When he was on active duty in the Air Force, my dad always used the phrase "Variations Authorized." It’s a Department of Defense term; it means that a traveling military member may be required to deviate from his or her location orders.
This phrase was supposed to mimic Dad’s life philosophy. But during my tumultuous teens, I'd questioned its existence. Where was this que sera sera vibe? Our life was all about strict order and following the plans put in place, especially as we moved from country to country.
So, when my husband and I decided to surprise our three girls with a trip to Walt Disney World in December, I expected Dad would try to dissuade me from such an expensive journey. See, I’d inherited his cheap — uh, frugal — genes, and figured he'd bring me back to reality. Imagine my shock when he offered to tag along.
Was this part of Variations Authorized? What an impulsive decision! Who was this guy? Perhaps my real father was on a secret military mission somewhere?
Staying on Park property was important to me as I’m not fond of vacation driving. Booking a room at the nautical-theme Yacht Club enabled us to use the complimentary Magical Express bus from Orlando International Airport to a hotel that wasn’t overrun by screaming children — a boon to my sanity. We’d booked our stay before Dad came on board, but later discovered as family members, we could have stayed with him at the deluxe Shades of Green military resort in the Magic Kingdom.
Plan of Attack
A few hours into day one, I was grumbling about the cost of lunch for six and lamenting how I should have planned better and brought snacks and water bottles. Dad finally cut off my rant with a stern directive. "You’re killing the magic," he said. "Cut it out!" At that moment, I was 10 again; but he was right, so I donned some mouse ears and vowed to get with the program.
On day two, I was determined to devise a park-navigation plan. I’m big on itineraries. My biggest anxiety? Making my girls — each with different park personalities — happy. My husband, Willie; 9-year-old Chyna; and 16-year-old Nijah; all have a need for speed and are quite fearless. Croix, my 11-year-old, isn’t fond of heights or surprises, and, frankly, neither am I. When the Tower of Terror came up at MGM Studios, Dad said, "Oh, I don’t think so. My stomach can’t handle that stuff anymore."
So we split up: The scaredy-cats headed for Muppet Vision-3D and the daredevils went to drop 13 stories on purpose. The split went against my pre-trip "Everyone must stay together" motto. But things worked out fine. Having cell phones calmed me, and we all rode the rides we really wanted to without suffering trauma or boredom.
I discovered a playful side to Dad when we went on the Kali River Rapids in the Animal Kingdom. I was screaming when the cold water hit me and looked up to see my father with his video camera out, laughing hard. It was a pretty endearing sight. At the end of the ride, he and Croix shouted, "Again! Again!" and off they went, while I toweled off.
"Grandpa is fun," Nijah said at one point during the trip. "He makes jokes, but he’s not corny. And he's always trying to get us to taste weird food when we go out." This was a definite compliment from a child who sometimes finds vacationing with adults to be "super-lame."
And she was right. He was fun now. He’d become the grandpa who led nighttime crab-searching expeditions during a family vacation in Destin, Fla. The type of man who bought my children a tent because he had discovered the joys of camping. Camping? We never went camping when I was a child!
Finding Your Inner Mouseketeer
On our last day, Chyna asked "Mommy, why is grandpa calling us Mouseketeers?" I was raised in Europe primarily, and admitted I didn’t exactly know what a Mouseketeer was. I'd heard references to my favorite singer, Justin Timberlake, but never figured it out.
My husband was shocked to hear this news, and Dad looked at me and said, "You don’t know what a Mouseketeer is?" No, I didn't; somehow I felt as if I'd missed some quintessential childhood event. I kind of shrugged it off and thought that was the end of it.
I also missed out on going to Disney’s Pleasure Island. Hoping we'd get some adult time, my husband and I planned to visit there on the last night, but Dad said he would be going. So much for grandpa babysitting!
The kids returned from vacation ready to tackle a week of school before winter break and full of stories to tell their friends. But imagine my surprise when I woke up Christmas morning and unwrapped my gift from Dad — a Mickey Mouse Club DVD. Guess that proves it's never too late to become a member, and I joined at just the right time.
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