The Splash Mountain Double Meltdown

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" -William Shakespeare


These things happen. Tantrums. Moods. Or as I'm about to describe, meltdowns. They're part of parenting. Sometimes you can anticipate them, even prepare for them like an approaching thunderstorm. Then there are times when no amount of preparation can prevent the debacle that follows.

So close. Yet so far away.

What makes this double meltdown story ironic is it took place in the so-called "happiest place on earth." That's right: Walt Disney World. More specifically, The Magic Kingdom. Splash Mountain to be exact.

It was day four of our whirlwind Disney adventure. After three days of non-stop, drag-your-child-to-every-possible-attraction family fun, I somehow woke up rejuvenated that morning. This would be our last day in the Magic Kingdom. And even though My Director is the one who planned most of the itinerary before and during the trip, I had decided to flex a little muscle. What can I say? I was feeling ambitious.

I seized the map of the park like a greedy pirate of the Caribbean and checked to see which "grown-up" rides Peanut was tall enough to go on. And there it was. My buried treasure: Splash Mountain, in all of its 40" minimum height requirement glory. Peanut just met the requirement. My mission was clear: ride this ride with Peanut at any and all costs because a) she's going to love it and b) I remember riding it with my parents and loving it.

Best to keep a grumpy Peanut in a bubble.

But a funny thing happened on the way to Frontier Land... we decided to spend the morning in Tomorrow Land because a certain large child (me) wanted to ride Space Mountain before the line got too long. And that plan backfired because when it was my time to conquer Splash Mountain with Peanut, she had already begun a downward spiral like she did every day in the early afternoon. You see, a Walt Disney World vacation is equal parts torture and amusement for a child. You keep her up until way past her bedtime and then you wake her up after she's had a lot less sleep than she's used to. You finally get her dressed and fed but she's still wearing her cranky pants while you push her in the stroller. She loves the monorail so that starts to snap her out of it. Then you get her to the park and she's as ready as she'll ever be. For the rides and the heat and the shows and the walking and the characters. Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin. A picture with Chip and Dale. The Monster's Inc. Laugh Floor. (highly recommended.)

It's all my fault. I kept telling My Director that I wanted a memory with Peanut, just me and her. That's where I was treading in dangerous waters. Expectations can come back to bite you where the briar patch hurts the most. Besides, I was rolling the dice sending us to Tomorrow Land first. And they came up snake eyes.

We finally arrived at the foot of Splash Mountain.  The wait was just a half an hour. I had timed it perfectly. There would be no other time to do this given what we had planned the rest of the trip. Peanut, having come down from the euphoria of Tomorrow Land and having just met Tinker Bell, had entered moodyville. To make matters worse, My Director wasn't feeling well either. And Peanut is an "I want mommy to go on too" kind of girl. Still, I persisted. My Director insisted. Peanut resisted. Had Peanut just waited in line with me, she would have worked herself out of her mood by the time we boarded our log.

Instead, she cried because My Director couldn't go with us. Then she refused to listen when I tried to explain how much fun we'd have and how she'd love it just like she loved the Log Flume at Great Adventure last summer. Nope. All I got was a stone-cold, furrowed-browed, thumb-in-the-mouth refusal.

Since I took so many pictures of grumpy Peanut,
My Director took a picture of me every time I was grumpy.
This is me hours after "Splash Mountain," still not over it.

Disappointed, it was now time for my meltdown. And I was in rare form. This is what I was looking forward to all day. For two days in fact. And she ruined my good time, my moment, my memory. And I basically said as much loud enough for her to hear me in her stroller. When My Director tried to be the voice of reason, I shouted her down. I actually said, "No. I want her to feel guilty. I want her to know that I can't go on a ride because of her selfishness." Incidentally, I am still accepting letters of recommendation for my father of the year application, if you're so inclined.

Not my proudest moment as a parent, to say the least.

The day after we returned home, I drove Peanut to school. Her friends were so happy to see her after she had been away for five days. Some of them came rushing up to us. Knowing we were in Disney World, they immediately bombarded us with questions. The first - and last - one I fielded was from a classmate who had recently been to Disney with his family. He looked me right in the eyes with a big smile and said, "Did you go on Splash Mountain?!"

Still a little bitter from the double meltdown that occurred less than 48 hours earlier, my heart immediately sank, my smile suddenly faded, my mood totally changed, "No," I said coldly. "We didn't get to that one."

I'm over it now. Mostly. And if Peanut remembers this incident, she doesn't talk about it. She remembers the good times. That's perfect. At least we have a reason to go back.

I have more proof of Peanut only remembering the positive from our trip. You can read about it here.

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Queen of the Guilt Trip

"Daddy are you talking to Mema?"

"Yes. How can you tell?"

 "Because you're yelling."

An amusing, but not very proud moment in my parenting career. Yes, I was on the phone, talking to my mom. And yes, I was talking rather loudly. "Yelling," as Peanut described. You shouldn't yell at your mom, right? Not ever. I agree... unless she's taking you on a never-ending guilt trip that has spanned three weeks, two states, and several phone calls.

Image from zazzle.com

My mom is an Italian princess. But for the purpose of this story, she is The Queen... The Queen of the Guilt Trip.

Like My Director and I, you've surely visited the websites and read the guide books. You've planned itineraries and scheduled character breakfasts. All to make your child's Disney trip - her first, mind you - special. Memorable. Unforgettable.

And it was after we completed that process that The Queen started her guilt trip. For it was not until then that she learned she was not invited to Disney to celebrate Peanut's birthday, but her grandparent counterparts were.

First, The Queen lulled me into submission with platitudes. Telling me how excited she was for us. How much fun it will be for Peanut. She even said she'd rather celebrate Peanut's birthday after the trip instead of before, so she could see pictures. She had me totally fooled. Little did I know the guilt trip was coming. It started with a nonchalant, high-pitched, "okay" More emphasis on the "O" than they "kay." You hear that, you know trouble's brewing.

When she finally decided she was in fact upset, The Queen piled on the "me's" and "I's." The first-person pronoun is still a sharp, stinging weapon. I was ill-prepared to respond to statements like, "You didn't think of ME." And, "I am very hurt." Then there was the very effective and fully loaded, "I won't get to see MY granddaughter's first reaction when she sees the Magic Kingdom." Ouch. But that doesn't hurt nearly as much as...

The Widow Card: This may not apply to all, but in extreme cases of guilt-tripping, The Queen will in fact invoke widow in several ways. First, she will simply state the fact. "I'm a widow," meaning this hardship entitles her to certain privileges and considerations. Second, she plays the other side of the widow card by invoking dead father. Very tricky and very effective. "If your father were alive, would we be invited on this trip?" My answer: No. (That didn't help matters.) In most cases, invoking widow is highly effective. Not only does it tug at the heart strings and make the tripee wonder "what if," but it is also difficult to dispute true statements (I'm a widow) and outrageous hypothetical statements (If you're father were alive...)

Once she effectively deployed the widow card, she had me so off balance that she smoothly moved on to the complete denial of reality. The Queen had successfully managed to whittle away at my defenses to the point that I'd believe anything. Namely, that she and my mother-in-law not only get along, but actually enjoy each other's company. The fact is, they're all very nice people, they're just not nice to each other. My Director and I are the only ones who can admit this. Also, it's bad enough I'm going to Disney with my in-laws and staying in the same room as them. I need my mom there too?

She then ended the conversation with, "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty." And she was serious. All while either beginning or ending as many statements as possible with two very strategically placed words: "I understand, my son." "But my son, I'm not upset with you." She's a guilt-trip genius. 

I admit, I made some missteps. I could have handled this part of the trip - The Queen - better. I believe she has a right to be upset - a little upset. And she did raise some valid points.

After all, there was a time where my mom was my favorite person in the world. I think most sons (and daughters) can say that. I was such a momma's boy, it lasted well into high school. And even parts of college. Until that beautiful blonde-haired WASP smiled at me from across a crowded room and captured my heart forever.

Still, my mom taught me how to love. She taught me the importance of family and faith, and the value of a dollar. My senses of loyalty, humor, and creativity come from her. She also taught me how to cook. She protected me and comforted me for all of those years. And how do I repay her? I hurt her feelings, right or wrong. Her guilt trip worked.

So I said, "Mom, we'll go on a family trip next year and we'll bring you. Maybe even back to Disney."

You think that would appease her at least a litte, right? Wrong.

"I could be dead by then."

Game. Point. Set. Match. Long live The Queen.

I found this perfect cartoon here.

You read that right...we're staying in the SAME ROOM with my in-laws. You can read all about it here.

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Anger Management

"Life is too short to hold a grudge, also too long." -Robert Brault

I can't stay mad at the dog. I just can't. My daughter, however, is a different story.

But why? Why do I come home to a steaming turd sitting on the floor, courtesy of Luna, yet feel guilty scolding her?

If my daughter committed an equally naughty offense, I still wouldn't be over it hours later. Days even.

Let me paint a poop-colored picture for you: Peanut and I came home from a day of work and daycare (I do pickup.) Peanut goes in first while I empty the car. I follow. We greet Luna and give her the love and affection she's been craving for ten hours.

But on this particular day something I spotted out of the corner of my eye interrupted our reunion...

A dogsh!t surprise at the edge of the area rug, right by the fireplace. (I will spare you a picture.) As soon as I saw it, I shouted, "LUNA, NO." And she knew.

Immediately, her mood changed. Her ears and tail dropped. She slinked away. Then as I said, "BAD GIRL," she started nervously wagging her tail. She knew she was in trouble. She knew she had done something wrong.

There was probably a thunderstorm or something that spooked her during the day. This happens a few times a year. Doesn't make it any less annoying to come home to.

Look at that punum.
How can I stay mad at her?

I grabbed Luna, in case she had forgotten about the pile of crap she had left for me. (I had no idea how long ago she did it. And I wasn't about to call in the CSI folks.) I made sure she saw what I was upset about. (Even though I hate doing that.) I told her "NO. BAD DOG," again.

Then I carried her to the bathroom and shut her in there in time out while I cleaned it. You could tell she was sorry because she didn't whine the whole time she was in there.

And that's why I feel bad punishing Luna. Remorse. She is so sorry. She loves us so much, unconditionally. And when she does something she thinks jeopardizes that love (it doesn't), she feels awful. All she wants is forgiveness.

The Peanut, on the other hand, could care less about seeking forgiveness or feeling remorse. She recently threw a hissy fit over the fact that I had cut in half the piece of chocolate chip banana bread I was giving her AS A TREAT for her first day of pre-K. Oh, the horror.

The offending slice

She completely lost her mind. Screaming, "That's not how I want it." And "That's not how mommy does it." (Nice to make me feel inadequate... again.) Over a piece of CHOCOLATE CHIP banana bread for a pre-dinner snack. Usually, I can get her to calm down. But this being the first day back to school, she was extra tired. Thus, my normally tranquil Peanut had morphed into Little Miss Spazzypants.

I told her she couldn't have the banana bread until she stopped crying and apologized. She wasn't stopping.  I walked away to cook dinner. When I heard her finally calm down, I went over to explain to her what had gone wrong. I was even going to offer her the banana bread again, unsliced, despite the meltdown. IF she apologized. You know what she did instead? Kicked me. (I sense a disturbance in the force.)

As I write this, I'm getting angry all over again and it happened almost two weeks ago.

You know why? No remorse. In her eyes, I was wrong. I had made her upset by cutting the banana bread in half. How dare I? Then I was at fault again by taking it away. The nerve.

That's why I hold grudges against the Peanut. Even long after the tantrum. Even long after she's moved on and is in a good mood again. Even then, I'm looking at her through squinted eyes and with furrowed brow. I'm still hanging on to that anger and frustration.

The sorry she eventually offered wasn't really a sorry. No remorse. She could learn a thing or two from her canine older sister.

My wife often jokes she'd rather get a second puppy than have a second child. One of these days, I just may take her seriously.

Then again, Luna would be devastated. And I really couldn't bear upsetting her.

Can you guess where the Peanut gets her inability to apologize? That's right.

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Shakedown Street

"Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart. You just gotta poke around." -The Grateful Dead

Enough. I'm talking to you, daycare. Enough.

We chose you because you're the best daycare in town. And your prices reflect that, and so does our daughter's enjoyment of her time there. But just stop it. Stop asking me for money.

It seems every time I walk in the door, there's a table set up and someone's trying to sell me something. Bake sales, raffles, book fairs. I know, these things raise money for the daycare or for charity. But I don't have a lot of discretionary income. And that's difficult to explain to a 4 year-old who knows there are cupcakes to buy when you pick her up.

I can live with the bake sale. They practically give this stuff away. I remember walking away with three cupcakes and four cookies for like $3.50 the last time. I gave them a five and told them to keep the change, big deal that I am. "Get a little something nice for yourselves, ladies," as I wink at them and shoot them the old finger gun. 

The raffle WAS for charity, after all. And they did have a bunch of differently themed gift baskets donated, so I wasn't really mad at that. I was mad that I didn't win. And I recently wrote about the book fair, where my daughter asked for three books and a twatty mom judged me for saying yes.

But what happened right before the school year ended was the final straw. A couple of kids and their moms had set up a jewelry sale. Homemade jewelry... by the kids. As soon as I walked in the door, they bombarded me. I tried to play the rushed, stressed, I-gotta-go parent and pretend not to have the time or inclination for such things.

I thought I had pulled it off thanks to my sly routine of going upstairs to get all of my daughter's stuff first, then going outside to get her from the playground, and then straight to the car.

But as we walked to the car, my daughter stopped dead in her tracks.

"Daddy, there's jewelry."

She remembered, or was told, and I couldn't pivot away from it. 

"Sweetie, we don't need jewelry."

"Yes I do." She was so certain.

So I made her promise that if I had bought her jewelry she had to be a good girl and listen and eat all of her dinner and not cry. Being that this was the first time I was seeing her all day, I had no basis for any reward. She could have punched a kid in the face that day for all I knew and here I was about to buy her jewelry.

My only option was to reward possible future activity. Basically, I was giving her this jewelry on credit.

The $10 necklace, marked down to $6

Once inside, she proceeded to choose what turned out to be the most expensive item they had to offer. It was retailing for a whopping $10. Ten bucks! I was unable to hide neither my surprise nor my displeasure at the price of this homemade necklace. I tried, but failed, to convince my daughter to buy something less expensive.

"This bracelet's nice and it's only $3."

She wasn't buying.

One of the moms then told her daughter, the capitalist behind this operation, "Maybe it's time we reduce the prices. It's getting close to closing time." I managed to haggle my way down to six bucks.

On the car ride home, I shook my head in disapproval to myself. I thought what nerve they had setting up a jewelry sale like that. And for what? Themselves? Obnoxious.

That night I voiced my aggravation to my wife. I told her I was going to write a blog about it and call it "Shakedown Street."

"Please don't," she pleaded. "Some of those moms might read it and then they (really) won't like you."

I relented. So why are you reading about it anyway? Because the next day my wife sent me a link to a story on a local website about how those kids were raising money for Relay for Life.

You know who's obnoxious? Me.

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