When I was three, my parents took me to Disneyland for my birthday. It was the first trip of many, a family tradition in the making. For every child my parent had, and they had four, they planned a visit to the theme park. Tickets were much cheaper then, so we’d make a week-long trip of it, piling into the family car Dad had affectionately named Ole Suburban. Beneath blankets and squished by pillows, we’d spend the eight-hour drive fighting over GameBoys and cheering for completed puzzle books. As we got older, the car grew quieter—four teenagers listening to Discmans, alphabetizing burned CDs.
At the park, my parents were superhumans, waking up to the sun with smiles on their faces, with schedules planned by the hour: character breakfast at seven, princess meet-and-greet after lunch, the parade of lights just before dinner. We’d ride rides until the fireworks painted the sky, then sneak in one or two more before the park closed. By the time we wandered back through the iron gates, we …
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