The Pain of Disney

"Wait, Dad!"

I was only half a step ahead, but I slowed and took my son's hand as we rounded Grizzly Rapids and headed for Mulholland Madness.

"What's wrong, bud?" I asked as I slowed further, noticing a slight limp in his 7 year-old stride.

"My feet hurt," he said.

No wonder, I thought to myself. It was the third day of our four-day trip to Disneyland, and we had been going strong all three days. We were at the park gates at the opening of the day to hear the bells ring and the attendants would beep our tickets through with the other early risers. We hadn't taken any naps, and each night as the light faded to a darkness that sparkled with the lights of Disney, my wife would take our other two sons back to the hotel and Collin and I stayed until they wouldn't let us on any more rides.

It was my favorite time. I felt like a dad. Not just any dad, mind you, but an awesome dad. We hustled all day to get fastpasses and hit all of the rides, and now in the cool night air I had tickets to get into any ride without waiting, and it was time to hand everything over to Collin and do anything he wanted. At first he wanted to do the big rides. We rode Space Mountain over and over until we knew every twist and turn in its dark downward spirals. Then it was Big Thunder and the Matterhorn. We got our fill of California Screamin' and it was into the second night before he stopped asking for coasters and we tried the Haunted Mansion, followed up by Pirates of the Carribean. That long boat ride almost had us asleep that night as we trudged back to the hotel, but it was the best feeling ever. Everything he wanted, I could give him, and I felt no guilt doing it. It was what we were there for.

Now here we were, our third evening, and Mom had just left with the worn-out little brothers. The world was ours once again and it wasn't even dark yet, but his feet hurt. It was OK. The time was now his. I sat him on a nearby bench and pulled his rubber sandals off.

"Do you have a rock in your shoe?" I asked.

"No, they just hurt right here." He pointed toward the bottom of his foot.

"Do you have a splinter or blister or something?" I searched the sole of his foot, and found nothing. It was slightly red, but still free from callouses. I started to massage his foot with just my thumb, and I remembered what his feet looked like when he was born. Pink little knobs stuck on his scrawny legs.

"Ouch! That hurts."

"It shouldn't hurt; there's nothing there to hurt."

"Well it hurts anyway."

"Do you want to rest here a while?" I was beginning to be at a loss for what to do next.

"No, I want to go on a ride. Can we go to Mulholland Madness?"

I helped him up, unsure if this was the right thing to be doing. His limp was noticeably worse now. We made it to the ride and I helped him in his seat, and off we went exaggerating the tight turns by throwing our bodies into the side rails of the coaster, and reaching our hands in the air as we took that first and only deep drop. We got off and started a slow walk back through the park. He stumbled every couple of steps now, and finally we stopped and I put my hand on his head.

"Are you sure you are OK? Do you want to go to the hotel and lay down?"

He hesitated, and I knew what he was thinking. It must have been difficult for him, a boy who more or less ruled such a magical place for such a short time, to consider giving it up on account of mere physical pain. It might have been the first choice in his life where it was all up to him, and yet he knew that he had to make the wise choice in lieu of the fun choice. I think of that decision now and I feel like at that moment I learned something about my son; I learned what kind of person he could be, if I but did my job as a parent, a teacher, and a provider for him.

"I want to go lay down." It was a statement, and I knew that he was committed. We started a slow stroll, hand-in-hand toward the turnstiles, the smells of corn dogs and french fries mixing with the rhythm of the beach music. His steps started to falter and I picked him up and carried him piggy-back past the brightly lit shops and under the Golden Gate Bridge. The Monorail whooshed past, a near silent force punctuated by the tired little faces still pressed to the glass to get one last glimpse of the magic.

The next morning we roused the troops early, hoping to make the most of our last day by visiting all of our favorite rides one more time. Collin didn't want to budge. We dressed him and pushed him out the door with the other boys, but we didn't get to the parking lot before his feet began to hurt again. We got him a stroller at the park and he curled his skinny limbs into the stroller and immediately fell asleep, oblivious to what was around him. He didn't ride a single ride that day and only woke for meals. His mom pronounced early in the day that he had a fever and treated him with Tylenol as he fell asleep yet again.

It ended up taking the whole trip home for him to start to perk up, and yet he never cried or complained, just like he never complained as we played in the park. He knew what had happened and I was proud of the decision he made on his to stop when he needed to stop. Even more, I felt that he had had the trip he wanted and there was no reason to feel bad about that.

Now, I know what you are thinking. I can't even begin to guess at how many times I heard the words, "Well I hope you are proud of yourself. Look what you did to him. You ran him ragged! What kind of a father are you?"

You may not agree with the approach, but even today Collin and I talk about staying late in the park, and I am thankful for all the memories we have, even the painful ones.

It Seems That This Wednesday is Really A Monday in Disguise

Never should a parent have to hear their child scream in agony. Well, at least not for more than 10 minutes. Yet, that is what happened to me today. There will be no cheerful, upbeat posting from me today. No, instead I am going to tell you about my dreadful morning and how it has once again left me in sorrow and confusion. If you were hoping to hear about my last trip to Disneyland, or perhaps my upcoming trip to Disneyland, sorry. Perhaps you should check back tomorrow.

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Nothing good comes from getting up before 8 AM. In fact you can safely take it further and say that only bad things come from getting up before 7 AM. That is, in fact what I did today, and judging from my results, I should have just stayed in bed.

"Wake up, we're late!"

I heard Heather's voice but didn't register exactly what she was saying. It was her quick exit from the far side of the bed that gave me just enough consciousness to look at the clock, which read 6:18 and then I remembered.

"What time is Logan's swim thing?"

"I don't know, but he was supposed to be there at 6 AM to warm up."

She was already dressed, and just looking for footwear, but I laid there for just a minute, testing my resolve to see Logan's final swim meet of the year: the County wide meet. It was only for Logan this time, since Collin's times qualified him for a more competitive meet, and it was 30 minutes away. I was guessing that it was supposed to start at 7:00, so if we all left in 5 minutes we might make it. By the time I completed this math Heather was already pushing Logan out the door. "Bring the boys when you can, and see what you can come up with for breakfast on the way," was all I heard before the door slammed shut behind her.

Collin and Trenton stumbled into my room, bleary eyes looking for Mom. "She's gone boys. We need to hurry or else we will miss Logan's race." The next 10 minutes were crazy as three half-asleep individuals attempted to reach a common goal. Finally, we all stood in front of the house, dressed and with a grocery bag of bottled water and granola bars for breakfast. That is when I saw my truck, the back filled with tools and odds and ends. It had to be emptied.

"Collin, you need to help me empty my truck."

"Ok, Dad."

I backed it as close to the garage as I could and after another 5 minutes of unloading we had the truck bed cleaned out. Trenton was making faces at the kittens who were hiding under the truck staring at his tortured expressions. It seems that we were finally ready to go. I went to close the garage door, but with no luck, as my bumper hung in the path of the garage door. If only it were 1 foot further into the driveway the door would close and we would be off. One of these days I'm gonna get a door opener for me too, I thought. I got into the S-10, released the parking break and depressed the clutch, allowing the slope of the driveway to give my that extra 12 inches of clearance I needed. That is when I heard it. Collin was screaming.

I slammed the parking break into place and jumped out the truck. Had I ever foreseen this as a possibility in my lifetime, it would probably be among my worst nightmares. He was stuck to the ground, his right arm completely covered by the back tire of my truck. And he was screaming. I jumped back in the truck and cranked up the engine. That is when the predicament hit me. I was sloping down the driveway with my son under the wheel. I had to put it in reverse without slipping so much as an inch forward. I hesitated only a second, then popped the break, put it in reverse and reved up the engine. I eased off the clutch, maybe a little too much. There was a screech as my tires sought traction, and then it leapt back and Collin was on his feet again still screaming.

His arm hung at his side, and there were tire marks up the forearm like some strange human cartoon character. His face was scratched and there was black dirt all over his face, with a few small dots of blood appearing here and there. Trenton, having just turned 4, was starting to get hysterical as well with his brother screaming at the top of his lungs, and I knew that this was one of those times for action.

"Collin, I need you to get in the truck right now. I am going to take you to the hospital." I put my hand on his back and gently pushed him to the truck.

"Trenton, look at me. We will be OK. Collin will be OK too. Get in the truck." I put the truck in gear and rolled out of the driveway at the same time I flipped open my phone to call Heather.

As I said, I don't believe that parents should have to endure hearing their child scream in agony, but that is just a wishful statement, not based on the human experience in any way. The truth is that most parent WILL hear their child in the midst of real pain, and it is probably even arguable as to whether or not that is desirable for parents to understand the emotions of parenting at that level. However, all of that being said, I maintain that 10 minutes should be the limit for enduring that heart rending sound.

I sped towards the hospital, going well over the speed limit, allowing my adrenaline to act as some sort of performance enhancer (at least that was the rationale I have thought up after the fact. Thanks Harry Osborne.)

"My arm! I can't move my arm!"

In truth I don't think I was all there, and there was nothing that was going to slow me down from reaching a place that could help my son. As we left the house I had said a prayer for the boys, asking for safety in our travel and for comfort for Collin.

"Owww! My shoulder! Please don't hit the bumps!

Twice more during that journey did Collin ask for a prayer in between screams and sobs as I wove in and out of the early morning traffic. We were still about 5 blocks away when I hit the 10th minute. Of course, I was not timing it so much as I could measure it by my emotional state.

"Dad! Help me! It hurts!"

I started to go to pieces, tears leaking out here and there, and as I pulled up to the hospital I was feeling the weight building up inside. It was some kind of awful brew of Worry, Fear, Pain all stirred together and seasoned heavily with Guilt. And we all know that a little Guilt can go a long way. Luckily, my brother-in-law Dave had made it to the hospital ahead of my, having heard about the accident from Heather. I pulled up and went to get Collin out, and found that his limp arm was facing me. Somehow all ability to reason had drained out of me and I just crouched there patting Collin's hand while Dave ran inside and returned with a nurses.

She sized up the situation and moved to grab him out of the truck. He screamed as she squeezed his broken limb into her body. I couldn't seem to find the words I wanted to convey to her that she was an idiot.

"That is his broken arm!"

I put my hands under him supporting his weight but holding him away from me. In the defense of that poor nurse, I suppose that this looked like I was offering him to her again or something, but I was ready to take him anywhere she wanted in that exact pose. Instead she took it as an opportunity to reposition, and she pulled him back in. I was in the act of telling her that she was still an idiot when I heard it. It was a sound that I have read about in many books, usually where a character is leaving their last scene in a grisly way. It is the thick, grating, crunching sound of broken bones. An audible and unmistakable statement that things are not OK and that where one thing should exist straight and solid, there are now two or more things with ends that are vying for space. It left me speechless and I just stared after her and she hurried him into the hospital. Dave appeared at my side and gave me a hug. The weight I was feeling inside finally boiled over and I started to cry. He gave me a squeeze.

"Take Trenton. I'll go park your truck."

I sat down on a bench in the Loading Zone, holding Trenton on my lap. I just sobbed, letting out whatever was inside. I held Trenton close to me, his small face full of concern, but without tears. I hugged him tightly and cleared my mind, letting it all leak out then and there. Thoughts flowed out one droplet at a time. I almost killed my son. I hurt my son. Is he going to be all right? What if his arm is never the same? What if Collin never forgives me? What if Heather never forgives me? How am I going to explain this? What was I thinking? Why didn't I stop the idiot nurse?

After a while the flow ebbed, as it always does, and I felt empty. That is when I noticed two nurses standing outside the door looking around for the gray S-10.

"I'm his father," I said, and I followed them inside.

I don't care much for hospitals, especially Emergency Rooms. I know the valuable function they serve having visited them over 20 times in the last few years, but there is still the feeling of frustration in the air every time you walk into one, and this visit was no different. During every other visit I had imagined that the answer to that frustration was to be taken directly into a room and given the full attention of all of the staff present, but that is what happened this time, yet it didn't eliminate the frustration like I thought it would. I think it is the lack of clear, definitive answers that infects every room and mind in the whole building, and that is one infection that isn't cured by that foul smelling chemical they use to clean every surface.

We were served by a nice doctor, and the staff was helpful. They had the X-rays done almost immediately, and everyone was nice to the boys. However, we left with no cast, no surgery, little peace of mind. His arm had broken in only one place under his bicep. It broke clean through the bone, and they said that it didn't need to be set, as it would heal itself in time. The weight of the arm is enough to keep it in place. I'm not saying I don't trust their knowledge or experience, it is simply that the result of going to the emergency room was an ace bandage, one splint, and one very big bill.

So that is where it stands. Collin is sleeping fitfully behind me right now, his arm loose in the sling as he sleeps. There were no other broken bones other than the the one in the right arm. My family was very blessed today to escape such a scary accident with one broken arm, and the whole experience has taught us all valuable lessons. Collin agreed to not try to reach for kittens under the car when someone was in the driver's seat, which is what he was doing when the accident happened. I decided to always turn on the engine as opposed to let the truck roll silently. Logan decided that today was his day to be a backstroker and took first place at the county meet. OK, that one wasn't really related, but I wanted to work it in somewhere.

I am thankful to my Father in Heaven for all of the blessings we received today, and I am thankful for family members who were right there by my side, both in person and in spirit.

That is all of the story for today. You have to admit, even though today is Wednesday, if today auditioned for a part as a Monday, I think it would get the job hands down.

Character 1: Murphy's Law

From time to time, when I don't have any other stories in the works, I will just do some writing exercises and post them for fun. My first draft is always lousy. If I think something has promise I can usually make it decent with a few revisions. I welcome feedback on these exercises, since they are useless if I don't learn something.

One of the exercises will be to just write a scene where I attempt to develop a character. The plot isn't the goal. And there is always the task of showing instead of telling . . .

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Murphy ran his fingers through his curly hair and stared at the paper on the desk. It was as if he no longer knew how to read, the letters becoming heiroglyphs, their meanings lost over the centuries. He was toast.

He sat up, the buttons on his shirt straining as he stretched his arms, hoping that the movement would somehow unlock some knowledge that was lying dormant in his brain. He squared his body to the paper, straightening everything from his flip-flops to the bridge of his nose. It is time to to do this, he told himself, but even as reaffirmed his purpose, memories flooded into his mind.

He was 8 years old, and his mother was shaking her head at his spelling test. At 13 he hid his new class schedule that showed two repeated classes from his friends. He was 15 and he saw his brother's amazing SAT score on the fridge, and knows that no magnet will touch his results.

He twiddled the #2 pencil between his thumb and finger. How could one test mean so much? If you couldn't answer these questions right here, right now, you were doomed to be a second class citizen for the rest of your life. The pencil slipped from his fingers, bouncing as it hit the ground. One long sweep of his hand and the pencil was back, never finishing its bounce. Too bad I can't snatch test results out of the air, he thought.

Mr. Reynolds, the test timer, announced that 10 minutes remained for this part of the exam, and once again Murphy's head lowered over the paper. He knew what he had to do. He skimmed the question, and then picked answer. Skim, pick, skim, pick. He had known that it would come to this, and at least he was consistent, he thought.

Die Hard Disney – Taking the Park Head On

So perhaps obsession runs in my blood a little. I own 124 baseball cards, and every one of them is of Nolan Ryan. If I start reading a book I am virtually gone from the world until I have read the last word. Heaven help me if it is a series. However, I don't know if any of my past obsessions match my current Disneyland fixation.

It was only last August when my wife and I decided to splurge a little and take the family to Disneyland. We were innocent at the time, just in need of a little vacation, and our kids were tall enough for most of the rides, so we packed up the van and headed west. I did not know that I would be taking that same trip 5 times in the next year and a half.

Getting Started
We arrived like any other packed van of camera-toting tourists. We took the survivalist approach to the park, distributing food and supplies among our 3 boys, preparing them with instructions on when to use their rations. "These are yours, but don't eat them all before we get in there. You want to refuel as you walk and always take advantage of the water fountains you see." The 3-year old just struck his best Power Ranger pose, growling at me as I shoved fruit snacks into his pockets. His brothers (5 and 7) didn't seem to soak in any of the speech either. They were up an hour earlier than usual, and it showed in their blank stare.

Leaving them behind in their stupor, I hefted the 29.5 pound backpack I was to trudge around with for the rest of the day and headed for the car. There was a cool breeze, and the salty California air only egged me on. My wife herded the zombies into the van and we were off.

Engaging the park
Being the centennial tightwad, I was determined to get our money out of this place if it took every last ounce of will I had. The online map that was already several weeks old was stuck in my pocket, and every tip and trick I had learned about Fast Passes looped endlessly through my head. We had made good time so far by getting to the park early, so my chances were good. We were "beeped" through the entrance booth, the tickets were stowed in a pouch around my neck, and I was waving goodbye to the kids and yelling to my wife to keep the boys moving towards Space Mountain where I would meet them after getting some Fast Passes. The key was to stay on top of the Fast Pass game.

Ten minutes later, Fast Passes around my neck with the tickets, I was sitting in Tomorrowland blissfully unaware that it would take the family another 5 minutes to get there. Finally they arrived, and I ushered them into the line. We were still one of the first guests there, and 10 minutes later we entered the boarding room of one of my favorite rides. Perhaps it was wrong to approach this as I did, but the kids were all tall enough, and therefore there would be no turning back for anyone. None of the boys had ever ridden a roller coaster; OK, they had never even seen a roller coaster up close, but that is why Space Mountain made all the sense in the world. It is indoors and completely black. I don't know if it was the screaming coming from the dark hole in the wall, or the windblown hairstyles of the people shooting out of that hole that tipped them off, but all of a sudden all 3 boys started having misgivings. I knew from the start that we would run into this sooner or later, and it was an essential part of my War on Disney that I win this particular battle. I was prepared to give a lot for this all-important victory.

"You guys listen to me. There is only one rule on this trip. We can do anything you want, and we will have endless fun here, but you have to go on every ride. This is not an option. There is no way out. Now move on, the line is getting away from us." My wife rolled her eyes as we moved with the line. It was all a bluff, of course, as well as a gamble, but I had to go for the win now, early on. The 3 year-old whimpered a little as I pulled the bars down onto our laps, but I didn't mind. At least he wasn't crying like the 5 year-old. I put a comforting arm across his body, grasping the far side of his lap bar. "Just hold on to Daddy," I said, silently hoping that this gamble was going to pay off. I could just picture spending the rest of the day in Fantasyland because I had scared the wits out of him. A few minutes later it was over, the lap bars snapped up and I helped him out of the car. His hair was swept back, demon-like in its spikiness, and his face was white. I took his hand to help steady him as the shaking died down. Here it comes, I thought. "Hey buddy, how do you feel? Wanna sit down or rest? We can do whatever you want."

"I just wanna go again."

He smiled to match his hair. I smiled with him. The game was on.

Defeat
I now had 3.5 fully supportive troops for my cause (my wife was having a good time, but thought that we were all nuts). I exploited every piece of information I had, and by lunchtime we had taken out at least a third of the park and I had a fat pouch full of Fast Passes for later on in the day when the lines were long. The boys were having the times of their lives, and our camera actually felt heavier from all of the pictures it was storing (OK, maybe it was the other contents of the pack that were wearing me down.) By 8 PM my pack was 20 pounds lighter, but the boys were done. My eyes narrowed as I went over the two-thirds of the park that we had covered. And we had two more days to go. Nice. I slipped it in my pocket, shouldered the unconscious 3-year old and headed for the parking lot trams.
Back at the hotel I poured each of the kids into their beds, and then sat on the edge of the flower-patterned comforter. I was a bit alarmed to see a huge lump under the blankets next to me, then realized it was my wife. I swear she is related to Clark Kent when it comes to getting ready for sleep. From the sound of her breathing she was already dreaming, so I leaned back against the headboard and studied the map. That is when it happened. It was one thought, but it was defeat in every aspect. In conquering the park there was no victory. I knew that not only did I get to do it again tomorrow, but I had too. I was hooked.

It gave me everything I wanted that day. I wanted a strategic battle. It obliged. I wanted to see my kids light up about something other than the TV, and they did. I wanted to really laugh with my wife and hold hands with her as we went from one moment of fun to the next. Not only did I get all of these things, but I had a camera full of keepsakes to help me remember it all.

Now sure, I skimmed over the materialistic side, the hurried trips through the shops at attraction exits, the grainy picture of the picture that showed us being scared out of our wits on a ride and the whining that comes out of children whenever they are within 20 feet of a cash register, which I should add, seem to be placed every 20 feet throughout the park. Yet at the end of the day, I didn't need to purchase a single trinket to get what I wanted. In fact I wondered at how they were able to do so much, to pay attention to so much detail, for the flimsy price of a 3-day park hopper. The wages of just the janitorial staff I had seen that day cost more than I had paid. Surely, just the electricity to power all of the rides we had already been on had barely let Walt & Co. break even on my tickets. How did they do this?

I changed, got into bed and turned out the lights. I was sliding into sleep, where I heard my kids laughing uproariously with theme-park music in the background when it came to me. The answer has been a Disney message for my whole life and longer.

Magic. It had to be magic.

What the heck am I doing?

I am going to skip all introductions. My reasoning is that you will learn enough about my as I continue to blog here, so an exhaustive kick-off intro just doesn't make sense.

So why am I blogging? I have no spare time, and already spend too much of my time in front of screens every day. When it comes down to it, I love to write, and have aspirations to write professionally some day, and if some day is ever going to be a “today” I need to do this. The biggest issue is that I need to allow myself to have readers. Of course a writer needs readers, but that is not what I am saying. I need to allow others to read my work in a meaningful way.

I learned this in a creative writing class I took a couple of years ago. I enrolled on a whim, sacrificing a few classes I needed for one that I really wanted. The opening assignment was to write 20 single-spaced pages about myself, followed up with a personal narrative. It was one of my all-time favorite and assignments ever as well as the first real test of my assertion that I wanted to write for a living. The personal essay was easy, and 12 pages later I had a narration that met my personal expectations, which is saying something. I was on pins and needles when I got the paper back. I was finally going to have a virtual stranger tell me if my dream of being an author was founded. The note scribbled in the curvy script of my teacher was validating at the least, and possibly one of the most liberating responses I have ever received. "Tony, you are a writer!" is all it said. I was elated, as if a door had just opened, and then the rest of the semester happened.

I would do an assignment and email it out for revision and comment. Never again was I happy with my own work. Never again did I hear anyone tell me sincerely that they thought I could make it as a writer. And worst of all, I never got the courage to read my work to my classmates. There were a few required readings, but every day there was an opportunity to stand up and show that I was a writer and that I could accept readers. Now here I am writing and hoping that a few people will read what I have to say. Even more, I am hoping that I can continue to write and share my work.

So that is why I am here. I hope that you too find a meaningful reason for coming back. Perhaps you are a friend of mine and just want to support this effort. Perhaps you are interested in the topics that will come up.

In any case, at least I get to see it in print . . .