OC Sign Company providing professional signage at affordable prices.: Essay: Last Tango in Toontown?

I am nearly 60 years old yet I find myself in Disneyland, alone, riding Snow White’s Scary Adventures. In an unusual moment of spontaneity, I have abandoned my husband and daughter, and come to the Magic Kingdom. We’re here from Northern California to tour colleges in Orange County as our last chick flutters from the nest.

I have visited the happiest place a dozen times, as has my family, who are now, insistently, “over it,” but the hotel we have booked while visiting Chapman is a mere 3 miles away, and I can’t resist the impulse to see Disneyland one last time. I decide this visit will be the last. My Disney obsession feels frivolous now that our children are grown and have lost interest.

This new decade of my life, late middle age, early old, has awoken an unexpected surge of independence and wanderlust in me, a longing to experience the world unencumbered by the desires of others. Some might consider this phase selfish, but my desire for solo adventure has been welling inside and won’t be ignored.

My husband drops me off in the parking lot and I ride the shuttle to the gate. The park has an extra layer of security since my last trip; a metal detector walk-through follows a bag search. The security man is doing his schtick and kids laugh as they pass. Examining my purse he whispers, “What’s her name?” sneaking a sideways glance at the child behind me. It takes me a minute to realize he thinks she is mine, and I’m supposed to whisper her name so he can surprise her by knowing it. The magic of Disney!

My love of the place began before my fourth birthday when my mom began tormenting Dad with the “we want to go to Disneyland” campaign. Although Mom was rarely playful, the idea of a land dedicated to imagination enchanted her. For weeks, we left pleading notes in Dad’s lunch bag, under his pillow, in his shoes. Mom uncharacteristically devoted herself to cajoling, and nagging, until, finally, he surrendered.

Disneyland was small then, but as a child it seemed enormous. The teacups, Jungle Cruise, Matterhorn and Sleeping Beauty Castle were the main attractions, and we joyfully visited them all. The only mildly alarming episode occurred when the witch startled me with her poisoned apple in Snow White’s castle.

Shortly after this trip my parents divorced, and for the rest of my life, I would recall this time and place as my last happy memory of our family.

Now when I board the ride I am prepared for the witch’s assault. She has, of course, lost her power over me. I feel nothing as she offers me fruit, but as I get off the ride, I am unexpectedly cracked open watching parents help their tiny children on and off. “Savor it,” I whisper.

After confronting my nemesis in the castle, I stroll to New Orleans Square. Mom had been so excited when Pirates of the Caribbean opened; a fan of all things pirate, she decided we must return on my ninth birthday. This time she was even more charmed by the magic of Disney than I. Traveling with Mom, whose bipolar episodes were unpredictable and unsettling, had started to make me anxious. But this trip, unlike future adventures, was benign, even pleasant. We listened to jazz musicians and drank mint juleps at the Royal Street Veranda. (Mom would have preferred an actual julep, but of course purchasing alcohol in the park always has been nearly impossible.)

We were mesmerized by Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln; astonished when the president stood while speaking. This animatronic exhibit was our first foreshadowing of artificial intelligence. To us, in 1967, Lincoln standing and moving seemed nothing short of miraculous.

I imagined returning one day with my own family. A family I fervently hoped would be happier than my first.

I consult the park maps and learn that margaritas are now available at Disney California Adventure Park. A few minutes later I’m toasting Mom. My capacity for forgiveness has exponentially increased since becoming a parent myself. Thanks, Mom, for doing the best you could. Slainte!

I walk through Cars Land unobserved. No “hey baby” or unwelcome attention. I have reached the age of invisibility, and after experiencing a stage of mourning for my previously visible self, I now revel in my new superpower. Such a different experience from my first girl’s road trip at 17 with my best friend! Andrea was a sister curvy brunette. Before going to Disneyland, we painted on makeup, and because as teens we could never get enough attention, we purchased enormous plastic sunglasses at The Mad Hatter Shop to complement our sundresses. Tourists stopped us all day to take our picture. We laughed that we would be famous in Japan.

Throughout my 20s, the mystical force of the park continued to entice. I would persuade friends to make the trek to Anaheim. Boyfriends would tire of my obsession and refuse to return. I realized I would soon need children to justify these trips. Fortunately, when I married Greg, he turned out to be a Disney fan in his own right.

When we adopted Kyra from China, she was 15 months old, and our sons were 7 and 10. Kyra rode on my lap her first visit as we floated through It’s a Small World. During past trips, the kitschy singing dolls annoyed me. But now, holding Kyra, the daughter we had waited for forever, I found myself nearly sobbing. Yes! It is a small world, I thought.

A few years later Kyra and her friend from our adoption group, Ilana, were turning 5, and I decided to take them to the Kingdom. Most rides were two-seaters, and the girls endlessly fought over who would sit beside me. Turn-taking, and bribery had failed. I considered threatening to leave the park – until I realized locking us in a hotel room would be a punishment for no one but me. The drama reached a crescendo when I took them to a restroom with 20 vacant stalls. The girls crowded over the same toilet, refusing my offer of a second stall, and pushed each other howling as if this was the last toilet on earth. I took a break from Disneyland for a while after that trip.

I feel the buzz of my phone. Kyra texts that she and her dad are driving back from their visit with family in Irvine. On my walk to our hotel, memories flood me. Our son Aidan, in a stroller, pulling a giant stuffed Winnie the Pooh off a shelf as his souvenir, the beloved “Be-Pooh” larger than he, shared his bed for years. Climbing through the caves of Tom Sawyer’s Island with our older son, Keenan. His face full of excitement the very first time we surprised him by driving to Disneyland. And as a slideshow of memories flash past, I wonder if I’ve been overly dismissive of my Disneymania. This place has been so much more than a guilty pleasure, more than the happiest place on earth. It has been a touchstone of my life.

I think of Kyra, leaving home next year, and tears well up. Our son Keenan had attended college in New York, fallen in love with the state, and now was making a life there. But maybe Kyra would stay in California? Maybe she would attend college mere steps from Disneyland. Who said this had to be my last tango?

And though I don’t realize it as I walk back to the hotel, I will one day soon travel to France with our younger son, Aidan, to visit his girlfriend during her semester abroad, and as it will turn out, she is not over Disney, and they will talk me into my first visit to Disneyland Paris. Bonjour Mickey!

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