F You Mickey Mouse

IMG_0083There I was waiting to eat breakfast with my family at the Royal Table in the postcardesque Cinderella’s castle. My toddler warmly smiled at a woman dressed elegantly in a light blue ball gown. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a high tight bun and her pink shadowed eyelids had long black lashes dueling as fans making her blue eyes pop. I swear I felt a magically refreshing breeze cool down my face-how Disney! Cinderella just finished ballroom dancing with a forty-five year old man to my husband’s complete horror—how not Disney and poor Cinderelly!

“What a creep,” he whispered to me, as I shushed him.

“Ella” my toddler screeched reaching out to give her favorite Disney princess a hug as the forty-five year old walked away happy as a clam that he got to be prince charming for five minutes.

We were in Disney for my daughter’s second birthday and this was the reaction I was so hoping for. Though my inner feminist wasn’t digging her recent obsession with Disney princesses’ this was what this trip was all about. This moment, like in the Disney commercials where your child is so in awe of her surroundings. Then getting that perfect photo and everything—the expensive price tag, the travel, the exhaustion— becomes worth it.

“What a sweet little mouse you are,” Cinderella mused as she swooped my “little mouse” up into her arms with her white gloves as flashes from a professional camera captured the picture perfect moment. My sweet five-month-old was cooing on in the background like Cinderella’s doting humming birds. HA-wouldn’t this be great…

Instead, this was the scene.

My daughter, terrified of Cinderella, refused to take a picture while my five-month-old was hysterical for her bottle—plugged her—then we looked on at my toddler freaking out as Cinderella tried to make nice with said now rabid mouse toddler. My toddler had a cold/cough coupled with her two-year-old molars coming in, turning her into a complete demon in need of an exorcism five minutes ago since our arrival. My boobs were starting to throb from how full they were. So after the initial chaos when we sat down to order food, it was time for mommy to be milked! I handed off my five-month old to Mimi. I then took my pump to a bathroom stall, pumping on the not so royal or clean floor of the castle bathroom. I worried about my tribe at the table while listening to the soft rhythm of the pump. When I left them the toddler still wasn’t feeling so hot. Ten minutes later and an entire new bottle filled (I have an oversupply problem), I packed up my pump and headed into the castle dining area to meet my family.

I saw my five-month-old with big doe eyes smiling at me, like the sweet happy baby she is.

Then my mom interrupted my delight, “Dan, I think Diana had an explosion.” I grabbed her into my arms and saw mustardy colored poop lining my mother’s zip up sweatshirt and Diana’s pants. Shit.

I carried her back to the bathroom and put her down on the changing table searching my bag for the change of clothes I packed her this morning.

“I swear I put it in here.” I muttered to myself digging through the diaper bag contents: NeatCheeks, wipes, WubbaNub. Not there. My husband decided to re-organize my diaper bag the leading cause of divorce I hear and accidently left it out.

With that realization, I took her pants, wiping them off trying to save them, as I had some choice words for my husband circulating in my head. Then as that was going on, my mom came into the bathroom with my hysterical toddler. I quickly finished changing/dressing the baby and switched with my mom as I took my toddler and gave her motrin. I then escorted my toddler around the room trying to find distractions, “look Viv another princess” to calm her down until the motrin kicked. Let’s just say I didn’t touch the oatmeal I ordered and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of this Mickey filled hell. Oh and this was the first day of our trip.

I mean nothing is ever this perfect Disney, I see right through you. I don’t trust a place that has no insects except butterflies. So here are the top three reasons why after this vacation I want to look Mickey Mouse dead in the face and say “F you, you stupid rodent.”

1). Pumping was more annoying AF than usual.

Okay Disney, I do appreciate that you have Baby Care Centers but it would be helpful if you had more of them. I wasn’t going to go all the way across the park just to pump. Hello, waste of time. So I found myself pumping on many bathroom floors. I carried my pump with a battery and my nursing bra and set up shop wherever I could. I pumped in many bathrooms, sitting in many bathroom stalls, missing meals because after I got back to the table someone needed me for a diaper change, bottle feed, to be rocked to sleep, a break down. “So Mickey F you for making me miss your delicious and way too expensive meals because I was pumping.”

2). My toddler is now a Demon.

Disney, my toddler came back from vacation a complete dick. I even caught myself explaining these asshole symptoms to the nurse when I got her a recheck for her cold/cough when we got back.

“It seems that her behavior has changed too. So either she has an ear infection or she came back from vacation a complete dick.” Shit did I say that? Yes I did, and guess what? No ear infection…

She was so used to go, go, go and getting her way, because there were way too many people (Mimi, Papa, Auntie, Dad…) making excuses for her bratty behavior and mommy was too busy on baby duty to discipline—wearing her in the Bjorn the whole freaking trip because she hates the car seat. Oh, on that note Disney you owe me a chiropractor. Now that we are back and my bratty toddler doesn’t get her way she throws a fit of epic proportions—kicking, screaming and crying. “So Disney F you for changing my daughter for the worse. I know this will be short lived because I am nipping it in the butt as we speak, but for making me even have to temporarily deal with this evil Demogorgon. F you!”

3). Driving me to the drink.

So Mickey, ever since my second daughter was born I have found myself sober because wine in small doses and large doses but I don’t want to talk about that makes me nauseous plus I am pumping, waking up to feed at night and find it easier when I am not completely shit faced/ hate wasting precious breast milk A.K.A. dumping. Well after a long day filled with breakdowns, no naps or routine, snot, too much walking, and way too many tears my new ‘tude was bring on the vino. When the girls were finally sleeping, my husband would go up to the concierge floor and get himself a beer and me a nice big glass of wine–and I drank up, oh Mickey, I drank up. “So Mickey, F you for not only driving me to the drink, but making it harder for me to wake up in the middle of the night and the early morning to start the day because of it. I blame you completely!”

So Disney, next time you play your enticing commercials in front of my daughters, know that I, Dani Sherman-Lazar, am on to your rouse. I am exposing you so the next mom will know to stay clear and just say “no” to your promise of visiting the happiest place on earth. Okay, I will most likely be back next year, so the real F you is on me. But until then, and until your kids sucker you in too, all you moms out there hold on tight to your credit cards and sanity and join me in a big F you to the leader of the Disney World cult, Mickey eff-in Mouse!

 

 

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