Last week we made the arduous trip to what we now refer to as The Belly of the Beast. Other people call it Disneyland, but they are misguided.
One day when I called it by that name, both children started marching around the kitchen island chanting, “We’re going the The Belly of the Beast! The Belly of the Beast! The Belly of the Beast! The Belly of the Beast!”
It was one of my proudest moments as their mother. If I can teach them even a fraction of my cynicism about all things Disney, I will feel like I have been a successful parent.
Off we went to be tortured by the corporate overlord, Mickey.
This involves packing two completely wild children and all their needs and about half of their belongings into the car, driving to Anaheim, parking the car in some far flung locale, riding the tram to the park (with the giant ass stroller), getting through the crackerjack security checkpoint, squeezing the huge stroller through the turnstile/gate at the entrance until finally, at long last, arriving inside the actual park.
This entire process door-to-door can (and has) taken up to 2.5 hours. By the time we get there, I am exhausted, sweating and ready to kill anyone that crosses my path.
Family fun at its absolute finest.
Luckily, our children are not particularly entertained by rides and attractions. They are only really interested in toys available for purchase and this construction barrier.
Yup, they fancy themselves superheros/villians/spies. They spent a significant time creeping around, backs flush against the wall, sneaking up on some imaginary something that only they can see.
Wait! Famous Baby C spots someone she recognizes!
She is thunderstruck.
And suddenly, he appears.
Whatever happened to “Don’t talk to strangers?”
Yeah, I guess you don’t have to be afraid of a guy named Goofy.
And Grand Master H, ever the cautious one, arrives to greet Goofy.