My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 3

So we are nearly done with the Disney thing, as I know you're all repeatedly bashing your head against your desk/laptop/toddler.

During the Wishes fireworks deal in Magic Kingdom at night, they project huge pictures on the castle during the show. OD and The Son had a picture as large as 2/3 of the side of the castle, but I didn't get the shot because I was on acid.

 
(WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A RANDOM TANGENT. The Son got an Iron Gym recently, and he just did a bunch of pull-ups on it, and then sauntered through the dining room where I am typing and said, "That's the most I've even been able to do. Puberty's hitting me like a freight train" and walked out of the room.  REMINDER - never mention the blog or anything in it in front of my kids if you know me - this happened recently and YD nearly gutted me like a fish.)

Getting ready to see Belle at dinner, after OD did her hair and makeup.

Ariel, the nicest princess of them all - the other princesses at Norway dinner were kind of bitchy. I know, standing and smiling for pictures will suck the sweet right out of you, but at $35 for a plate of the worst beef tips ever just to meet a princess, a little nice will go a long way. YD didn't notice - they were all wonderful in her estimation, so I guess it was worth $140 of bad beef tips.  (No.  Not really.)

Safari Daddy and Little Belle on the way to dinner  - Rock Star Moment.  Everyone walking by would say, "Well hello Princess!"  Hello, ego booster.

CH and I, a couple of cold Blue Moons in our hands, safari hat is off, and some of the best seats in the house for the Fantasmic show (thank you, Tour Guide Mike!).  This was our last night at Disney, and I'm a little verklempt thinking about it now.  So relaxing.  So warm.  So Not-Going-To-Work.  *sigh* On second glance, we both look a little high in this picture.  Which we are not.  Drugs are highly discouraged at Disney.


So now we come to the Low Point of our trip.  Leaving.  We got up at about 6:30 a.m. and took a cab to the airport.  Our cab driver texted and made calls while he was driving, drove about 80 mph, and by the time we got to the airport, YD was carsick.  We walked in the airport, and ran to the bathroom, and she threw up.  We gave her some Dramamine, which we planned on giving her for the plane ride because she gets a freaked out about that, and she threw that up.  And then another.  And then started telling me how now that she was throwing up, she just knew that it wouldn't stop and that it was going to happen on the plane and that the plane was going to be really bad and that she was sick and she just didn't think it was going to work out.  We left the bathroom and she threw up in a brown paper sack I had, we made our way back into the bathroom, and I am holding said bag in one hand and holding her hair back in the other, when I notice the brown bag is leaking on her back.  Oh Dear God.


I start freaking out because I can see that she is working herself up into a panic.  We MUST board this plane.  I am using my soothing voice, telling her how it's all going to be fine, and the Dramamine will kick in soon and she will feel so much better.  She tells me she is NOT going to be fine, and she is sick now and the plane is going to be awful and then she throws up again to let me know she is not screwing around.  I start persuading her that if she has a little bit of Sprite or ginger ale on the plane her stomach will settle down and she'll be okay!  I will buy her:  gum, a teen magazine with Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber in it, a stuffed animal, a pony, Justin Bieber, but we have to get on THIS PLANE! 


They are boarding our flight.  YD will not leave the bathroom.  She has dug in at stall #4.  She will not leave because she will not throw up on the plane.  I use the happy voice, I coax her out of the stall, I tell her it's in her head now, that she's got herself so worked up she is making herself sick.  We are in line to board, and she says, "Oh yeah, well I am going to throw up now" and grabs the (new) brown bag out of my hand.  She throws up.  I am a terrible mother, because I no longer feel bad for her, I'm just exhausted.  I say - really, I say this, and I'm not proud of it - "Go ahead.  Keep throwing up. Maybe if we're lucky you'll poop your pants, too."  She looks up at me.  I stare back at her.  We are both out of ammo.  We clean up and get on the plane. 

It's important to note that at this point, there is a woman on the other side of the planter at which we are parked and having our vomit discussion.  I know she hears the poop comment. A few moments later, I see her slowly turn her head, as in, "Oh my God, I HAVE to see the bitch who made the poop comment, but I don't want to draw her attention." 

YD gets an airsickness bag, I get a Bloody Mary.  She is asleep before takeoff, and I'm shaking with my new case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Curse you, texting cabbie!  We arrived at home in the Quad Cities without incident, and were greeted with great joy.

  And thus concludes My Affair With Walt Disney.  I love you Walt.  I'll be back.

George the Superpet misses me when I'm gone. Although he had fun at the neighbors with their two labs and small, spunky daughter.