There's No Crying In Disneyland.

Keely turned three this past weekend and to celebrate my parents, her parents and I took her to Disneyland. The Happiest Place On Earth turns even the cutest child ugly. At some point, every kid there devolves into a crying, sweaty, cracked out mess.

Keely's meltdown came right as we left The Tiki Room - you know, where all the birds sing words and the flowers croon, in the Tiki, Tiki, Tiki Room. She dropped a plastic toy that she had been given during the Main Street Parade off of the Tiki Room deck and immediatly lost her shit. She went limp, fell to the ground and started weeping. Weeping. Almost to the point of keening. Then she yelled, "Amy! I just can't anymore." Too much of a good thing, I guess.

I really wanted to tell her to enjoy it, because life isn't fair and it only gets harder and bills and jobs and relationships and shattered dreams and unrelaized expectations and also men are pigs. But why ruin a good day, right? So instead I just leaned down and said, "Grrrl, you can't cry at Disneyland. If Tinkerbell finds out she will make you go home." Guess what? It worked. She immediatly stopped crying and asked for popcorn. Thank god, because my Plan B was to tell her to shut up and slap her but hard.