I Lied...

I lied. I lied when I said I loved everything about being a mama. I lied when I said I loved it all; the snout to the tail of it. I didn't realize I was lying at the time; then we went on our family vacation to a place we've been three times in the past two years, and I was smacked in the face with the realization that I'd lied.

There is in fact one thing I don't love; one thing which breeds such deep, miserable, all consuming misanthropy in me, that I want to shoot my eye out.

The mother-fucking House of Mouse.

We've been as a family four times now. Each time I try to convince myself it won't be as miserable, and that I won't be as miserable as the last time; but that's simply, cruelly untrue.

I try, for the love of all that is good and holy, I try; I try to focus on how happy it makes the kids, I try to remind myself there is booze at California Adventure, I try to remind myself that if I made it through childbirth sans epidural, I should be able to make it through the god forsaken place to which others refer as the happiest place on earth.

Then I walk through the gates, where I'm inundated with the ubiquitous visual of adults sporting fanny packs, with Disney character hats (unironically), while double fisting a churro and an oversized turkey leg. Oh, the fucking humanity.

It's not just the visuals of the park goers; it's their actions: the line cutting (seriously, adults, cutting in front of kids, at the itty-bitty kiddie rides, at D-I-S-N-E-Y-L-A-N-D); the bratty behavior of over-indulged, unattended children; the bratty behavior of over-indulged, unattended adults; the barfing on rides, the barfing off of rides; the crowds, and the crowding; the repeated refrain of "have a magical day."

One of my littles and I (on two separate occasions) have both been rear-ended by people on Larks. I, by a young woman who was on hers for no reason, as evidenced by her promptly hopping off post rear-ending (with nary an "oopsie"), and running with excited glee to her next ride. My little (who was 15 months at the time, and just perfecting her land legs) by a gentleman whose sole reason for needing the Lark was the aforementioned double fisting of the churros and oversized turkeylegs. Yes, I just said something horrible, and meanspirited, for which I most surely deserve to be smited (smoten?) but for realz; PUT DOWN THE FRIED FOODS, AND LEARN TO STEER THOSE THINGS!!!

I've tried to be introspective and honest about my feelings about the place; I am able to acknowledge some uncomfortable truisms about myself, about all of which I'm ashamed, so very ashamed; most having to do with snobbery, sizeism, and an aversion to synthetic blends. But I think more than anything, it has to do with that forced, ersatz, frenetic happiness to which one is forced to bear witness while there. Adults running like mad, dragging their unhappy looking littles from one ride to the next; people waiting on line for hours, for rides that last four minutes; people spending a small (in some cases a large) fortune, not only on the abovementioned churros and oversized turkey legs, but the swag, the endless swag. That, plus It's A Small World freaks me out to no end (seriously, have you been there recently? F-R-E-A-K-Y!!!)

I don't get Disneyland, and I never will; but at least I thought I could abide it for the kidlets. It turns out I can't. It turns out I want to pull a Jack Handy and tell them it has burned down. It turns out I am too small of a person to be able to swallow my misery to aford them their joy. I feel really badly about this, truly I do, but not so badly to stop secretly plotting to convince them that The Lebowski Fest in New Orleans would be a super-duper fun family vacation next year.