Fertile Myrtle and I took the Fiece to Disneyland today, and I was, as always, totally blown away by how vocal and intelligent and fantastic Fiece is. I’m sure she’s giving me a completely unrealistic idea of what it’s like to hang out with a twenty-two-month-old baby, because she laughs at my stupid jokes, repeats phrases like “Booyah!” and “Shall we?” and already gives a pretty mean (read: incredible) stink-eye when told to, say, stop stealing French fries from my plate. (I anticipate there will be many more fry turf wars in our future. She is a girl after my own heart.)
We had an absolute blast, with the exception of the first thirty minutes, when we forced a terrified Fiece to ride both “Pinocchio” and “Snow White” while she shouted over the scary music and strobe lights and cackling witches and braying donkey-boys, “All done! All done! ALL DONE!!!” She was not pleased. Lesson of the day: for all its storybook charm, Fantasy Land is actually a pretty horrifying time for small children. The fiece enjoyed “Alice in Wonderland” simply because she didn’t understand that the Queen of Hearts’ end game was to chop our heads off.
I used to be firmly anti-Disney Princess, but now I’m thinking I would rather have discussions about gender equality and the demoralizing lack of strong female cartoon characters than have to explain why a giant man named after an Italian turnover lured children to his private island with candy and games before turning them into donkeys and forcing them into slavery while they live in cages and cry, “I just want to go home!” I am now firmly anti-Pinocchio. Sorry, Jiminy. That story is just too upsetting.
Here are some Instagrammed photos of a toddler in shades:
As a woman who has never watched an entire football game from start to finish, I can think of no better way I would have wanted to spend Superbowl Sunday.