That place is so adept at making you feel the unadulterated joy of childhood.
Though I know that annual Disney passes may not ever be (nor need to be) part of our lives, I know that there may come another random weekday when I feel the overwhelming sensation to (somewhat responsibly) play hookie, set aside all of the everyday necessities, and celebrate the magic of being a child again.