Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [63]
“I really have to pee!” Pierson shouted from the window seat, grasping his crotch and doing a little dance in the three inches of space allotted him. I assessed the drink cart traffic jam.
“You’re going to have to wait,” I said, shushing him. Finn had finally exhausted himself and was asleep across my lap. Any sudden movements by others or me would surely result in another round of Hobbit-chasing.
“Let me just pee in a cup, then,” he whispered, which sent Larson into fits of laughter. Mercifully, the drink cart cleared at that moment. Pierson walked from armrest to armrest over us all and into the aisle, racing to the back of the plane and disappearing into the john. Larson gave me an impish look and scooted over to the window, pushing his brother’s crap into the middle seat.
THANK GOD CLEO WAS THERE IN ORLANDO TO HELP US GET ONTO the shuttle, because by then I was ready to turn around and fly home, solo. The guides packed us onto the Disney-fied bus and immersed us in the culture: a soaking that wouldn’t stop for the next three days. I sensed danger and gave my boys one last bit of advice: if anyone offers you something called Kool-Aid, don’t drink it. Disney is a worthy opponent, with many ways of indoctrinating malleable minds into the cult. They use such techniques as tanned crew members in crispy uniforms, with overwrought, laminated smiles and enthusiastic voices, two-finger pointing you along the way to fun.
On board, it was all Disney, all the time. Cleo was strangely but cautiously enchanted at first, sucked in by the cleverly executed sculptures of the Little Mermaid, Belle, Cinderella, and the other Disney princesses scattered around the hallways. Getting to our room was no small feat: every couple of steps some creature in a towering costume would pop out of the woodwork, frightening my young boys. Finn was clinging to me like a monkey, face tucked firmly into my dress. Larson stayed behind me, while Pierson would occasionally check in with me, dubious.
“Mom, did you see that duck?” he’d ask.
“You mean Donald?” I’d say.
“He has a name? Donald? That’s stupid.”
“Well, he was named back around the Depression, when Donald wasn’t such a stupid name as it is today. You know what’s worse? His middle name is Fauntleroy.”
“What about that tall guy with the long ears? What’s his name?”
“Goofy.”
“Seriously, Mom. Goofy? Is that supposed to be funny?”
“You know, Mom,” Cleo interjected, “you could let them watch age-appropriate cartoons now and then.”
“Trust me,” I said, “If we were on the Family Guy cruise, they’d know everyone here.”
“Is Petah heah?” Larson yelled from his shelter, having caught only the salient points of the conversation and jumping up and down with the most joy he had shown thus far. “Wheah, wheah? And Stewie?”
“See,” I said, opening the door to our cabin. It was clean, tidy, and creepy. Done up in faux-deco black and white, it used the Mousetif everywhere: curtains with brass Mickey tieback pegs, Minnie-shaped soaps in the loo, a kid’s table in the familiar trisphered shape; even tiny little mouse heads worked into the very woof and weave of the carpet under our feet! The place was infested with mice. Shimmery little satiny mouse heads were brocaded onto the duvets—and, most insidious of all, a collection of framed “family” photos adorned the tiny desk. At first glance I thought maybe the cruise people had pulled images of us off the Web—that would have been freaky enough. But no, these were pictures of Walt and family: on his