Sometime last year my then four-year-old daughter was waking up every single night. I was desperate and very, very sleep deprived. My husband and I tried sticker charts, other kinds of rewards, even going as far as to pay her to stay in bed. (Did I mention we were desperate?)
But the only thing that really seemed to capture her imagination and harness her motivation was this bargain: stay in your bed for a month and I’ll take you to Walt Disney World. Since we struck that deal, I can count on one hand the number of times she has gotten out of bed in the last eight months. And that is how I—an amusement park loather who wrote her junior year English thesis on the portrayal of women in Disney movies (spoiler alert: it’s not good, even for the empowered female characters)—ended up at “the happiest place on earth” for three days in February.
What does someone like me do in a situation like this—admittedly one of my own making? (My husband, who is still scarred by his own childhood trip to Disney World, told me I’m on my own). Initially my plan was to go into Jane Goodall mode and observe these unusual species—adults who like Disney World—in their natural habitat. Perhaps I’d even find a way to enjoy the theme parks that didn’t offend every sensibility of mine. Namely, hordes of princesses and overpriced food in mediocre restaurants.
