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| Charlotte on her first trip to Disneyland in 2010. In 2007, when her mother was undergoing fertility treatments, we took a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth. |
Biology is a mysterious thing.
Ask any woman. They’ll tell you women indeed have “biological clocks” that create subconscious impulses that they may or may not be aware of.
The day I realized that I had stopped noticing good-looking guys in the mall in favor of tiny people in strollers was the day I knew my body had turned traitor.
I was pregnant less than a year later. I think that my biological clock is making me exude “grandma” vibes right now. I spent Sunday at Disneyland with my daughters where I had close encounters with children, whom I generally try to avoid.
Sitting on a fence outside of the Frontierland fort, I was giving my aching feet a rest when a little girl clambered up alongside and looked up at me expectantly.
I noticed that she had a fancy “princess” hairdo many young girls were sporting that day — created at some Disney Princess location in the park I can only assume was secret, because I never found it.
Looking down at her “do,” I noticed that she had rows of hair twisted back to the crown, where each row was accented by a small silk flower, and the rest was caught in a bun.
“Your head sparkles,” I observed, noting the multicolored glitter hair spray.
“I know,” she beamed, patting her rows carefully. Then she began playing with my hair, pulling ringlets out as far as they would go, then letting them snap back.
“I want hair like yours,” she said wistfully, as every last ounce of my cynical reserve melted.
I should explain that “The Happiest Place on Earth” was serving as the backdrop that day to what I like to call “BabyQuest 2007.”
My oldest daughter is trying to get pregnant, which necessitates trips to the reproductive endocrinologist at intervals dictated by her body, not convenience.
Not only did we have to make a trip to Thousand Oaks before we could go to Disneyland, we had to smuggle in a syringe and a vial of something so she could give herself a shot in the stomach if necessary.
The lab test took three or four hours, and the doctor said he would call either way, so we waited. She finally got antsy and called him, but cell reception is spotty in New Orleans Square and she was agitated by getting disconnected while on hold.
It turns out she didn’t have to use the syringe, but we were all very careful what we said lest the overload of hormones spin her off into emotional orbit.
Later that night at California Adventure I was listening to my iPod, waiting for my kids to get off a ride when suddenly I noticed a short person in front of me with his mouth moving.
I jerked out my earbuds, and said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
I still don’t know what he said to me first, because the chatty little boy with the shock of black hair was on to the next thought — something to do with dinosaurs.
He imitated the T-Rex on his T-shirt, curling his little fingers into claws, making a “Rawr” noise, accompanied by a fierce face.
I told him he’d better stop or I’d have nightmares. He told me he had four grandmas and four grandpas, showing me on his fingers how many four was. His father at the end of the bench laughed to himself when his son described one of the grandpas as “bad.
“He never remembers my name. He always calls me someone else’s name, not Matthew,” he said indignantly.
I asked if he went to school. He said “Yes.” I asked him how old he was. He showed me four fingers again. “Oh,” I said, “you must go to preschool.” His eyes widened and he gasped, “How did you know?!” as if I were a magician.
“What do you learn at preschool?” I asked.
“My ABCs. Wanna hear?” he said, launching into the song.
Bring on the grandkids. I’m ready.
