As you’re sitting in your office/cubicle right now, I am in Orlando, Florida — traipsing around Disney World trying to find Ariel in her stupid Grotto. What the hell is a Grotto, anyway? I had to google that shit so when I actually arrived on the “Disney Campus,” I sounded like I knew what I was talking about when I asked where to find that red-headed bimbo. I actually Wikipedia’d that shit so a bunch of wanna-be actors in costumes with over-sized craniums wouldn’t think that I  was an idiot. So sad.

I have a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter that is Princess obsessed. Forget that, she has taken the love of Disney Princesses to a new level. I’ve never personally seen anything like it. She knows everything there is to know about these mythical women — their maiden names, pre-Princess names, favorite speaking forest creatures names, their Prince’s names, the whores they were with before they fell in love with the real Princesses — I mean, it’s borderline unnatural. But it’s cool. It’s her thing. I don’t get it. But I totally support it. Hence the Disney Trip in early March — where the high temp these days is about 60 degrees at high noon, if you’re lucky.

While packing for this trip, I didn’t even go near my summer clothes. That’s just depressing. It’s fucking Florida! At least give me some sun and heat. Walking around Disney wearing a jacket? That’s just bullshit. My mother-in-law is already there — they drove up from Boca to meet us for the weekend and she called a few hours ago and asked me to bring her a scarf. A SCARF! IN FLORIDA! IN MARCH!

Oh hell no.

This is just mean.

So yeah — so much for that hour or so of laying out by the Pirate Themed pool pretending to at least have a miniscule amount of vacation time on this trip. Because there is indeed a difference. A vacation does not involve children. No, no — that’s a trip.

Make no mistake. A vacation involves no children, an all-inclusive resort on an island with endless barrels of frozen drinks, sunburns, aloe, blue and white stripped towels, pool-side lunches, spa treatments and maybe if you’re feeling a little adventurous, a swim with the dolphins.

But I’m in Disney. I’m on a trip. We have a mission — there’s Princess Breakfasts, Ariel in her Grotto, Mickey and Minnie photos, cotton candy, It’s a Small World, the daily (although they act as though it doesn’t happen every night) parade and fireworks and at the end of the night… the inevitable tummy-ache from sugar overdose.

I accept that this is part of my life and a huge deal to my daughter. I encourage her to be excited and to be a good girl so when she meets all of the “real” princesses they see what a grown-up and well behaved little girl she is. On the surface and maybe even a few layers below, I tell her how excited I am for this trip and how amazing it’s going to be… for her. This is her equivalent of utopia. And I am all for that. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she steps inside Magic Kingdom and sees all of the characters and Princesses in the flesh. I know I will enjoy that moment and that my heart will swell when I see her eyes widen and her mouth drop open. It will be a great moment.

And then… when that moment subsides and the whining, the hunger, the potty breaks, the complaining and the crying inevitably ensues… I will remember that I am on a trip. A trip for my daughter. And that’s OK.

But if one more person tells me to enjoy my vacation, I’m going to stab them in the face with a plastic fork.

Going Parental appears every Thursday. Ariel appears in her Grotto whenever the hell she feels like it, because, apparently, it feels good to fuck with the hearts and fragile little minds of toddlers.

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Tags: family & parenting, going parental, travel & foreign lands // 8 Comments »