Disney or bust

4 sticky faces + 12 tired feet + 47 square miles = Magic

By Angela Beairsto

It had been “one of those days,” and now it was a pizza-for-dinner kind of night. I was walking through the parking lot, the aroma from the take-out box already starting to soothe my frazzled nerves, when the sight of the silver van with luggage on top almost caused me to drop my precious cargo. It wasn’t the words on the van window that coaxed my lips into a smile (“Disney or Bust,” with “Disney” crossed out and written over with “Home”), but the cheerful circle with round ears on top that every person from Chattanooga to Tokyo would recognize, even though a frown had been recently added for the trip home.
Something drew me to that van; I wanted to know the story. So, noticing a mom loading her family into the van, I bounded toward them, not realizing the force of my own enthusiasm until I saw the look of surprise on her face. Once she realized that I wasn’t an escapee from an insane asylum, Janet Kanerva, her family and I bonded over our shared Disney stories and memories.

It was the arrival of my four children that put the magic into Disney for me. Trips to Disney World became as much a part of our lives as some families’ trips to Grandma’s or the beach. We were fortunate that our grandma and grandpa lived at the beach for almost half the year, and that Uncle Doug and Aunt Murray lived in nearby St. Petersburg. From the time my youngest was in a stroller, we made our annual pilgrimage, usually over spring break, to visit family and Mickey Mouse. It probably wouldn’t surprise my family members to know which one was more popular with the kids.
“Mommy, it’s time to get up now,” one of them would usually say in a reversal of roles, as he tugged at my covers. “I want to go see Mickey Mouse!”  With their excited compliance, it didn’t take long to dress all four kids in their matching, bright-colored shirts and/or hats. I’d heard rumors about park kidnappings, so I took the advice I had read in some parenting magazine and took Polaroids of the kids each day and stuffed them safely into my backpack. As we ate breakfast, we reviewed the plan for the day and assigned “buddies.” The “what happens if you get lost” discussion was always top priority; my kids knew to stay put, and we would find them. Our plan almost always worked when one sheep inevitably found himself separated from the flock. “Geez, Mom,” said my oldest son when we found him once in “Liberty Square,” “you could have at least ditched me someplace a little bit more exciting. Not even one character has been by in, like, hours!”
With the help of Birnbaum’s Walt Disney World Travel Book, my husband and I navigated the 47 square miles of parks, pushing a double stroller and holding hands with two young children, one of us sporting a backpack full of diapers, bottles, snacks, bug spray, sunscreen and other essentials, and the other with a camera slung across the shoulder. (Each year it became more and more tempting to replace some of the bottles with “Daddy’s apple juice.”)
Once through the front gate, though, all thoughts of jobs and housework, as well as computers, television and cell phones, were left behind, replaced with the magic of childhood. Our first stop was always at Cinderella’s Castle, which brought back memories of being a kid, snug in my pajamas, watching the Sunday night Disney program, and being somewhat sad at the end when the fireworks lit up the screen as they exploded over the castle. Standing in front of that storybook castle with my family always reminded me of the hopes and dreams of childhood, a time in life when anything is possible.
Even as my children began to outgrow the kiddie rides, I looked forward them—even the slightly-slower-than-a-snail’s-pace “It’s a Small World,” where the sugary theme song would get stuck in my brain for days. A family favorite was the “Jungle Cruise,” where the skipper narrated our passage past head-hunters, lions, zebras, vultures and spraying elephants. (I never could remember which was the dry side of the boat.) A spin on the Indy Speedway with a toddler behind the wheel gave me a frightening glimpse of the teen days ahead. (Oh, if I could only put my teens back on that controlled track, with its 5 mile-per-hour speed limit!)
In between rides, we would rest our feet at “The Lion King” or another show, or we would stalk characters. Not really, but my kids definitely classified as character chasers, scanning the horizon for Goofy, Shrek or the Ninja Turtles and then scampering after them, tightly clasping their autograph books.
As the kids got older, we began park-hopping like pros. We might begin at The Magic Kingdom for old time’s sake, but then quickly move to the MGM Park for a stroll down Sunset Boulevard. It was in this park that we found more favorites like the Star Wars simulator thrill ride, where r2d2 and 3-cpo guided us through space, avoiding asteroids and the evil Darth Vader.  The kids sat on the edge of their seats as they watched Indiana Jones running from the giant boulder, and they squealed in “Honey I Shrunk the Audience” as a giant 3-D bee swarmed around them and dogs bounded towards them to lick at their faces. (And I squealed when I felt something touching my legs, just as Professor Wayne Szalinski announced that mice and a pet snake had escaped into the audience.)
Of course, a favorite ride was “The Tower of Terror,” where legend says that lightening struck a building in 1939, and an elevator carrying five people disappeared. It was always one of the longer lines, and inevitably, as we finally entered the beginning of the ride where the walls begin to close in the cobwebbed room, eerie music playing in the background, one of the kids would whine, “I don’t want to do this!” While there is a “chicken exit” for last-minute bail-outs, my kids never used it. (I’m not sure what convinced them to go forward: their bravery, the promised thrill of a 13-story plummet in two seconds, or the firm grip their dad had on them after he had waited in line for over an hour.) We soothed our nerves with a celebratory meal at the Sci-Fi Drive-In, where we sat in cars, watching sci-fi flicks as we were served by waiters and waitresses on roller skates.
As I talked to Janet Kanerva, it all came back to me: my children sticky-faced from snow cones and lollipops; my son’s mixture of awestruck expression as he sat in Mickey’s lap, gazing up at his face; my daughter asking Cinderella, “Just what is Prince Charming really like?” Now, I think, she’s just about old enough to begin searching for her own Prince Charming. I see my children’s bright eyes in the morning and remember their forced steps on tired legs at the end of the day, their bodies turning to dead weight as we headed home on the ferry, bus, car or, in my nephew’s case, right in the middle of the parking lot.
Janet and I parted friends; she promised to send me pictures of the van. By the time I got home, the pizza was cold, but it really didn’t matter. My heart was warm from those memories. The magic of Disney wasn’t in the rides, the shows, the characters, or even the fireworks, but in the time spent together as a family. Thanks for reminding me, Janet Kanerva!