“Lucy,” says my sister’s mother from her bed.
“Please step out on the veranda and see if there is a title wave out there.”
It’s two in the morning and I’m convinced that the Dramamine we generously ingested was either a sugar pill or a kiddy dose. This feels like shit.
“I mean, if there is one, we’re fucked. But just check, yeah?”
I get up from my sleeping couch and struggle to open the child-protected door to our balcony. Standing up is refreshing, disorienting. When lying down, perpendicular to the direction we are moving, it’s difficult to tell how many degrees toward titanic we are rising and falling. I craved more than once a leveler to stare at to calm my nerves—a bubble to follow that would give me at least a one second advantage if this ship decides to tip over.
I open the door, cloaked with the sisterly confidence and courage one gets when pridefully attempting to protect their kin.
It’s beautiful out. The starry sky shining, seemingly just for us, above the abyss of ocean beneath. The ship dominating the waves like an unaffected middle schooler, passing hordes of petty bullies trying to shake his pride to no avail. We are moving with purpose—with a destination. I step inside.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Laura asks.
“No title wave. Or title waves. I think we’re in our heads.” I say
We have the diagnoses. Anxiety, not seasickness. Time to pass out the Lorazepam.
I’ve heard getting six-year-olds ready in the morning is tough. They’re tired, whiny and usually look so cute sleeping that waking them feels like a terrible tragedy. When I was a kid, my mom used to carry us individually from (her) bed to the floor, lining us up like items in an assembly line. She would slip us into our uniforms one by on, each of us still sleeping only slightly less soundly cause of the hard floor and bright lights. We would be left there to yawn and stretch and cuddle while my mother would prepare the pancake batter downstairs. Without the thrill of dropping the chocolate chips onto the pan, I don’t know what would have gotten us out of bed all those years.
However with Sally the actual waking up isn’t what’s difficult, at least on vacation. She spends time adding detangler to her hair, combing it tirelessly, and adorning it with various gems. She carefully picks out an outfit, ensuring every garment and accessory match to her highly stylized desire. She’s super cute. Always looking like one of those kids on the Disney Channel with her own hippie glitz twist. I, on the other hand, attempt to brush the growing knot out from the back of my head, borrowing her hair products to accomplish this. When it hurts or I get tired, I give up and put it in a bun pretending not to see her knowing glances, communicating in her subtle way that I am forgetting something.
I do worry that Sally doesn’t think I’m pretty, that she’s embarrassed by her hairy, non-make-up wearing sister. In fact she has told me before that she doesn’t think I’m beautiful and, when I asked her why, she said that I just “don’t care about that stuff.” This made me sad, sadder than I’d like to admit really. I guess I felt like this was some part of the criteria she used to assess how cool I was and informed how much she looked up to me in some small way. I wanted, and still want to be her role model and honestly believe that if she mocks some of the empowered and subversive aspects of my behavior, growing up girl wont be as difficult.
It was slightly less troubling that she acknowledged that beauty, in the sense that she understood it, wasn’t something “natural” or fixed but something that could be achieved. At least, in her mind, I was “choosing” not to be beautiful and wasn’t just objectively unattractive. But this was more a selfish reflex than anything reassuring about the healthiness and validity of her enveloping worldview however. The idea that beauty is meritocratic is something that continues to imprison women, hopeful that just one more stick of lip liner and microdermabrasion treatment will bring the confidence they need to be successful. And while this does bring real, perhaps fleeting self-assuredness to some women, it serves on a broader social level to hold us back, to deprave us economically and spiritually and instill debilitating levels of anxiety in us.
This particular morning we head to the Donald pool, dug in the middle of floor eleven. Of course, this is not as simple as a hop in the elevator and voila, the most crowded pool you’ve ever seen awaits. No. The Disney imagineers have decided to add a game or attraction to every painting, staircase and railing. There are puzzles, moving photographs and clues, for what exactly I am still unsure, smattered across every surface of the ship. A two minute walk becomes an hour long adventure, that is, if you don’t come across a character…
Despite the incredible joy and excitement that an encounter with one of these silent, over sized stuffed animals brings to my sister, I avoid them at all costs. The lines are long, usually between five and fifteen minutes and the payoff is minimal. An illegible signature and an expensive photograph you will surely not purchase is all that comes of these impediments. But the screeching whine of a small child is enough to delay your journey, especially with the omnipresence of other parents and nannies quietly judging your lack of child rearing abilities.
We make it to the elevator without pause and just as we are about to board our ticket to poolside relaxation there is a sighting.
“Cinderella!” Sally screeches, her finger erect towards the dazzling real life princess across the atrium.
I watch the elevator close as she begins to drag me in the direction of the line. As we move closer Sally begins to skip, smiling to cheek to cheek in anticipation of meeting what I presume she believes is the real Cinderella. As I begin to dig in my Castaway Club bag for her autograph book, my dread of the impeding encounter switches to opportunism.
“Sally,” I say, “why don’t you ask Cinderella how long it took her to get ready this morning?”
She looks at me curiously.
“I bet it took her a long time…to do all that hair and make-up. That’s why I don’t think it would be very fun to be a princess, think of all the time you’d miss playing and swimming and stuff?”
She looks at me in agreement. “Yeah, and she can’t even get wet or anything…how long do you think it takes her, Lucy?” she asks.
“Hmm…maybe 5 hours?” I figure overestimating can only work to work to my advantage in this situation.
We continue to talk and laugh about this matter coming up with all the things we could do in five hours instead of stand in front of a mirror. And just as I think she is ready to ditch this line and cannon ball onto Donald’s beak, we hear the high-pitched greeting that is the stock-voice all the princesses aboard.
“Hello Princess!” says Cinderella, “what’s your name?”
Our chance to meet Cinderella arrives and Sally, awestruck and unable to do anything except jump up and down repeatedly, cannot utter a single word.
“Her name is actually Princess! How did you know?” I consider replying.
“Her name is Sally,” I say.
Cinderella complements my sisters hair accessories and then holds down her flailing arms to get the photo taken—the one that we will definitely not buy. Just as Sally begins to approach me, embarrassingly walking away from Cinderella without even a farewell glance, I remind her to ask the question.
Sally then turns around, stiff fingers covering her small mouth, and asks “umm… how long does it take you to get ready in the morning?”
Cindy looks up at me, part troubled and part flattered by my sister’s inquisition. I signal her as best I can, attempting to covey with just a glance “Please, say a long time, Cinderella. The self-image of an impressionable young girl is at stake. Come on, Cindy.”
She looks back at my sister, who is anxiously awaiting her response.
“Oh Sally, well, my fairy god mother just waves her magic wand and voila, I’m ready for the ball.”
What I lack in conventional beauty I surely make up for in entertainment. As a veteran camp counselor, life-long older sister, and level one improve comedy graduate, my knowledge of games is pretty solid. Needless to say, upon getting into the Donald pool, Sally begins recruiting other kids to the play the game I am presumably about to organize. Sally approaches her recruits the way any child would, by getting eight inches in front of their face and asking, “what to play with me?” If this hook isn’t enough to entice them she usually makes a second effort with the natural follow up, “guess what?” The recruit, now curious about whatever this pushy kid is trying to get at, replies with the requisite, “what?”
“My dad is sixty. How old is yours?”
“Sixty? Whoa. That’s so old. Like a grandpa. My dad is thirty-two”
“So, want to play?” Asks Sally.
I’m not sure what is so alluring to young children about having a sixty year old father, but, like clockwork, this pick up line seems to work every time.
Once we have a motley arrangement of youths, Sally instructs to me “say the rules.” I decide we will play categories, hardly a testament to my game knowledge but appropriate for the crowd at hand. I explain, semi-distracted by the girl next to me sipping in a mouthful of pool (pee) water and spitting it back into the space in front of my face. I decide a practice round is the best way forward.
Half way through the round I find myself holding two participants, one on each side, who have taken Sally’s cue and decided to use me as a flotation device. I look around awkwardly, inspecting the crowd of boozing parents on the deck, checking to make sure no one looks like the type that will accuse me of molesting the children they have left unattended in the pool. Before I get a comprehensive look, we have a winner. The category was, of course, princesses, and the answer was Tiana.
The girl who is “it” asks me to make up the category for her.
“How about Christmas?” I suggest.
“Okay. I’m ready,” says it girl shyly.
A four-minute avalanche of all things Christmas themed ensues. Santa. Reindeer. Christmas tree. Presents. Stocking. Rudolf. All the other reindeer. Elves. Workshop. Cookies. Snow. Gingerbread house. But nothing. Shy it girl shakes her head slyly with each guess as the increasingly frustrated group of guessers begins to show signs of surrender.
I instruct shy it girl to tell us the first letter of the answer.
“J.B.” she responds coyly.
A couple of the older girls, probably around seven, shout out simultaneously “Jingle Bells!” Shy it girl shakes her head. I am shocked. What else could it be? Someone guesses ginger bread again, hoping that she is spelling it wrong. Nope. This girl is good.
I ask her to tell me what it is so I can make up a hint. Smiling, she whispers in my ear, “Jesus’ birthday.”
Sally, half-Jewish and half-godless libertarian, is not going to get this one. I imagine my dad would consider it a personal accomplishment that my sister is unable to identify key religious figures and iconography at six and a half. As for the other bunch, who knows if these kids are church going. I would assume that most religious think of Mickey as some sort of anti-Christ, corrupting the youth and distracting them from the service of the almighty. I begin to feel bad for this girl. How sweet that she chose something that signified the “true” purpose behind holiday, something I imagined many of the kids around her were unfamiliar with. I attempt to give my hint.
“Okay, what is the most famous book in the world?”
“Go-fish!” one girl replies. Clearly I need to go in a different direction.
“Who is the main character in the Bible?” I ask. Blank faces. Shy it girl is starting to look a bit sad and embarrassed. “We celebrate Christmas cause it’s Jesus’…” I linger.
“Birthday!” Another girl screams. Shy it girl is relieved and I am relieved for her. Like children do, all begin to share their different iterations of “I was thinking that, I just didn’t guess it.” Sally, a bit delayed says “Oh yeah, I read that book to my one-year-old sister.”
The thought of Sally reading our baby sister the bible, a book that is definitely not present in my fathers house, is hilarious to me. Not wanting to embarrass her or shy it girl, I reign in my laughter and begin round two.
Three kids menus and five courses later, we’re ready for our evening festivities. Laura hands me “The Navigator,” the daily newsletter aboard, and instructs me to look for an activity we can all attend together. I search the schedule for events. Character meet-and-greet, no. Deck 11 Mulan sing-a-long, no. How Well Do You Know Your Family game, absolutely. These are always entertaining and give you the feeling that your family isn’t so distant and fucked up given that the ones on display don’t know each others favorite color.
It’s being held in “The Tube”—the restaurant and dance hall that’s been decorated to look like the famous English transport system, with a flamboyant Disney twist of course. The poles standing throughout the space have become the unfortunate playground for the young children in the room who have begun flailing their small bodies around them in the style of a novice stripper. I guess Disney has a record for sexualizing the infantile.
The small dance party that’s erupted in the center of the room is briefly halted by a crew member, who asks us how we are doing tonight. Unsatisfied with the cooing cheer from the audience, he lets us know he’s going to try that again.
“I said how are we doing tonight?”
“Welcome to How Well Do You Know Your Family! Now, we need everyone up on the dance floor so we can pick the families that are going to end up on stage this evening. So come on down and let us see your best moves!”
I sit down, enjoying my first sip of the imported beer Laura has ordered for us to share and watch the crowd begin to form in front of me. I notice the discrepancy between the predictable beat of “I’ve got a Feeling” and the awkwardly moving bodies of the tipsy parents on the dance floor. This is going to be good.
Just as I begin to get comfortable in my oddly shaped mock tube chair, I notice Sally and her mother being escorted on stage. Brilliant. Even better than watching the families of strangers forget each others most fundamental attributes is watching your own, from a distance. iPhone’s out, let the show begin.
First the host escorts the parents in the pairs out of the room. He then asks the kids a series of questions about their parents, the funniest of which is, “If your parent farts, do they a) blame the dog b) announce it proudly or c) deny, deny deny.” Sally chooses a.
The parents return and the disparity in responses is quite a show. After giving his answer for ‘who is your daughters best friend?’ the daughter of this out-of-touch father responded, “who the heck is that?!”
Laura and Sally get zero matches. Laura admits she would c) deny, deny, deny. Now it’s the children’s turn to leave the room.
All the parents guessed that if their children knocked over an expensive vase in the house their kids would fess up. Wishful thinking. A couple more questions are asked and the kids return.
The first question the kids have to answer is “What does your child want to be when they grow up?”
The first child gets the mike. She is a six-year-old girl from Philadelphia named Kindred. Her mother had guessed she wanted to “do karate.” Kindred thinks on stage, likely trying to make a compromise between what she really wants to do and what her mother would have guessed she wants to do. “A cop” she answers. The crowd goes wild. The host inquires, “Well, your mom guessed you wanted to do karate, to be a ninja perhaps?” Kindred’s face is animated with a look of extreme confusion. “I haven’t done karate since I was three!” Kindred yells in her mothers face.
Not a match.
Sally grabs the mike, looking serious despite the hilarity that had just ensued. Laura had guessed that Sally would want to be a performer, a dancer she specified. I was honestly unsure what Sally would say. A few days prior she told me she wanted to be a celebrity, “like her parents.” She took a deep breath.
“I want to be a teacher,” she said proudly, looking in my direction.
Maybe I am her role model after all.