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.