All Ears

The first time I went to Disney World, I was five years old. I remember two things about that trip: My mother covering my eyes during most of the Snow White ride, and me fighting with my cousin over floor space in our station wagon during the long drive down. (We both wanted to sleep on Raggedy Ann & Andy sleeping bags on the floor, but there was only space for one of us.)

I think the next time I went was when I was eleven. We had just moved down to Tennessee from Michigan, which meant that The Happiest Place on Earth was a mere ten hour drive. We took my grandparents from India, vegetarians who at the time couldn't find anything to eat besides french fries. They loved "It's Small World" and rode it twice. Also, they could not, for the life of them, figure out the moving walk-ways to assist riders disembarking. My grandfather fell while stepping off of the Peter Pan ride. (Luckily, he was fine. And he never had trouble with the rides again.)

The next time I went to Disney was just one year later, on a seventh grade class trip. Then a few years later my family made two more trips -- once to take my aunt and her four children, and another time to take my uncle from India and his family. Then I went back to Disney with friends on a senior class trip. And then, in college, I went again with my family, this time staying in an actual Disney resort, instead of the stale $20 a night rooms at The Days Inn, which had become like a second home to me.

And then a few years later, I took my husband before we had kids. And then later we took our four month old baby, then our two daughters ages three years and eight months, then again when they were ages five years and three years. And then this past Saturday, we took all three of our daughters, as well as my in-laws, now in their seventies, who have never been before.

While I've been to places far more exotic, educational, and exciting than Disney World, for some reason, whenever I hear the term "family vacation" -- my mind does not guide me toward images of our family's excursions to DC, Montreal, Aruba, London, India, Paris, Rome or Vienna. Instead, I think of waiting in long lines, Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream, impressively clean bathrooms (given the amount of traffic), hugs from fuzzy characters. I think of fireworks over Cinderella's castle, rides on the monorail, singing and dancing along Main Street in The Magic Kingdom. I think of balloons, and $10 water bottles, and bushes and flowers and lawns that are so well manicured they look fake. I think of snow cones and face paint and pixie dust, and the very first time I rode Space Mountain.

Whenever we think about planning a family trip, we almost always end up in central Florida. Not for the newer, faster rides, not for the uncomfortable heat of summer, not for the overpriced food, and certainly not because there aren't more interesting places to be.

We keep coming back to build on the memories of people we love, some of whom have passed on, others who have gone their separate ways, and still others who live too far away. We come back for the old memories of when we were small, and newer memories of our own sweaty, over-stimulated toddlers with sticky lollipops. We return to remember my grandparents, and so that our own children can bring their grandparents. To recall the crazy laughter among siblings, the pregnancy announcements, the celebrations of birthdays and anniversaries, the rides that made us scream with the fun kind of fear. We come back for the sunsets watched from the ferry boat, the light shows in the night sky, and the feeling of exhaustion and exhileration that puts us to sleep seconds after we lay our heads on our pillows. 

We keep coming back to Disney, over and over again, to keep telling the story of us.