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…