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By Root 434 0

on his surfboard and Peter is attacked by a vicious tarantula while he is sleeping? And then they have to return the cursed thing to the “Tiki Cave,” where crazy Vincent Price is lurking and tries to scare them, then ties them up, while back at the hotel the girls confess to knowing where the boys are and oh why didn’t they tell their parents sooner? And finally it’s all happily ever after with a big luau and everybody—Vince included—takes a turn “sounding the horn of brotherhood” while blowing into a big conch shell and great hilarity ensues? Well, Puerto Rico was nothing like any of that. It rained. We stood in line for a boat to the recreation island. I suspect the food was shipped in from Wendy’s. The kids swam in the pool during the one hour it didn’t rain. We could have gone to the Holidome in Paramus and been a thousand times happier and about $15,000 up on tuition.

Peter worries that we don’t travel enough. But having children in such a wide range of ages makes vacation planning tricky. It’s hard to find a destination that appeals to all of them. My older children should be receiving their requisite doses of culture by touring the great cities of Europe. I am loath to imagine the horror of shepherding my three younger ones through the British Museum or the Louvre. We have all grown to love the Winged Victory of Samothrace without a head, but I can’t promise that after my crew blew through she wouldn’t be missing a wing. Maybe we should wait until the boys will eat something other than chicken nuggets. Or till I can be sure I won’t be arrested for creating an international incident when one of them hocks a loogie off the Eiffel Tower, killing a Frenchman in the process.

Last summer Peter’s friend John took his family to a dude ranch in Wyoming. Knowing I am not the outdoor type, unless a waiter is following me with a tray of champagne, Peter decided to take Peik and Truman for a session of male bonding. Or male bondage, depending on your deftness with the reins. I’m not sure why he agreed to go to a ranch; his only memory from the single such childhood trip was of his father’s butt bleeding from too much riding. Nevertheless, he picked up the phone and booked a week in August.

My inner calendar shrieked—August is the darkest month in New York, when both nannies and therapists leave the city. It is a dangerous time, with hollow-eyed mommies pushing strollers and sobbing into cell phones, begging their therapist’s receptionist to please, please, have him return the call. If I was not mistaken, I had just been sentenced to five days alone with a two-, a five-, and a six-year-old. Outnumbered by the wee digits. Sure, I could take them up to Dairy Air, but then I’d be even more alone with them. At least in the city I don’t have to worry about one of them drowning in the pool while I’m pulling another out of a mangled dune buggy. Not one to be outdone by a spouse, I turned to the mouse and made a snap decision of my own: we would go on a Disney cruise! Who doesn’t love Disney? Cleo would join us and I would plop the boys into day care mousetivities and have some real mother-daughter bonding time, placidly reading our books next to the grown-ups-only pool.

Here’s one thing you should know about the Disney Cruise: the culture of Disney is insidious. Mousack is piped into every nook and cranny of the damn ship: the elevators, the restaurants, the hallways. If you submerge yourself in the mouse-shaped pool, you will hear the haunting theme from The Little Mermaid, as though she were down there, somewhere, singing. You can’t escape it by going to the Lido deck, or even, God forbid, your own room. Every single time you leave your cabin, some sort of switch is triggered so that upon reentry the radio is back on, blaring “Small World.” I thought the Geneva Convention had banned that song. If they want to find Bin Laden so badly, the government should just turn Afghanistan over to Disney and the company can pipe some of its greatest hits into the terrorists’ caves. Before you know it, every last one of them will crawl out and