(I wrote an unauthorized Guide to Disney back in December of 2008. Emphasis on the unauthorized. Within this guide, I recommended that people not underestimate their kids or overestimate them either when it comes to rides, basically calling out the parents who force their kids onto attractions which only causes more issues most of the time. Pardon me while I now eat those words..)
"I wanna go home!"
She pulled the newly familiar shriek out of her arsenal, her body going rigid, knowing we were about to take her into the dark unknown.
It was now Saturday morning. We had arrived at the Disney Resort for a late dinner at the hotel on Friday and a Monorail ride over to the Magic Kingdom to catch the Spectromagic parade and fireworks show.
Sprite, being so excited with the castle staring her clear in the face, had edged back into her shell with the fall of darkness and the start of Spectromagic. Standing there, holding her sturdy body against me, I murmured reassurances to her as the floats began appearing around the corner, their vibrant lights garish at first to the mind of a three year old, especially one who doesn't know where the line between make believe and reality actually stands.
Her protests of wanting to be somewhere else, her Mickey rooom (the hotel room), over there (wherever her finger pointed which would take her farther from the commotion she was being exposed to), even HOME (the dreaded word which even she knew meant she would actually have to leave Disney World, a place she loved), bubbled up to the surface, at first loudly, then softening as my whispers of being safe and "no one is going to touch you or come near you, just look" until she would start whispering back with reports of the characters she had spotted. A moment of calm would settle as the first wave passed before us, then she would begin her chants of wanting to go home again once the new round curved the bend.
Like a wave, she started and stopped her rebuttals against my cheek, actually letting herself get swept up into the spectacle before her, starting to recognize the music, wave to Cinderella in her coach, call the Evil Queen "mean" from the safety of the crowd.
Once the parade swept through, my arms gave out and she bounded over to John, ready to regale him with what she had just seen.
I'm no stranger to this.
My sister had a pretty typical fear of darkness and sudden loud noises, scary pictures, your everyday fears of a young kid. I remember how my mother and father used to hold her tight, letting her leech off of their confidence until she was strong enough to face whatever she was facing, whether it be a movie (dark theaters), fireworks (loud noises), or new situations (theme park rides she didn't know). Of course, being her younger sister, I had my own fears too, of masks, (I'm still leery of them.) but never quite developed the phobias she did. She outgrew the fear, like most children do.
I knew, as my parents had known, that I had to expose Sprite to some things even if she was afraid of the outcome. I knew, as my parents had known, that she would relax once she realized I was right, that she was safe, that nothing was going to harm her, that she would live to see another cartoon, and actually enjoy herself if she just gave herself the chance.
The parade scenario repeated itself for the fireworks, my tired arms taking her on again, softly singing the soundtrack to her, covering her ears for the highly explosive finale, taking great pleasure in pointing out TinkerBell as she flew high above the park in a glowing green shot. She clung close, her eyes never leaving the show, not wanting to miss anything, her stronghold more from happiness and amazement than that dreaded foe-bia.
By the time we made our way back to the hotel, way past her bedtime, (but when do bedtimes count for anything on vacation anyway?) she wanted to see the parade again, the fireworks "again!", crowed with glee over what she had done, overflowing with bravado and ready to take on the world.
A good night's sleep wiped away every ounce of bravery and replaced it with abject fear.
First walking into Epcot, I automatically nixed Spaceship Earth as a possible ride for her, knowing from experience, that the darkness and subject matter was something she would not be able to find any amusement in. Finding the Nemo ride, encouraged by the fact that it was slow moving and involved a movie she loved, we made a beeline for it, talking it up the entire time with words like "Hey, Sprite, do you want to meet Nemo?"
Rule Number One when trying to get a kid to loosen up: Don't tell them what you're going to do until you're right about to do it. (The five minute walk set us back about 40 minutes.)
If that stroller had hand brakes, she would have pulled them before we even got to the Living Seas area.
She declined meeting Nemo, shouting "NO!" as we came closer, beginning to cry when she saw the statues in front of the ride, statues of Marlin, Dory, and Nemo that were obviously not going anywhere. Of course, the same could have been said for the seagulls who came to life in front of the ride and started saying "Mine. Mine."
John declared the objective a failure, ready to move on, but I was determined. I knew she would enjoy it if she just took the chance. I pulled her from the stroller, set her down in front of me, ready to talk some sense into her. (Rule Number Two: Talking sense into a preschooler? Really?)
She took off, trying to get away from the ride, away from Nemo, away from me as I stumbled behind her, finally catching the child on the verge of a freak out, holding her close as I walked slowly around, not back to the source of her predicament. (I'm not that stupid. Just stubborn.)
I used the same tone I had used the night before to talk her through the activities, "We're just going to look, we're not going to touch anything, this is something you will like, it's just a show, a cartoon", slowly moving toward John and the ride, giving him hand signals to keep going while I kept her in my trance.
She dug into my neck with claws of terror, the dark corridor of the ride's entrance enveloping us wholly."See? We're at the beach. You like the beach. We're just walking on the boardwalk." (Rule Number Three: Distract, distract, distract.) On and on I kept talking, some sensical, some non, in the same monotone timber, weaving my way through the oceanside queue, John in tow, thankful that the line was non-existent as we plopped ourselves into a moving pink seashell.
Sprite straddled my lap, pulling her arms into my center, something she has done since birth when unsure of anything, and John settled beside me.
I dropped the calm voice and took on an excited one as I pointed out what she liked. "Where's Nemo? They're looking for him- Look! There's Dory! And Bruce!" John caught on to my plan and added his own sightings, Sprite yanking her head to and fro to see what we were seeing.
By the end of the ride, she was excited again, ready to take on the gift store lurking on the outskirts which was ready to pounce on unsuspecting people still trying to get accustomed to the sudden brightness. (Why can't she be afraid of that?)
All day, we played this game of Hide and Seek with her fears, pulling this shock therapy that got us withering looks from other parents as we entered every attraction we deemed Sprite friendly, and looks of understanding as we exited with a hopping, smiling, "I want to ride it again!" cherub. Careful not to push anything too far, "Do you want to meet Marie from the Aristocats? No? Okay. How about Belle? Yes? Well, let's go!", letting her egg us into things, letting her just enjoy herself for long stretches, trying not to turn this into a day of neverending challenges.
But sometimes, the best shock therapy comes from an outside influence.
We met up with the Katz's who similarily were enjoying their day at Disney World as well (a strange but wonderful coincidence) in the late afternoon, Sprite immediately attaching herself to Abigail's side. (If you want to see just how long Sprite and Abby have been theme park hopping together, click here.) Abby, while younger than Sprite by about 5 months, does not face her fears the same way. She just covers her ears (for noise) and keeps going. This helped Sprite calm down when we entered another ride, a ride where Sprite pulled out her best rebuttal yet, "I have to go potty!" (She had just gone and was only using it, and her head, to get herself out of the moving theater, something Becca and I had to admire her for. Not every kid would pull that gem out of their cupboard.) By again talking to her in low murmurs and using Abby as a comparison ("See? Abigail's sitting there and enjoying herself. Ms. Becca and I would never put you girls into any danger."), she finally dropped her battle and just asked from time to time, "Is it over?", pausing to watch the movie end.
By the end of the night, thanks to Abby and the entourage that surrounded her, she even got herself close to her favorite character, Minnie Mouse, close enough to give her a high five, from the safety of my arms.
And of course, walking back to our car, she looked back upon Epcot's glowing landmark with longing.
"I want to go ride Nemo! Can we go now?"
"No, honey. We have to go back to the Mickey room. Mommy and Daddy are tired."
"I don't wanna go home!"
Full circle, folks.
