"It seems to me, that we have a lot of story yet to tell." - Walt Disney

On the last night of our Disney vacation, I found myself a weeping mess.  I was in front of the mirror, trying to pull it together to finish my makeup, and I could not stop the tears. 

I wasn’t crying because we were leaving.  Nor was I crying because we were traveling back home to freezing temperatures (though that reason was a close second).  And I wasn’t crying because I was overwhelmed by the whole Disney experience; like many, many little ones.  I was crying because this was another fleeting moment in time.  Another flickering moment that I desperately wanted time to stop, just enough to let me breathe it in.

My childhood was spent vacationing in Walt Disney World.  I can remember moments from every trip, though the early memories are no doubt from photographs tucked away in my mom’s Disney albums.  Being terrified of King Louie the Monkey at age 2.  Meeting up with my childhood best friends in Epcot at age 5.  My sister’s moody, teenage, “I refuse to smile on this trip” vacation at age 9.  Getting sick on the Disney bus at age 12 and my mom resorting to using my new hat to “catch” the vomit.  Bringing a best friend with me at age 17; and wearing our Tigger and Eeyore ears throughout the entire vacation.  And then, at age 22, a new memory: On this trip, it was just my mom and I.  Two kindred Disney spirits, two best friends.  On this particular trip, I remember leaving the Magic Kingdom on our final night, looking over my shoulder for one last view of the castle, and completely breaking down.  I remember my Mom hugged me, crying as well, and she asked “Why are YOU crying?”  The crying was simple, the explanation was not.  I was finally old enough to see that my childhood was marked with these trips, these amazing moments.  I grew up there and that “growing up” was coming to an end.  I was crying because I knew time was passing.  And that the next time I visited Disney, it would most likely be with my own children.  And the tradition would continue.  Heavy stuff for a 22 year-old.

So, last Saturday night, my husband found me sobbing (poor guy deals with this a lot).  Because, this was another moment on my timeline.  Another moment that came and went, much too fast.  A moment that you want to hold onto; and make a movie in your head so you can revisit these feelings, this genuine happiness.  I knew that the next time we visited Disney would likely be drastically different.  It’s probable that my daughter will have no desire to wait in lines to capture Minnie’s autograph.  Will the awe and wonder be gone in my son’s eyes because he is now an ‘old pro’ at this?  Who knows?  And dare I say, that it could even be possible that another little one is there with us?  I can’t answer that right now, but it’s always a possibility.  Whatever the circumstances and whenever the time, all I know is that it will be different.  And this time, this moment has passed. 

So, when we got on the Magical Express on Sunday morning to take us to the airport, I watched my 6 year-old as she sat at the back of the bus.  My overly exuberant daughter was oddly subdued and quiet, staring out the window for a long period of time.  When I finally broke the silence and called her name, she turned to me with silent tears.  I kissed the top of her head, wiped away the wetness and simply said, “I know, Maggie. I feel it, too.”  A precious moment in time that twinkled and is now gone.  All that’s left is the memories.  Magnificent memories that I am immensely grateful for, but memories all the same. 

 “I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.” - Julian Barnes
 

"Good moms let you lick the beaters. Great moms turn them off first."

My husband got home from work today, sat down to eat lunch, looked at me with my greasy hair and holy sweats; and said with a smirk, “I know this sounds funny, but what can I do to help?  What still needs to be packed?” It didn’t even take us a second to start laughing.

We leave for vacation Monday morning.  We’ve been planning this vacation since summer.  And now, I have been packing and preparing for three weeks.  As an elementary school teacher, preparing sub plans for vacation is more work than actually teaching.  And of course, packing for myself and our two young children is RI.DIC.U.LOUS.  Four syllables.  So, when Larry asks “What can I do to help?”; we both know this is just a way of him trying to throw out support for his wife that has yet to shower at 3:00 in the afternoon.  Because we both know I’m going to say, “Nothing”.  However, it doesn’t help that he throws a suitcase on the bed, spends 10 minutes shoving in clothes, zips it up, and laughs, “Well, I’m packed.”  I was ready to tell him where he could shove that suitcase.

So, on Monday morning, we will lug 6 bags to the airport. We only have four family members.  May sound a bit off, but sounds completely normal to me.  I thrive on organization. My OCD doesn’t let me prepare otherwise.  Packing, making sure everything is “just right”, ensuring we have everything we could POSSIBLY need makes me feel calm.  Our medicine bag is filled to the brim.  Our carry-ons are jammed pack with anything and everything to keep the kids occupied on the plane.  We even have one duffel full of snacks so we don’t have to spend a fortune eating while we are there.  Rainstorm?  We’ve got rain jackets.  Cold weather?  We’ve got sweatshirts and pants.  100 degrees?  Tank tops and shorts.  Hell, I even packed magazines for my father.

And then it hit me.  When did I turn into THIS kind of parent? 

Facebook has been bombarded with those quizzes: If you were a dog, what breed what you be? Golden Retriever.  What career should you really have? Humanitarian.  Which Disney Princess are you? Belle.  And then…What kind of parent are you?  I was seriously expecting something like “Realist” or “Hipster Mom”(well, I hoped for that).  No.  I got “Helicopter Parent”. Wait. Shut the mother lovin’ front door.  Helicopter Parent?  HELICOPTER PARENT? My husband and I pride ourselves on being real with our kids.  Letting them take chances.  Letting them get hurt.  Letting them eat potato chips, just as long as it’s in moderation.  Learning from experiences. “You scratched your knee? It’s cool, walk it off.”  “Someone was mean to you?  Stick up for yourself!”  But, HELICOPTER PARENT? WTF.

I sat on that for a little bit.  And then I packed. And I packed some more.  And I organized and compartmentalized and I made lists.  I made sure every shirt matched with every pair of shorts and every outfit of Maggie’s had a matching set of earrings.  And then it hit me.  Well, shit.  Maybe there is a small part of me that is a helicopter parent (I’m sticking with small).  So, I did what any so-called Helicopter Parent with OCD would do.  I asked Google.  Apparently, helicopter parents are known for over-parenting, over-protecting, and are overly-involved in their children’s lives.  Overly-involved? I think I get an A+ in that category.  Over-protecting? Nope. Not me.  But, my duffel bag full of the entire medicine aisle from Target begs to differ.  On the contrary; “Free-Range Parents” allow their children to learn by making mistakes and foster their child’s need for independence.  Yes! This! This is the answer I was holding out hope for. This was me!  Right? Maybe? Maybe not.  It’s a fine line between these two types of parents.  And that gray area is most likely the best place to be.  Either way, I’m just doing my best here. So, when we step on that plane Monday morning, I will have my anti-bacterial wipes ready for Harps after he uses the airport bathroom.  But, if he’s screaming because of his ears and drops his much-needed lollipop on the dirty plane floor; you better believe I’m licking it clean and shoving that thing right back in his mouth.  Because, that’s me.  Always walkin’ that fine line.