Evelyn’s made a friend from Louisiana, which feels fitting, since we’re staying at Port Orleans, a Mardi Gras, bayou-themed resort. It’s lush here, with all sorts of palm trees, sword ferns, and old man’s beard flowing like gray, woolly scarves from the trees.
We’re at the pool, a short football throw from our room. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The only stressor, if I’m honest, is other parents. I pay a little too much attention to how they talk to their kids, how dysregulated they get, and then I get worked up in response.
No more of that, Jaclynn. You are on vacation.
Other people are allowed their hard moments and their dynamics. I don’t have to judge it or make sense of it. Being a counselor is a really good fit for me—but my therapist hat is going in the trash for the next week. I don’t need to track the lines of dysfunction or name what’s happening.
It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s game time.
Fast forward, and we’re at the night before Disney. All the prep and planning have led to this moment. A good night’s sleep is a must. An early wake-up too—6:30 a.m. alarm, 7:00 a.m. out the door. Bus ride, beat the rush. Our Disney resort stay gets us in 30 minutes early, so it’s straight to Tron. That 85-minute midday wait is not in my plans. Then over to Peter Pan.
After that—who knows. Who cares. My job is done.
From there, we saunter. If we’re the tortoise and not the hare, we win. If we sit and people-watch, we get the grand prize. If we’re going to make it to the fireworks over the castle—and beyond—pacing will be key.
I’ll prioritize the shows. The sit-down, air-conditioned performances will be the salve for any burnout.
For now, Michigan and Arizona are playing in the Final Four. With my niece at Arizona, we’ve got some strong fans—even her parents are in the stands.
Alright, I better go. Let this head rest.
Night, night.
Love, Jaclynn