Written by Chuck, May 12, 2008

Last week I went on a vacation to central Florida with my wife and 3 children. That’s right, Central Florida. Prior to the trip, I was given endless advice on how to get my youngest (18 months) to fly well. I heard all about making sure that he eats or drinks on the take off and landing portions of the flight. I heard all about being sure to bring something to entertain him. And finally I heard that a little Benadryl will help him go to sleep on the plane. I admit that my initial reaction to such a suggestion was shock. “Drug my child? Are you serious? It is not like I haven’t flown with kids before. My oldest, Charlie has more frequent flyer miles than most adults and I once took he and our second, Will, on a red-eye to Germany. I think I can handle it.” However, by the end of this particular flight I would have considered giving Jack heroin if it would have stopped his screaming.

We boarded the airplane and my simple plan was working to perfection. Charlie and Will got right into the groove by watching Sponge Bob on their TVs. I put Jack’s car seat in the empty chair between my wife and me. Keep in mind that I did not buy that seat. Instead, I took a fatal gamble that no-one would, in their right mind, choose the middle seat in the last row of the airplane. I was wrong. Someone would buy that seat, and she would be a three hundred pound, bear claw eating, seat belt extension needing, wicked witch of the east. She waddled down the aisle and showed me her ticket for seat 31b.

A major problem. Now I had to gate-check Jack’s car seat. This means Jack would have to ride in my lap for the duration of the trip. Normally, that would not a big deal, except that holding Jack is like holding a bag full of eels. Eels that just ate a bag of cement. And of course this had to occur without irritating bear claw lady. We waited on the tarmac for 45 minutes prior to take off. The moment we were “wheels up” Jack let loose — verbally from one end and scatologically from the other, with a full 10 minutes before the seatbelt sign would come off. The bear claw was no longer so appealing and Cruella, whose girth spilled into my seat, let me know with rolling eyes.

Eventually we leveled off at 20,000 feet and I bolted with Jack for the lavatory. Airplane bathrooms are not built for people like me. In fact, most bathrooms are just a little too tight for my taste. I am 6’4”. On a daily basis I crash my head into something that was designed under the assumption that the average person is 5’10.” I once sat on a cane-backed chair that literally shattered under my frame. Seriously, no creaking, no subtle warning that it was going to give. Just a “crack!” and then gravity. So there we were, in a toilet designed for survivors of the potato famine. I made a changing table in my lap and began the process of blowout cleanup. I was acutely aware that any misstep would mean having poop on my clothes for the next 3 hours. I escaped without catastrophe, however there were casualties. I lost his socks in the mishagoss.

When we finally arrived in Orlando I was wet with perspiration. Bear claw, after 3 hours of sighing, tells me that the trip “was hell.” I tell myself that punching her with the hand that was not carrying Jack, although satisfying, would hurt my children in the long run. I tell myself that four times. As I wait to get our luggage, part of me hopes that the items in the overhead bin really did “shift during the flight” and that one will slide out and knock me unconscious, thereby ending the nightmare.

With the prospect of moving through the airport, Jack settles into his stroller and promptly falls asleep. The irony is not lost on me or his mother. We make our way to the rental car and I decide that I missed my calling as a Sherpa. I carried my backpack, the boy’s backpacks, my suitcase and the giant green duffle bag that holds an impossible amount of child paraphernalia. Most people would just buckle and rent the luggage cart. For me, that move equals personal failure. I come from a long line of people that considered paying for the cart to be the worst form of heresy. Technically I am 25% Jewish. The other 75% is mildly anti-Semitic. It’s a very conflicted existence. This ethnic mix does not make me cheap, but it does make me genetically incapable of paying for things that I believe should be free. So just call me Lopsang.

Fast forward to the Marriot. We get upgraded to a suite. It’s Marriot’s way of saying, “thanks for staying a like million nights with us, here is a pull-out couch.” The suite layout should work well with the exception of one issue. We have a bedtime order. Jack first, then Charlie and Will together. Trying to do all three simultaneously will mean no-one actually falls asleep. Jack needs complete sensory deprivation or he will stay up for three consecutive days before succumbing to fatigue. Our suite set-up means that Jack will go to sleep in our bedroom and then Charlie and Will will go to bed on the fold-out couch in the living room. It’s 8:00pm. Do the math. What are mom and dad supposed to do for the next 3 hours? We close the drapes, sit on the balcony and wait. Fortunately, the Marriot gave me a bottle of wine as a gift. This is deeply appreciated, as a bottle of Scope would have sufficed at that moment. So we sit, in the dark, and we get drunk.

Anyone who travels frequently for work will know what happens next. This was the first moment that I had been alone with my wife in 5 days. We had wine. The rest was academic. There were mitigating factors such as: exhaustion, the fact that we were in a semi-public place (balconies at this hotel were attached and offered little in the way of privacy from your neighbors), it was only 8:00pm and the hotel was still bustling. The sheer number of things that could have gone wrong was staggering. Neighbors peeking over the ledge, children waking up and opening the drapes looking for mommy and daddy, you name it. However, there were also a few positives: Did I mention we were drunk? And after 10 years of marriage, danger sex is second only to anniversary/birthday sex in the spectrum of intimacy thrills. Case closed. Although, I am secretly worried that a night vision home video of our escapade will end up on voyeur.com.

The following morning we went to Disney. After a full day of being pillaged by fairy tale creatures I drew a few conclusions about America:

1. We are fat. Really fat. How many rascal scooters are there? There were times when I thought, “if anyone is looking at this from space, they have to be wondering if this is Disney or a colony of elephant seals gone woefully astray. I get it. Some people are genetically pre-disposed to being heavy. But if you are opting to scooter while you drink from a bucket of mountain dew and eat from a bucket of extra crispy you have a different problem. In fact, if the food you eat comes in a portion defined as a “bucket,\” you should rethink your diet and go for a walk. A part of me wanted to yell, “hey fat ass! Get a hold of your life!” I didn’t do this because it might have caused me to spill the extra large Mouse Tracks ice cream cone that I was shoving into my mouth at the moment. I should mention that in addition to being fat, we are also hypocrites. At least I am.

2. We are clueless. Disney “the happiest place on earth” is also the most crowded. If you are walking around the magic kingdom and you suddenly want to consult your map, STEP TO THE SIDE!!!! Stopping in the traffic flow is not an option. By the way if you can’t process the whole “Left lane is for passing and right lane is for standing” transportation etiquette, you should throw yourself off a cliff.

3. We are desperate. It cost me $325.00 to take my family to the park for one day. During that time we rode 10 rides most of which were created 50 years ago. “It’s a small world” is great concept, but a positively dated ride. I justify the high-jacking of my wallet as giving my kids the Disney experience. And who wouldn’t want that. The bottom line is that Disney charges so much, because they can. We cling to the belief that there is a place where everything is happy, where you can’t get hurt, where you ride a people mover instead of walking, where fairies can make you beautiful and rich, where evil is always defeated by good no matter what the odds. More so we want our children to believe in such a place. We pay $31.00 for a one day stroller rental, because the park protects and restores our innocence.

We left Disney to go to the Gulf Coast. Our hotel was a piece of old Florida. It sits on the beach, has a small but nice swimming pool and the rooms haven’t been updated since the time of Lincoln. It is charming. In the morning, you will find schools of dolphins swimming off the beach and in the evening the sun sets over the water. We watch every night for the mythical green-flash that supposedly occurs in the last split second of daylight. For the record, we have never seen it. But the process of looking is magical.

On our last night, we sat on the beach and watched the final daylight of our vacation disappear. No green-flash. My wife and I finished our bottle of Chardonnay (yes wine shows up a lot in this story) while the kids played in the Gulf of Mexico. In my usual parental paranoia, I started to remember that shark attacks are most common at dusk. I tell myself the odds are astronomical. Then I go stand next to them in the water. I am not sure what my plan is. I am hoping that any shark thinking of biting my sons would sense the paternal presence and be instinctually guided to easier prey. It’s a load of crap, but that’s how I preserve the moment.

Once inside everyone goes to sleep as scheduled. My wife and I lie in bed and plan out the following day. It would begin at 4:00am if we were going to catch the first of the two planes we would need for the return trip home. Tampa to Chicago to Boston. The thought filled us both with fatigue. I opened the window next to Jack’s crib so that we could hear the ocean. More paranoia, I tell myself to close the window prior to unconsciousness so that no-one could reach in and take the baby. I then make the rounds of the hotel room to check the door locks one more time.

Most people will tell you that I am very laid back, maybe too much so. However, fathering three children has turned me into someone who constantly calculates the possibility of danger. There is no limit to the number of ways the world can reach out and hurt your children. I spend a great deal of time and energy trying to head off potential threats. Sunburns, choking hazards, kidnappings, high fructose corn syrup, foul language, carbon monoxide, shark attacks, conveyor belts, SUV blind spots, plastic bags, witnessing your parents in the act on a hotel balcony, deflated balloons, venetian blind chords, lead paint, mosquitoes, faulty wiring, recalled child seats, really hungry pelicans, rip tides, unstable furniture, video games, bad seed neighbor children, the internet, plane crashes, HBO, cholesterol, the news, and bear claw eating witch people all present real threats to the way I want my kids to see the world. I am not unique in this respect. It is a function of parenthood. It’s why we all go to Disney.

Mickey: Behind the Mouse