i only wear white when it rains

because blogging is cheaper than therapy

maternal sacrifices

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You're bathing with THIS guy.

Ask any mother the meaning of maternal sacrifice and she need only point to her stretch marks and not-yet-lifted breasts to show you.

Long after we’ve lost the 50-cough pounds we gained during pregnancy and managed to endure enough Music with Mar classes to make anyone want to stab themselves in the ear with a Play-Doh knife, the sacrifices continue.

My daughter is now six, and I still marvel at what I’d do for this persuasive little person.

Take this weekend for example. Somehow our trip to Magic Kingdom turned into an inaugural visit to Typhoon Lagoon: one of Disney’s two reservoirs for liquid waste.

My daughter has developed a penchant for swimming in subzero temperature waters. A desire I think one loses roughly after the age of eight. So once I failed to convince her that Epcot and a convertible when she turns 16 was way more fun than swimming in Arctic cesspools, I found myself sporting a completely impractical bikini top (natch), paralyzed by the pimpled backs of strangers I knew I’d soon be “bathing” with in the park’s ridiculously dangerous wave pool.

A few glacial waves into the morning my fear of incurable skin diseases was overcome by paranoia that one of the typical turkey leg-eating Disney goers would crash into my 40-pound child splashing around like a water fairy blissfully unaware of the pool’s bacterial load. So I strategically positioned myself in front of her knowing I’d lessen the impact of whatever sort of beast washed over her with every wave. It was then that I spotted a man who I’m convinced could be mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster based on neck length alone. While I wondered how it was humanly possible for his torso to be as tall as it was round, he stared back at me licking his smacks like Chilly Willy eyeing Smedley-turned hotdog.

Sure as my nibbies were frozen into icicles stabbing holes into my string bikini, the next wave brought Nessie crashing into my cerebellum with the force of a tequila hangover. Once I surfaced from the Tsunami of blubber and hair, I looked around to first make sure my child was afloat. Only after I established that she was still breathing, did I assess my own shattered parts.

“Can we take a break from the wave pool?” I begged my little fish. “Mommy may or may not have a skull fracture, broken clavicle and six bruised ribs.”

My daughter agreed to the break, but only because just seconds earlier she realized that she needed to use the restroom. Judging from the look of alarm on her face and the knowledge we both had that the wave pool comprises 90% urine, I knew that her emergency would require a complete shutdown of Typhoon Lagoon if we didn’t exit that pool. Now.

So we Olympic hurdle jumped our way over Nessie’s offspring to exit the cesspool in search of a restroom, located (mother bitch!) on the other side of the park and nowhere near the lockers which housed our only footwear. Now would be a good time to admit that I contemplated which would be more disgusting: my daughter defecating in her swimsuit or me entering a public restroom barefoot.

Fortunately for her self-esteem, I did not mandate a detour to the lockers and instead beelined straight into the slimy-floored bathroom that I’m pretty sure will guarantee a toenail fungus so severe my nails will grow up instead of out.

Luckily, we made it. Sort of. I would be remiss if I didn’t include the part about me taking her swimsuit bottoms and scrubbing them out with fistfuls of hand soap in the Typhoon Lagoon showers so that we could return for another round of wave pool torture.

Now brace yourself for this: I entered the bathroom barefoot for the rest of the day. Sure, I was on tiptoes and more than a little grossed out, but even for a germaphobe like me, wearing sandals after already using the facilities without them seemed a bit like wearing a condom with a guy I already had sex with several times without. Logic screamed, “If you have heel herpes, sandals can’t help you now!”

So after a day of shivering and contemplating what sort of infectious diseases we’d bring back as souvenirs, my daughter and I finally made it to Magic kingdom for an evening of fireworks and a few shows.

As we sat watching Mickey’s PhilharMagic 4D for the 800th time, I caught a glimpse of her giggling as she reached out to catch the rubies Ariel threw to the audience. And I think it was in that moment of beauty and wide-eyed innocence that I realized getting neck fucked by the Loch Ness Monster was a small price to pay for her joy.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

March 15, 2011 at 12:57 am

2 Responses

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  1. That was so incredibly hysterical…I envisioned every second of it and was laughing out loud. What a great piece!

    Thea

    March 17, 2011 at 9:32 pm

  2. (ROFL) I’ll never look at Disney the same again! 🙂

    bronsont

    March 18, 2011 at 12:07 pm


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