(A Guest Post by Heather J. Boneparth)
Despite COVID-19 ravaging the state of Florida, Walt Disney World proceeded with its planned reopening last month. Anyone who believes in science knows this was a bad idea, but anyone who understands business knows it wasn’t about that.
There are people willing to visit, which means money to be spent. Tiny smiles to procure behind cloth mouse masks. And as Tokyo Disney suggests, screams to be had, in your heart.
We visited a different place right before this all happened. And although nothing could compel us to return today, given where things stand, I cannot remove that place from my mind. A place where shadow closed in on joy and we took every ounce we could.
Just two nights before our daughter’s first scheduled visit to Walt Disney World in January, she came down with the flu. She is four, going on 14, and we planned this Big Girl Vacation as a hybrid celebration of her birthday, Hanukkah, and becoming a big sister in 2019, a milestone she met with tolerance and decency.
Breaking the news to her as she lay on our couch, she countered only for a moment: “What will The Beast say? We’re supposed to have dinner.”
We both cried a bit as she experienced, for the first time, life being unfair for no reason. Just six months ago, neither one of us had any clue what unfair meant.
In a Herculean feat for a child, she then consoled me, told me to “turn my frown upside down,” and assured me with confidence we’d make it some other time. Over the next five days, as her fever spiked high as 105 degrees, my inertia to rebook us counterbalanced our nerves. Gratitude for her health overtook our disappointment, knowing not only did I get it back on the calendar, but that our daughter, resilient as ever, really deserved this trip.
We left her princess suitcase packed, waiting, in the corner of her bedroom. We talked about our trip nightly. The bus we’d take from the airport; the rides that were just scary enough; the treats we’d eat any time she asked.
But there were two separate conversations: the one with my child and the one in my head. I worried hard about our plans. We’d still be at the tailend of winter, and a snowstorm could ground us. Another illness, for a daycare kid, wouldn’t be unfeasible. And there was a virus circulating around China, the one in my Twitter feed I’d been trying to ignore, even as I watched entire hospitals being built at record speed.
The virus had spread to Italy, Spain, and then, here. West Coast, then East Coast, then a lawyer in New Rochelle, a banker downtown, other cases under investigation. I tried to read only enough to be informed but not dive. To separate data and probability from firsthand horror. But I learned enough to know that no one knew, and whatever efforts being taken here weren’t enough.
I vowed to make Disney happen for us, unwilling to accept another alternative. The adrenaline just kicked in again, a task-based inertia to account for each variable, as we watched the anecdotal nightmares roll in: the stranded cruise ship passengers drifting at sea, tourists locked in hotel rooms, starving and uninformed. The masks, the gloves, the antibacterial hand gel, and wipes. The logistics were daunting, a departure from reality; but also, too close to real to not think them through.
At the airport in Newark, a traveler or two stretched surgical masks down below their chin, but really, no one wore them. The narrative at the time was that masks were useless. The risk was low. Ours were in my luggage stuffed next to the socks, toted along like delicates we’d be too embarrassed to wear. I wondered if others had them stowed, playing it by ear. I wondered if, like me, they wanted to put them on.
The children, I knew, would never keep them on.
I bathed our seats in Wet Wipes, our hands in alcohol before each tiny pretzel. Once in Orlando, I continued my warpath: our seats on the Magical Express, our door knob at the Contemporary; switches and hooks and remote controls. No housekeeping — save your towel, kid. My vigilance knew no bounds, while my daughter knew nothing.
At the Bippity Boppity Boutique, our first stop, she received an extreme makeover by a nice older woman named Ruth dressed like a handmaiden. Full salon chairs lined the room with their own Ruths teasing and pulling soft hair into buns, painting ant-sized finger nails, and dabbing eyeshadow up to their brows. Aerosols commingling in the air with the flashes from waiving parents. A coat of fairy dust under our shoes.
We took her to a gift shop, where she hugged the particles off each stuffed Moana and put them each back. They were cute, she said, but not for her. She only wanted more face paint and makeovers. More sponges across her eyes and cast members breathing in her face. More stress upon her mother, who had worked too hard for this moment to resist.
She’d receive it all this trip, because we taught her how sacrifice breeds rewards. Even when things don’t go as planned, continued grace and hard work will culminate into something good. That lesson felt salient just a few months ago.
The next morning, we walked to the Magic Kingdom, stroller to stroller with the others. Through the security checkpoints, I searched for signs of unease but found none. More Purell, sure, but the Disney energy superseded all germs.
Family herds in custom shirts gathered around Grandma’s wheelchair for photos. Connoisseurs showcased their lanyards stacked with collectible buttons. Mothers licked the melted Dole Whip off their kids’ fingers. We stood with them, shoulder to shoulder in each crowded queue. Each dark corridor and musty theater. Each clap, laugh, and cough.
Parents of young children have an unspoken code, a mutual nod that what we are doing is hard. We are showing up for the kids with our own gripes and concerns pushed to the back of the line. In the weaving wait for attractions, we small talked about naps and character visits, where we are from. This delicate dance would tip-toe towards the virus, only to be chuckled off with a retort: thank goodness we’re here this week, then!
I was baffled that no one cared, and scared by how people did not realize what we were in for. I thought, are we so terrified of disappointing our children, we are willing to unsee truth? Should we ignore the amp-up to worldwide suffering and just force feed our fairy tales?
I always imagined that as my children grew older, I’d want to share, perhaps over-share, life with them. Teach them about things that aren’t fair and try to inspire them to do good. We are privileged, so privileged, to access joy when we want it. Disappointment forces resilience, which builds character.
But lessons seem easy when we imagine these moments in our future. When faced with them in practice, they are just not that simple.
Disappointment has layers. It can be momentary or long lasting, and we may not always be able to tell. We weigh the impact of our “no’s,” in terms of the risks involved and the nuclear fallout. Also, watching your child experience such bliss is a hard memory to shake once you’ve seen it. You want this benchmark for them all of the time; for “everything to just be okay,” like the window signs now all say in our neighborhoods. But you also want them to understand it might not be, and to be grateful for when it is.
A friend of my husband’s had a connection to reschedule our ill-fated dinner with The Beast. We received, for lack of a better term, The Royal Treatment, including a tour through each corner of the castle and our time with the creature himself. Turning to me at our table, my daughter divulged, “Mom, this is a dream.” She had no worries in her mind, and it was the happiest I’d ever felt as a parent.
For the next few days, she gripped every handlebar, met new friends at the pool. Used her sticky fingers at the dessert buffets. I followed behind, in a sensory overload of joy for her and mourning for what was to come, knowing in my heart that we’d spend the next hundred bedtimes reliving those four nights. Each unfettered moment of happiness. Each princess hug.
And now, as the strings begin to loosen, we are forced into choices again. To let our fears run in the background while our children sprint into their schools for the first time in months. I question not just the risk of infection by allowing her to go, but also, the mental toll of continuing to say no.
Those other parents, I realize, may not have been in denial. They might be right here, too, just playing along. Waving with one hand, their wipes in the other.
Come say hello to Heather on Chicken Twitter. She’s not just a great writer, attorney, mom and wife, but an amazing cook too.
Fun fact: we eat roasted chicken every week bc I crush it. pic.twitter.com/q4jx8XfcHH
— H. Joelle Boneparth (@averagejoelle) August 24, 2020