Nakey Pants

       Mary has reached a fun new milestone this week. We now have our own personal streaker in the house. Even as I sat down to post today, she was taking off her pants. Her m.o. is to wait until our attention is diverted, especially when the parent on duty decides to go to the bathroom or run upstairs to put away some laundry, then strip and sit on the couch. Unfortunately, she can't quite manage her shirt, so she ends up with her sleeves still on, and the rest of the shirt tucked behind her neck. On her, this is a pretty good look. Upon discovery, she grins and stuffs her hands in her mouth, eyes sparkling. She has pulled a fast one on us, and she knows it. Alternately, she runs away, although "run" is a bit if a stretch. Picture a small, fast Frankenstein lurching around the house, punctuated by an occasional jump.

     I should be grateful for this, as Mary didn't even begin walking until she was two and a half years old. On our family trip to DisneyWorld, in 2008 at Christmas, she was just on the cusp of walking independently, so she spent most of her days in the stroller, being pushed from ride to ride while napping intermittently. A word about Disney - the lines are truly hellish, unless you happen to have a disabled child in your party. Then, you are treated like movie stars. The staff gives you a special pass, good for up to six guests, that admits you to either the very short handicapped line or a special entrance to all attractions. You can imagine the number of dirty looks we received from exhausted families who were waiting an hour to ride "It's a Small World," which Mary rode five times in a row. With no waiting. Awesome.

     Even in the Happiest Place on Earth, however, things were not perfect. Because Mary was in a stroller and not a wheelchair, we were stopped at every entrance that said "No Strollers," even with not one but two handicapped tags attached. At the baby changing station, an attendant tried to prevent me from entering, and when I said that it was a handicapped stroller, she smirked and said, "Oh really." For those of you not familiar with the Disney employee code, this was the real-world equivalent of telling me to go f*** myself. I put on my coldest look and said, calmly but sternly, "Are you questioning me?"

     My brother, sensing the wrath I was about to rain down, wisely took his fiancee and left. Primed as I was for a fight, the woman backed down. In retrospect, I can sympathize with her - Christmas is insanely busy, and I wouldn't be able to be magically polite under her working conditions. But after defending my daughter's right to stay in her stroller for probably the twentieth time that day, I'd had enough. Disney brings out the worst in everyone, I think. So much pressure to HAVE FUN, DAMMIT!

     I'm glad to know that the next time we go to DisneyWorld, Mary will be happily trotting around. Most likely, naked.