1/18/15
Dearest Grandma,
A veritable mountain (or at the very least a considerable
hill) of snacks has been arrayed, packaged, and even scheduled for our trip to
Disneyland. Various kindnesses have made the trip possible, mostly in the form
of monetary contributions by A’s father (who is also funding our tickets
thereto).
"A" even measured our children in order to determine in
advance the rides to which they’ll have access, as though to catalogue their
amusement capacity.
My approach to Disneyland is to be that person assigned to
the kiddie rides (though I hope with no one else’s children). When N and
H were babies (in their respective Disneyland-baby eras) I was happy to
enjoy California in February or November, sitting on a park bench and rocking a
little one to sleep in a stroller while the breeze rolled across some overly
charming pond and other more enthused Disneyites hurried busily past in
brightly colored throngs.
It takes little to amuse me, and even less to repulse.
Take the gum-coated walls of rides with lines longer than
that of most public “people processors”: the DMV or the post office at
Christmas; even if by some miracle the devoted custodial crew took an evening
to scrape seeming decades worth of thoroughly masticated synthetic rubber off a
column there’s still the black of similarly encrusted human finger residue
everywhere one can place a hand. It’s a nightmare.
But I digress…
Apart from a recent stomach virus we’re all doing well. N boasts of being “bitten” by a green praying mantis. H still finds her way
into our bed each evening and finds a parent to cling to like an appendage,
even on the occasions we put her back into her own bed (repeatedly).
We’re fine, but who knows what terrors Disneyland may harbor…
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