NOTE: This account of our family trip to Disney, January 2012, is going to make a lot more sense when I post the account of our recent ski trip. Stay tuned…

I found myself many of the mornings of our “vacation” rising before daylight to wake, dress, and NOT feed three kids, who had a little trouble finding “the magic” before 7 a.m. (No breakfast included in the “dining” plan.) After fixing a nice in-room coffee made with what resembled a Cascade power-pod (and yielded coffee tasting just like dish-soap) we would then plow cheerily  through the arguments of why we can’t wear flip flops and tank tops for the 12-hour day ahead, scrounge up a smashed box of mini cheerios to talk William out the door, and beat feet to board a speedy shuttle bus to the park du jour. Often, we would beat the other 19,995 folks coming to see Mickey that day to the front of the turnstile. REALLY! I have photos to prove it. Four mornings out of the six, anyway. Then off we would race: stroller, backpacks, touring guide in hand, electronic tickets in secret pocket ready to zap or insert with lightning precision into the nearest “Fast-Pass” machine, we would bolt through the park to the most popular ride (always a roller coaster.) Why is it ALWAYS the roller coaster, I ask you?

And that is where I would find myself at 8:05 in the morning, suddenly coming awake from caffeine-deprived stupor to find some peppy, overly-washed “cast member” securing the safety bar on my ride which either (a) careened off into inky blackness or (b) shot straight up in the air. That deep panic would set in and I would begin my mantra to myself as I sat beside my ever-willing five-year-old, who would get on anything and cried when I nixed an attraction aptly named the “Tower of Terror” (which apparently has an elevator that drops thirteen stories on purpose)… but back to my mantra, which went like this: “It’s only a ride…. it’s only a ride… it’s only a….riiiiide.” As we ratcheted to the top of one of these awful contraptions, I shouted out to the girls the wisdom I learned in second grade when my Aunt and Uncle took me to the then-largest theme park on the East Coast, Six Flags Over Georgia: “If you close your eyes and scream, it takes away that sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach.”  “Hey mom,” says Soph later in the day, “Thanks for that roller coaster trick. It really worked!” Did I mention I was sitting right behind them so it was MY ears they were screaming in?

I really don’t like roller coasters. They are invariably high off the ground (I don’t like heights), they are sometimes dark (I don’t like dark), and they go very fast (who needs it?). And, to get your money’s worth, of course, they also involve surprises and pitfalls.  You know what? My life is full of surprises and pitfalls. I don’t need to pay money or wait in a line to get them. No, I really don’t like roller coasters. So why, as my first activity of the day, five mornings out of the six I had to submit to that rumbling, ratcheting, jerky climb to the top of some steel and paper-mache mountain, only to go screaming down the other side is beyond me. You know those “magic” photos at the end of the ride? Every one of ours show the rest of my family smiling widely, arms in the air, heads thrown back, Ellie’s hair flying in the wind screaming to beat the band. Then there is always a hunched down form next to them: head down, eyes clamped shut, white knuckles on the safety bar. Yep, there’s Mom. I think it was Thursday, 4^th day in the parks, 6^th time on the “Test Track” (75 miles an hour in a fiberglass “race car” the size of your kitchen table around an elevated outdoor track) that I finally got a photo with my eyes open. Space Mountain, that was okay. With that ride, longer line meant more time for rational thought. Analyze the age of this roller coaster: approximately two years older than I am. How wild can it be? Analyze roller coast itself: low headrest, no roll bar, I see only seatbelts. Okay, good sign. Check. Analyze the other riders waiting in line. Okay. I see six year olds. Lots of ‘em. Is that a four year old over there? And they’re all smiling. Okay, good sign. Check. And that’s how I talked myself on to that one.

So at Disney this past week I narrowly escaped a head-on collision with a tractor trailer, near got my head bit off by a life-size Tyrannosaurus Rex, brushed creepily close to a giant anaconda, survived multiple impacts in a barrier test on a car track, and of course, how could I forget, was stalked several times by the legendary Himalayan Yeti himself. (“But mom, the line’s so short…just one more tiiiiime!”) William is still talking about that Yeti. I cut myself off that one after four rides (backwards in the dark, at heights rivaling its namesake, Mt. Everest), so William went alone with Ellie. Then I became like a little Himalayan troll woman myself, scurrying back and forth from the entrance line to the exit booth to the viewing station, staring up those “mountains” and finding out quite helplessly that to be off the ride while your prides and mostly joys are on the rides is even more terrifying. Did she get his roll bar down? Could he fall through it? Could he? Is he frightened? Is that their car waaaay up there, what—three miles away? Is that theirs? What about that one—is that middle car beginning to derail?

Sophie and I bailed on only one ride. We were waiting in line at Epcot to do “Mission: Space,” a very popular ride with two “options”: the green version, billed as a highly turbulent rocket-like ride simulating a realistic blast off into space at intense speeds, and the “orange” version which advertised all that wholesome goodness PLUS a spin whose centrifugal force was two and half times the force of gravity. I’m just staring at the guy telling me all this. You have GOT to be kidding me. People pay MONEY for that? But Bill gives me the ol’ “we’re a family” look and so on we go. Everybody agrees: First time green, second time orange. Right. Soph and I are standing together on the docking bay for wimps, listening to the pre-ride precautions and instructions …and I think it was in that early morning, line- following drone that we both rocketed awake on the same phrase: “…enclosed in a small, dark, missile-like chamber.”  I think it was their verb choice: enclosed. Whatever it was, Sophie and I both looked at each other at the exact same moment, shook our heads, oh noooooooo!!, and politely found a space ranger agent person guy to get us discreetly the %$#@!! heck off a that thing!

We all loved flying over the Napa valley (and Death Valley, and a naval aircraft carrier and –was it Paris, I think? all in the same film clip) on the ride called Soarin’ at Epcot. There, my analysis of the ride I was strapped into (which involved leaning out over my knees and staring straight down) did not yield satisfactory results: moving or not moving, optical illusion or no, I really was sitting in a little metal “flight” chair suspended 48 feet off the ground of an oversized gymnasium with a cement floor. But that didn’t stop me from racing off to get a Fast Pass immediately upon our arrival to Epcot the second day after riding it four times the first! In fact, Epcot was our favorite park as a family. We were there Wednesday and Saturday, the day of our departure. Ellie and Sophie signed on for the “Kim-possible Mission” as secret agents to save the world which made the day all the more fun. Outpost agents issued them an electronic “Kim-municator” which they happily shared. Armed with that and Mom’s cell phone they ran all over the park, from Mexico to China to Morocco solving 20-minute missions. These “missions” involved a cartoon “agent” on the miniature screen of their Kim-municator dictating from headquarters the coordinates of their next clue to solve mysteries. As they day wore on I realized my children were basically connected to me by a $20 cell phone of dubious service, so I would frequently call them on Bill’s cell and give them a plan B: If separated, go to France. I repeat: If separated go to France. Meanwhile we’re in a park with–what, 8,000 other folks? The coolest thing about the little gismo gadget was it could manipulate the fountains and other scenery: a cuckoo clock in Norway, a model train in Germany, and in China they made a green monkey statue emerge from a lily pond. That was pretty cool. When I cleared off the messages on my cell phone today it was really sweet and fun to hear Ellie’s messages calling to check in from Morocco, Canada, and then France where she and Sophie got to see a very funny skit called the Le Serveur Amusant. Bill and I were stuck in Great Britain listening to an a cappella group perform patriotic songs and ballads. We loved the shows and performances that set Disney apart from all those other trashy theme parks we have attended over the years (not!)

Mostly we traveled well. Our wake-up calls got earlier and, in my opinion, a little edgier as the week wore on: first the friendly Louisiana lady fresh from the bayou inviting us awake with her sing-songy voice, then a couple of mornings with a computer-generated phone ring and nothing else, then the last two mornings some incredibly ramped up Donald Duck or Mickey blasting us out of bed with some ruckus about a steamboat. Then it was gear up and hustle our way through the palm lined trails of our Port Orleans resort to the shuttle bus. One night, coming home late to the North Bus Depot, someone had painted in water a huge cartoon Mickey with the words “welcome home” on the side walk.  Very clever, and one of the many details that made the week so special. Our bath towels…rolled in the shape of a Mickey head…a gold coin with Mickey on it, given to William in Germany. Our little Mickey soaps, one for bath and one slightly smaller for face, sweetly stamped with little Mickey heads, so carefully pilfered by me each morning (hide the soap in use, so you have it for the week, then they bring you new ones each day) and stowed in my suitcase for souvenirs for our friends… so lovingly pitched by the TSA going through Orlando International. Cleaned out.  Completely. When I got home the stash was gone.

We got to rub elbows (or paws) with many of the Disney line-up: All of the Pooh entourage came through the Crystal palace while Bill and I gorged ourselves on VERY over cooked shrimp and some delicious coffee mouse in little crystal cups that made William gag.  He thought the buffets were just about the grandest invention since gum. For the same reason, I thought they were a night mare. He would head for the buffet with everyone else, find one or two things of his pleasing and then ceremoniously carry back to his seat, eat it, or bite it, deposit the rest on my plate and then head out for more. A meal, involving licenced multiple trips to and from the table? Wow—now THAT’S a vacation! I was torn between wanting to be the attentive mom enjoying a stroll down buffet lane to encourage my eager and invested young’un to sample the many offerings and thereby enlarge his pallet; or chewing off my right arm I was so hungry after 11 hours on my feet. So that is why William solo got into the espresso mousse. At Chef Mickey’s we meeted and greeted the Mickey/Minnie crowd while William, after six trips to the buffet, happily consumed 4 sticky buns, half a bacon strip and maybe a grape. A good deal at $22.50 per child, wouldn’t you say?  I mean after all, we “paid” $186.50 at the Akerhaus and another $175 in Germany. I had heard that food was more expensive in Europe!

We had another buffet fiasco—er, feast—in Norway where not one but five of the lovely Princesses Disney were in smiling attendance. We were all struck by their obviously practiced ability to recreate the gestures and voices of the “real” princesses. Snow White in particular behaved as though she had momentarily stepped out of a hand-drawn cartoon. Now, it was at the very crowded and in-demand Akershus we committed the almost unmentionable gaffe of asking the maitre d’ if we might be seated to EAT rather than wait in another LINE (another 30 or 40 minutes after waiting on our “reservation” for 20) to have a photo with Belle. “Ju vhat?” says she in halting English and leiderhosen.  Another explanation from me. All the mommies and daddies and the two-dozen Cinderella look-alikes in line turn around to see William in an ice-cream coated T shirt and the rest of us hungry buffoons… and then tastefully step aside to let us know-nothings pass. I will say, having regretted my decision to bypass the Beauty (“Mom,” says Ellie over the Salmon with capers and dill sauce, “did you know Belle is my favorite?”), I was very grateful when Sylvia, aka Miss Norway, on our way out an hour later graciously let Ellie and Sophie—and brother wearing coat of many flavors—slip in, sans ball gowns and have a lovely and special photo taken that I will always treasure.

As I will treasure much of our weary but wonderful week. Above all, I can’t believe we pulled it off. It was poignant, to have the girls so far “out” of the princess mode (when did that happen? Wasn’t it only yesterday that they were traipsing about the house in yellow satin ball gowns and bent tiaras?) and William so out of the Disney world entirely. We even had “Disney remediation” the whole week before the flight. I let the kids watch movies in the car all week and at night since we discovered—to our horror—that there were several “biggies” William and even the girls had never seen. The Little Mermaid? How did we miss that?? Shame on us! For William, it was all about that Yeti.

Bill and Ellie’s favorite Park was Hollywood studios. We ate lunch at a funny diner called the Fifties Café where they took our reservation and then showed us where to wait until “Mom” called us to the table. When we were called, “Uncle Bart,” our gum-chewing waiter, asked us if we had washed our hands and put a stack of plates and flatware on our table, telling us he’d need it set by the time he came back. Comfort food and lots of maternal pestering about elbows on the table and did we eat all our veggies. That sort of thing. Cute. Most impressive on our Hollywood day were the stunt shows: the Stunt Spectacular in a stadium with four or five little minis racing around on souped-up engines leaping backward off bridges, flaming mock buildings and the like. Then it was on to the good old 80s’ standby: Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. That was brand new when I was there 30 years ago! This time through the eyes of a 5, 9, and 11 year old who have no clue about what The Raiders saga was all about, it was a bit comical. The kids couldn’t figure out what they were supposed to be watching: the fast-paced action, the expose on some pretty impressive stunts or all the humorous digs at the movie. William just liked the giant Styrofoam boulder that almost crushed poor Indy.

All of this fast-paced action, however, could not have prepared us for the last chapter of our Disney Vacation: being that part in the story where Bill, having risen at 7 checked out at 8 been at Epcot since 9 left Epcot at 4 boarded the Magic Express at 6 been at the airport an hour and a half for a 9 p.m. flight makes his way to the men’s room and comes back to announce he will not be taking this flight; his wallet is in the safe in the Hotel Room. Taaa DAH!   We have 30 minutes to produce an ID, solve the great wallet caper (the sequel, mind you, as there are quite a few travel stories involving Bill’s wallet), and get through that security line over there which is filling with travelers even now as we sit here hastily packing up our backpacks, tossing our dinner trash and basically putting a nice hot panic to boil. I have decided that nuclear meltdown of the inner core might be in order. Bill is now cell phone man, man with a crisis, Ellie and Sophie are dutifully picking up our area and William is—where’s William? Oh good–there he is, scaling the airport planters stationed about 20 yards away shooting off his Buzz Light year radar gun. Awesome.

Then I realize: I can do this thing. I have made connecting flights in Denver, in Chicago, in many a city with one toddler on my shoulders and one being pulled along behind me like a rolley suitcase with one wheel busted (never put the potty-training one on your head. I did that in Chicago O’Hare. Very BIG airport there. Good thing we missed that particular flight—elevator out of service—so had a nice fat four-hour layover to clean up the mess). I can do this thing. I am four people, nine bags, and one stroller (we were too cheap to check luggage, so here it all is—our friends until the bitter end). Indiana Burk is on his way back to baggage claim where some incredibly willing employee of the Port Orleans Resort Hotel has let himself into our former room (now occupied by the lovely Smith family, no doubt, who are a wee bit surprised to be barged in on by hotel employees making a beeline for their safe and is now driving a van with Bill’s wallet to the Magic Express entrance to the airport.)

Me and my three, we get those nine bags, plus all our belts, shoes, keys, watches and one Buzz Lightyear taser gun through security down to the gate. This must be when all my Mickey soaps disappeared. Honestly, just getting through the security line alone should win me an Oscar. William’s removed half his clothing before I can stop him and the ^%$#@! laptop is not wanting to nestle back in its case. I picture Bill, hurtling through the airport somewhere (Orlando has the two-building dealio, where you take a shuttle from the main terminal to the gate. Makes the blood pump faster you know, travelling on the edge like that. Done it many a time myself, back in the day. But airports with DOUBLE terminals, like Dulles, and this one at Orlando really take all the fun out of it in that they throw heart failure on the table as an option.) Now we wait through all the choice levels of boarding with our eyes on the hallway which disappears in the direction we last saw dad. Where’s that “we’re a family” look now? Finally we are the last ones in the boarding area. Last call. Friendly Airtran lady looks back at me and gives me that “this is it” nod I asked for earlier, and on we go. I defy FAA regulations and keep on my trusty $20 cell phone thinking, this is my only connection to the very slim possibility that my husband is going to make this flight. Boy, could I use a Kim-unicator now! Mr. Can-I-get-that-for-you-why-is there-a-bag-of-GROCERIES-in-your-overhead-bin??-flight-steward says six minutes to go till they seal the doors. Okay. Six big ones. That’s plenty of time. Ellie and Sophie are buckling themselves in across the aisle with one very obviously vacant seat between us, the only one on the plane. William, now in his fourteenth hour of being awake, is raising and lowering the window shade, bumping the seat in front of him and pretending his seatbelt can’t buckle. A real smoother, that one. Then…could it be? Miracle of miracles, MY PHONE RINGS. It’s Bill I can barely understand (it’s the roar of jet engines turning on, NOT my crummy service) he’s on his way, he’s on the shuttle which way do I turn which way out of the shuttle what gate? “Gate 108!” “QUICK!” “Okay!” I’m yelling at Mr. Very Surprised Flight Steward, “He’s on the shuttle he’s on the shuttle he’s coming! Mr. Friendly Steward dude (along with half a dozen other passengers) checks his watch. Three minutes to go. I silence all calls. Don’t want to call Bill back so as to add a single second to his full-on sprint. Then, WHOOSH!  into the plane swoops (I swear it could have been by tropical vine) the freshly-walleted Bill and collapses in his seat. Nobody even claps. A few raised eyebrows and a few turned heads…that’s  it . Back to their Skymall catalogs. Must be a sale on self-cleaning litter boxes. I stave off nervous breakdown, wrench William’s seat belt onto his $%#@!! little bod, lay my head back on the rollbar of life, stifle a scream and begin my little mantra, “it’s only a ride…it’s only a ride… it’s only a ride…..”

And that is my answer to the question, “How was Disney?”!