New favorite thing: pick it before dinner.

My mom came over with my nephews.

Straight to work.

No talking.

No horseplay.  Okra doesn’t fry itself, you know.

 

So we went to Disney World.

I didn’t post about it because, well, the Hamburglar.

But now that we’re back, I have some thoughts. I had intended to write a post about the landscaping at Disney which a couple of friends had told me would be awesome…and it was…but I mostly glanced at it over the shoulder of whichever bitty had been pulled aside for a talking to. Not a single pic of landscaping. Not. A. One.

David and I are very specific fans of a very specific place in Mexico where children are as welcome as hurricanes. Our concept of vacation does not include 20k daily steps on the pedometer. But as the bitties are into all the princess, we thought it was time to go somewhere slightly more magical for a slightly younger crowd.

You see, Disney was very magical. And also very not. David and I spent a heck of a lot of time parenting our way through it.

Instagram is great, and I love to see pics of people having fun with their friends and family, but if you look at my personal Instagram from the trip, you get the idea that we had a super time. And we did…the last half of the trip. And that’s the thing about Instagram {or Facebook, for that matter} that needs to be expounded upon. Because people can get very wrong ideas and allow lies to creep in. Lies that say things like “look at that perfect family. You’ll never be like that.” “What a great vacation. Too bad you guys fight your way through your vacations every time.” “Your sweet potato casserole will never be as good as theirs on Thanksgiving.” {Um, sorry, that last one…not a lie. We actually do have the best sweet potato casserole. Sorry not sorry.}

But I digress…

We went to Disney World. And my sin came out. Big time.

My intentions were good. I wanted to connect with my family. And my dream looked a heck of a lot like the commercial: grinning mom pulls daughter close while walking toward fireworks carrying double mouse balloon. {How do they get the mouse inside the normal balloon anyway?? That’s some dadgum Disney magic right there.} The problem was that nobody told bitty E that she was supposed to play the role of accepting and grateful daughter. Truth is, she was just mean. Not all the time, but enough to make us question what the heck we were doing there.

The little cherry on the top of the meanness was that everywhere you go, the cast members are referring to your daughters as princesses. If you find yourself lacking nominative creativity today I’ve got some suggestions for you, and princess will not be found on that list…entitled rascal? Yes. Princess, no.

But, once again, it wasn’t about them. They’re little. Bitty, if we want to get technical. It was about me and my response. Which wasn’t exactly mouseke-awesome. And here’s the deal: I was made for heaven. Not some pie in the sky, angels strumming harps kind of place…but a real, physical place where everything really is right. Perfect, if we want to get technical. And when “the most magical place on earth” doesn’t live up to my expectations and doesn’t fill my empties, it’s just a reminder that I wasn’t made for here. This is not my home. And I can plan and pack and prepare for the matching shirts, only to have it all fail me in the end because that’s what it’s made to do.

The Mouse doesn’t hold up to eternity.

I could get mighty comfortable around here. And Someone I Know has a tendency to get a little jealous. How kind that He won’t allow me to get too comfortable. He has to allow bitty E to put her mouth on every handrail between here and Tommorowland. And let’s just put it this way: mama’s germophobia flares up at the ball bounce.

Our friends were there the same time as us with their three year old daughter. My friend Catherine, the mom, is kind and levelheaded, gentle and self-controlled. The text message she sent me on the first day cannot be published on this family friendly blog.

I promise I’m getting to my point. If you go to Disney and you look around: everyone’s parenting. There are fitful kids and end-of-their-rope parents and there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And yet somehow none of this makes it to Instagram. Which is all well and good and fine until you start to compare yourself to someone else’s Instagram, or heaven forbid, expecting your experience to look like their Instagram. When I started watching the parenting happening around me I literally saw a grown woman walking and crying. No joke. #solidarity,lady

Once I repented of trying to get Disney to fill my empties it actually started to get magical. Yes, it could have been that the bitties got used to the routine of the transit/crowds/overwhelm/hotel room, but it’s likely that it was just my attitude getting adjusted that breathed some happy into our family. Snow White tickled bitty G and told her she laughed just like Dopey. Bitty E told me the Gatorade there tasted “just like candy.” {That’s because we weren’t watering it down, but who’s going to own up to that.} Bitty G was on the Peter Pan ride for approximately four seconds before she yelled out “we’re flying!” Bitty E and the girl feeding fish in scuba gear at Epcot flashed each other a hand heart through the aquarium glass.  The location of the Aurora meet and greet provided the most perfect gloaming on all my photos from those moments where bitty E danced with Aurora.

Darn you, The Mouse…just….darn you.

Bitty E got a little stomach virus as soon as we got home. This is not surprising considering that she licked half of Disney World and ran her hand across the other half.

If Disney and I had a relationship status it would be “it’s complicated.” Far more complicated than a few Instagram moments. And this is the last time I try to sum all this discombobulation up: beware the Insta-comparisons. If we are real life friends I will post you a little treat as this post goes live. And I hope you will watch it, shake your head and have a good chuckle. And if you need me, look for me on a Mexico beach recovering from my vacation.