My 3 year old, Molly, has a baby doll that she loves. Baby Rose goes everywhere with us, including WalMart. Because I was in a hurry, I threw Molly and Abby in the back part of the cart and told them to sit tight while I grabbed the things I needed. Molly was worried that Baby Rose would fall out of the cart, so she put her in the seat in the front part and buckled her in. I'm walking through the store getting some strange looks about the baby doll in my cart (not to mention feeling more than a little FlowersChild-ish), but that was okay - I'm used to buckling the doll in when I go to the store. Things went well until I was standing in line waiting to pay.
Molly started to scold the baby. "Baby, don't say that. Baby Rose, you stop crying. If you scream again I'm going to make you stand in the corner. YOU BETTER BE QUIET!"
Baby Rose is a bad, bad dolly. I guess she was still bugging Molly, because the next thing I know, out of nowhere, *SMACK* right in the baby's head. "I told you to be quiet!"
The old lady in the next line didn't even try to hide her gasp. I assume her vision must have been compromised, and perhaps she thought it was a real baby, because she immediately turned to the other woman with her and started to do that old-lady whisper that can be heard across the room, insisting that I was the worst mother ever and shouldn't even have children.
I asked Molly, "Why did you do that?"
"She was being bad."
"But why did you hit her?"
"She wouldn't stop crying, so I smacked her upside her head."
"But Molly, WHY did you feel like you needed to HIT her?"
At this point she looked at me like I was a complete moron, rolled her eyes, and said, "Do you see a corner anywhere?"
She is so much like me that it frightens me sometimes. Well, except for the whole "beat the infant in the head" thing.
Finally There
We picked up Bryan from school and headed straight to WDW. I pull up to a stoplight on the highway, and Bryan unbuckles his seatbelt. "What are you doing? Buckle your seatbelt!"
"I'm changing clothes, hang on."
Changing clothes? Yes, changing clothes. My son is unbuckling his pants and yanking them down in the middle of a swarm of traffic. Thank the good Lord that he was wearing shorts underneath. I look over to the car to our right and see the lady in the passenger seat frantically beating her husband on the arm and pointing at our car. At that exact moment, Bryan pulls his sweatshirt off and takes his t-shirt with it. I can see the lady's mouth open, and it's obvious she's saying "Oh my GOD." It's okay, lady... I was thinking the same thing.
After we arrive at the park, we park and get on the tram. Somewhere between the school and the parking lot, the perfect ponytails that I put in my daughters' hair has been replaced by a twin set of rats nests. I thanked my son for insisting on riding with his window down in the car, and pointed out their hair to him. The woman in the seat in front of us was turned sideways taking in the entire scene, and said, "Oh, daddies and little girls' hair just don't mix, do they?"
It took me a minute to realize what she meant. My 13 year old son is almost 5'11", and can easily pass for 16 or 17, but my husband? I think not. Before I could comment, Bryan did. He looked at me and said, "Honey, I'm so sorry. Are you going to make me sleep on the couch again tonight? It's really starting to make my back hurt."
Smartass.
So we get on the monorail, and head to the MK. The monorail is FULL of high school kids wearing "Senior Trip" t-shirts. It's clear by their conversation that most of them have never been to Disney. A few hundred feet from the unloading area, the monorail comes to a dead stop. The kids in the blue t-shirts start flipping out. "Ohmigodwhatifitsonfireandwhatifitfallsoffthetracksohnowhatarewegoingtodo!?!"
I calmly look at Bryan and say, "Okay, remember the drill? When the doors open, I will throw myself to the ground first. You toss the girls out one at a time right on top of me, then you throw yourself onto my broken body, and I will break your fall. We have to move fast before the monorail explodes. Don't worry about crushing me, just take care of your sisters and get them as far from the fire as possible."
Panic ensued. I was proud of myself, but Bryan was quite embarrassed. He would pay me back throughout the day.
Moving Along
We made our way safely off the monorail (without any broken bones! YAY!) and went to the ticket gate. I handed over our pass and waited to be waved through. He scanned it, it beeped, and I sent Molly through the turnstile first. BIG mistake, because he couldn't seem to get it to scan again. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Hmmmmm. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Okkaayyyyy. I patiently waited while he tried over and over to scan my driver's license (when it was his own ID that needed to be entered), keeping a close eye on Molly, who was standing quietly on the other side of the turnstile. All of a sudden, I hear Bryan suck in his breath. "OH NO! You let Molly through first? She's ALONE over there? Molly, don't run away!!!!!"
It was like slow motion, seeing the look on her face when she heard him and realized she was alone, and watching her turn to run. "NOOOOOO MOOOOLLLLYYYYYYYYY!" Oh, she ran. She ran fast and hard, in a big giant circle. My daughter runs in circles, and she has a special song that she sings while she does it. "Running in circles, running in circles, Molly likes to be running in circles."
Yes, she sang. I got a few sympathetic looks from the other people waiting, until my sweetheart of a son says, "What a freakin' brat." We battle daily over his use of the word freakin', so he has stopped using it at home and now only uses it in the company of elderly people, small children and my in-laws. Thank goodness the ticket taker guy figured out the pass and let us through. Who knows, maybe he faked it just to get us out of his line.
I get a stroller and strap the girls down, and head down Main Street. There are people everywhere waiting for the parade, so we book it to Adventureland. There was no wait for Jungle Cruise, so we get on. About the time we're oohing and aahing over the giant butterflies, a noxious odor attacks. I try to be discreet in checking Abby's pants, assuming the fumes are coming from her. Nope, diaper check is A-OK. I shrugged it off and took a picture of the "back side of water." In the middle of the dark tunnel, it hits again, this time with sound effects. There is giggling, then moaning. As we come out of tunnel, back into the shining light of daytime, Molly says, "Mommy, did you FART?"
Oh. My. God.
It did not come from me. I lean over to Bryan and ask, "What did you have for lunch?"
"Burritos."
Super. The day continued on with bursts of gas at the most innapropriate of times. Every time, Molly asked if it was me. The child doesn't understand "inside voices," and I'm not sure Bryan wasn't bribing her to say it with gummi worms.
Sitting in the front row of the boat on POTC? Check.
Waiting to board Winnie the Pooh? Check.
Standing smack in the middle of the playground area outside of Splash Mountain? Check. In fact, that one sent a dozen toddlers running for their mommies, who proceeded to do diaper checks on each and every one of them in an effort to find the source of the smell.
There was a point that we actually did have a code brown situation, and I blamed it on the fart-bag.
Note to self: Monitor the food choices of my children before my next public outing.
The end of a very long six hours
My husband came over to the park to meet up with us after he got off work. In most families that would seem like a good thing. In my family, not so much. The thing is... my daughters behave differently when daddy is around. I don't mean in a "wait until your father gets home" kind of way, I mean in more of a "farts are funny" kind of way. It's okay, though. At this point, it really takes a lot of get under my skin.
So we wander over toward Splash Mountain, where my husband is getting off the train. Molly wants to ride it for the first time, so I send her off with Daddy and Bryan while I hang out with Abby at the little playground. Molly loved it, but was more interested in playing, so I went to ride it with Bryan. Before I walked away, I said to my husband, "Watch my bag. I mean reallllly watch it. Some jackass was eyeballing it earlier."
"Sure thing, honey."
Right. So I get on the ride and realize Bryan keeps laughing. You know the laugh... that muffled little chuckle you hear when someone knows something you don't? Yeah, that kind of laugh. So we're toodling along through the ride, enjoying the breeze and the sound of rushing water, having a super time. We get to the part where you go around the front outside, in a loop around the drop. I love that part, the thrill of wondering whether the log coming down will hit at the wrong moment and splash you (which of course, it never does due to impeccable Disney timing). At this point in the ride, Bryan is flat out giggling. Just as I turned to him with the intent of pinching him until he told me what was so funny, I found out on my own. Apparently someone thought it would be a good idea to adjust the timing ever so slightly. I was drenched. When I say drenched, I mean that I didn't get that wet in the shower that morning. Funny, Bryan. Really funny.
I got off the ride and head over to find my husband and kids. I noticed while I was walking that my bag was not sitting where I left it. Through chattering teeth, I asked my husband where it was.
"I don't know."
Huh? I'm very wet, very cold and very angry. I remind him (in my outside voice) that someone was trying to steal it and the camera was in there and
Oh, hell no. Light blue shirt + Splash Mountain = WDW wet t-shirt contest. Wooohoooo! I look at my husband. "Give me your shirt."
"Why?"
"You can see through mine. Give it to me."
"What am I supposed to wear?"
"I don't care. Give me your shirt."
By the time we got done arguing about how he would look in a baby blue scoopneck fitted t-shirt, it was nearly dry, so we decided to get some dinner. DH wanted to eat at Pecos Bills, so we headed over. We took a patio table and got our food. I fixed the girl's plates and started munching on my salad while DH and Bryan headed to the condiment bar to fix up their burgers. We ate quietly, enjoying the weather. The guys finished their burgers, picked up their little paper bowl things full of fries, and walked away. I assumed they were going for ketchup. When they came back and sat down, Bryan said to my husband, "Did you grab me a fork, too?"
A fork? For fries and ketchup? "What's in the bowls, guys?"
"Nothing."
"No, really?"
"Just fries."
Yeah, fries alright. Fries swimming in cheese sauce. I mean swimming. Oh. My. God.
I couldn't keep the hiss out of my voice when I said, "Do you know what the people on the DIS would say about this?"
I can't even describe the laughter that followed that statement. Hysterical almost covers it. They were pretty proud of themselves for "sticking it to the man."
I'm in the middle of lecturing them about proper condiment bar usage when I hear a soft voice to my left. "Mom. (pause) Mom. (pause) MOM." Molly is gently tugging on my arm, while I'm waving her away. I'm not done lecturing yet. "Mom, I have to poop. MOM. MOOOOOOOOMMMMMM."
I look over at her, wondering if the cheese soup is the last humiliating thing I'll have to endure that night. I suppose I didn't respond fast enough to suit Molly, because she felt the need to get my attention one last time. I could do nothing more than sit there stunned after my sweet, angelic little 3 year old yelled loud enough to wake Master Gracey, "MOM, I NEED TO GO PINCH A LOAF! NOW!"
It's time to go home.
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