Faith, Trust, and a little Anxiety for Us

What Mickey Mouse and Disneyland taught me about courage in motherhood.

Over the summer, the playtime soundtrack for our one-and-a-half-year-old has been whatever Disney classic I happened to select. As much as we love Ms. Rachel, my involuntary ability to recite an entire episode from memory made me think we needed a break. Mommy might need a break.

He’ll watch a little, play, or dance to songs like Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride from Lilo and Stitch. He loves the music, colors, and characters. Who wouldn’t? Meanwhile, I enjoyed the stories, which made me realize just how long it’s been since I’ve seen these movies. For some, it’s been years.

The nostalgia of the classics is honestly soothing in the ever-fluctuating world of motherhood. Though I have to say, the songs and stories hit me differently now.

Disney movies became an ordinary part of our summer days together.

There was a time in my life when the characters’ sense of adventure and courage left little me in awe. The character either swam across an entire ocean to find his son, leapt into a literal whirlpool of death to save the woman he loves, or risked her life and her family’s honor to protect the emperor and her country. That unyielding, heroic bravery felt grand and aspirational.

Meanwhile, I gather courage to bring my son to the park or eat in a restaurant. This made Disney movies seem more like, well, fairytales.

One day, as I watched my son bob up and down to the rhythm of Kuzco and Pacha being chased through the hills of his kingdom, I heard the voices of friends and family in my mind. The memory went as far back as our baby shower: “Kids get in free to Disneyland until they turn three! You guys better take advantage of that!”

At the time, we would smile and agree, especially considering the price of Disneyland tickets. But I can’t say that either my husband or I were set on going. Mostly because we couldn’t even picture what that would look like now.

The last time we went to Disneyland was in 2018, pre-pandemic and pre-parenthood, with my husband’s cousins. A very different time. A really great day. His cousins are so much fun and know the park like the back of their hands, making them the perfect Disney tour guides and companions. But even with their incredible strategies, know-how, and Disney savvy, we were completely exhausted by the end of the day.

How could we possibly do all that with a toddler in tow?

Disney movies and the park always held special memories in our hearts, but neither my husband nor I ever really considered ourselves “Disney people”. At least, not enough to validate all the logistics, effort, and immense anxiety that I expected would come with bringing a toddler to Disneyland. So, whenever someone brought it up, we smiled at the idea, considered it a pipe dream, and instead brought the Disney magic home to us through the movies. We decided we would be happy to bring our son when he’s a little older, a little more predictable. Even if we had to pay.

We didn’t plan to go to Disneyland.

Then, the magic started to find us.

My husband’s cousins, the same ones who held our hands through our last incredible visit to the park, texted. They were planning another trip to Disneyland.

And they were kind enough to ask if we’d come.

With our son.

He’d be free after all.

True.

But now that we were faced with the very real possibility of going to Disneyland with our fully walking, semi-talking, sort-of-jumping, suddenly-sprinting, big-feeling-having toddler, there was so much running through our minds. My husband and I stared at one another in panic laced with a sense of “if you’re in, I’m in, but are we in?”

It’ll be August and scorching.

What if our son hates rides?

What if he gets scared mid-ride?

What if he has a meltdown?

What if he refuses to sit in the stroller and we have to carry him through the park?

What if the other people in our group want to do other things?

What if they feel pressured to stay with us and end up sacrificing their Disney day?

What if we’re just not the kind of family who can do Disneyland with a toddler?

What if I’m just not brave enough to deal with all of it?

We just looked at each other. The pressure was building. I never thought an invitation to the happiest place on earth would make me anything but, well, happy.

My husband and I decided to think about it.

In the following days, the ease of declining their offer hovered. Every time I hustled to gather things into the baby bag, or get my son ready to leave, or desperately tried to regulate my own emotions so that I could soothe my wailing son who simply wanted to tug at the electrical cord attached to a fan, the “no” lingered in my mind.

Then, one day, after doing the whole aforementioned routine, we visited my parents. Just as I was catching my breath from the morning, as my parents chased my sprinting son around, I heard, “He made a poopy!”

As Disney stories teach us time and time again, magic comes in many forms. I just never would’ve expected it to begin with a diaper change.

I usually change my son’s diaper in my childhood bedroom when we visit. Aside from the fact that everything is neatly placed in its designated spots, my parents didn’t change much. Except for one thing: my mom bought stuffed animals for my son, so they sit on the shelf beside mine.

As I set up the changing pad and tried to keep my energetic toddler in the room with me, the newer stuffies caught my eye. Front and center were three familiar faces: Donald Duck, Minnie Mouse, and Mickey. This visual, in combination with the babbling of a wriggly little boy, brought back the memory that, when I was his age, my nursery was Disney-themed. On the wall directly across from my crib were two giant posters: one of Minnie, and one of Mickey.

Disney magic? No. No way. I shook it off. Those toys have been there for months. It’s not as though they were touched by pixie dust, had flown in, and just appeared. No.

I turned to pick up my son, hoping that he would come willingly. After all the excitement of playing with his grandparents, I expected to have to wrangle him. Instead, I found him just standing and pointing at a toy. Mickey Mouse.

Nope. Still a coincidence.

I lifted him up and onto the changing pad, realizing this would be a wiggly change. I started to queue up Ms Rachel on my phone when he started making the sounds that mean he wants something specific.

“What’s up, love? I’m just going to change you real quick, then we’ll play! Let—”

Then he found the one word he needed.

“Mee-kee.”

Mickey.

My son said Mickey.

He’s never named him like that before.

I repeated the name back a couple of times to clarify I heard him right, and reached over to the Mickey Mouse stuffy and slowly handed it to him, offering plenty of time to tell me I’d grabbed the wrong toy.

He took Mickey and touched his nose, smiling. He held onto him throughout the entire diaper change. Calm. Still. Happy.

The change went smoothly, and I stood him back up on the floor. Holding Mickey tightly, he walked right out of the room. My heart swelled watching my son walk around with his arms wrapped around Mickey, who is more than half his size. I could hear my parents greeting them, surprised to see two little buddies come out of the room.

As I gathered our stuff, I looked over to the Minnie Mouse stuffy. “Sorry, sis. Looks like we’re taking him home for a while.” As it came out of my mouth, I questioned whether I meant our house or Mickey’s.

I was still scared of the idea of taking a toddler to Disneyland.

But the magic was starting to feel stronger than my fear.

I told my husband we’d go.

We said yes. We’re going to Disneyland.

The weeks that followed were an interesting mix of anticipation for the happiest place on earth and impending doom. Every toy my son picked up, I wanted to shove into our suitcase in hopes that it would keep him calm on the road trip. Every time he asked for a snack, I wanted to stock up on it for the car. One item was for sure coming with us: Mickey.

As we packed for our trip, the excitement of adventure and nostalgia would peek in. A levity would come over me. Then, just as quickly, a wave of anxiety swept it away.

You’ve been to Disneyland before, but not like this.

You’re the grown-up now.

Ooh, hopefully you don’t get in the way of everyone else in the group, huh?

What if you scare him away from Disneyland forever?

What if you realize you’re not the responsible mama you thought you were?

We spent about a week in Southern California. Disneyland would be the final day. We spent the rest of the week visiting family. Most of them had met our son as a baby before, but now he’s a whole new kid. So, even that was a little nerve-wracking. But I figured if I couldn’t be even a little bit brave with this, how would I be at Disneyland?

The last thing I wanted was to be so uptight that it stressed my son out and took the fun out of the adventure.

My husband and I followed his cues. When he showed interest in playing, we joined him. Eventually, he started wandering around on his own. It took a little while for our son to warm up to his new environment, but it filled my heart watching him realize these people aren’t exactly strangers. Usually, I’m in it all with him, holding his hand. Now, I was getting to see him branch out a bit, playing with his aunties, uncles, and cousins. He’d occasionally look back at me. When he saw I was there, calm, and even enjoying myself, so did he.

I was proud of him.

And frankly, myself.

As our trip was entering its final days, we checked into our hotel, which was just walking distance from Disneyland. It was clear we were getting closer. More people were wearing Mickey Ears. There were small swirls of tiny bubbles at each crosswalk from children’s souvenirs. Street signs started to look more whimsical. Street lights looked like they were from another era. The air was lighter, electric, and joyous. My husband and I were giddy.

Disney day started with jitters from the moment I opened my eyes. Whether it was nerves or excitement, I didn’t know. And I wouldn’t have time to figure it out.

We approached the gates. Ears on, bags packed, Mickey along for the ride.

I crouched down to check on our passengers in the stroller. My son was holding Mickey in the same way I hold my son as we entered unfamiliar situations. Closely, but calmly. We entered this familiar uncharted territory together.

As we passed through the bag check, one of the guards saw Mickey Mouse firmly planted in my son’s embrace. He joked, “Hey, look who we have! The boss is always watching! Welcome back and enjoy!”

He was trying to make us laugh. What he didn’t realize was that his small comment made it feel like another ordinary day. Like we belonged there.

At the entrance, we met with the rest of our group. Vibrating with excitement, we said our hellos and headed straight for our first ride- Mickey’s Runaway Railway.

Neither my husband nor I had ever been on it, so we didn’t know what to expect. Our son has a love for “choo-choos”, so it sounded fitting. We left the Mickey stuffy in the stroller, for fear of losing him. So I picked up my son, and he clutched back onto me. A familiar embrace in an unfamiliar situation.

This was our son’s first ride of its kind with a safety bar, revolving car, screen effects, and sounds. My body felt the impulse to do what it always does on rides: scream or laugh obnoxiously out of pure adrenaline and joy. But, having my son huddled beneath my arm beside me, taking in all the new, loud, fast things coming at us, I needed to remain his anchor.

He would need to borrow my calm.

So, I’d need to find my calm.

I spoke in lower tones right beside his ear so he would hear me closely amongst everything. I laughed softly and offered a few grounded “woo-hoos” to show him we were safe but not add to the heightened energy. I held him close as we both swayed to the momentum of the ride.

Only once did he consider a meltdown. I saw it on his face. Low tones, close by, firm holds. The Runaway Railway found its way back to the station, and we made it through our very first Disney ride, all a little braver than when we got on.

As we regrouped, everyone checked in on how the littlest passenger did. My son seemed to understand that they were happy for him because from here on, he seemed to trust them more and more.

To slow things down a bit, we walked through Minnie and Mickey’s houses in Toontown. Here, my son started to feel comfortable enough to roam free, walking with different people in our group while periodically checking to see if I was still following. Everything was so cute, as though the cartoon houses came to life. What I didn’t expect, though, was for anyone to be home.

At the end of Mickey’s house, we found ourselves in a waiting room. I didn’t know what we were in line for. Perhaps another ride? I was surprised to find myself so willing. After that first one, I not only felt more open to new experiences for our son, but my metaphorical and literal grip was relaxing a bit.

The door we were waiting by opened, and a cast member said we could come in to say hi because “he” was excited to see us.

He? No way.

The group insisted our little family go in first.

We walked into what looked like a life-size cartoon version of a behind-the-scenes studio complete with a vanity mirror, giant cartoon video camera, and two more cast members directing us toward a small stage. Standing on the stage, there he was, looking right at us with his arms wide open. Mickey Mouse.

I admit, I was starstruck.

But not everyone was.

Upon seeing his newly enlarged friend, my son’s grip tightened on my shoulder. So, I held him, and we simply waved at the entrance first. When Mickey waved back, my son leaned in just a bit, curious to see a Mickey that moves on his own. We slowly approached Mickey while I spoke in soft, albeit star-struck, tones. As we stepped onto the stage with Mickey, I could hear the cameras clicking.

I’ve seen so many videos of other kids having magical moments with Mickey Mouse. They run up in tears, hugging him, as though he’s the long-distance best friend they thought they would never get to meet. I wanted that for my son. I knew how much he loved his Mickey stuffie.

The first urge I had was to put my son down so he could run to Mickey and have that same magical moment. But I could feel his arm around my shoulder and his hand gripping my sleeve, making sure we couldn’t be separated.

Standing on that small stage, in front of the mouse who started it all, as cameras were clicking, I could feel my original fears creeping back in.

I was afraid to make any sudden movements or pressure my son. I didn’t want to overwhelm him or cause a meltdown. Above all, I didn't want him to associate Mickey with fear. I would have hated to ruin the relationship he had with his travel companion and stuffie. I had to remember that we could take our time. This was his moment with Mickey; however, that may look for him.

He wasn’t crying. He didn’t show signs of wanting to leave. He was just staring with eyes as big as Mickey’s ears while this giant mouse made the same gestures our son had learned to do, like waving, clapping, and blowing kisses.

But our son was calm. He was being curious.

He was being brave.

And so would I.

I took just a couple of steps toward Mickey so that we were at arm’s length from each other, not making any moves that would have my son thinking I’d leave him. I waved at Mickey and gave him a high-five, encouraging my son to see if he would do the same. My son reached out to the giant hand and tapped it before pulling away again.

I wondered what would connect this giant mouse to the small cuddly one in my son’s mind.

“Look, love! He has a nose, just like our Mickey!”

My son seemed to refocus. He went from trying to take in this giant mouse to studying one point–his nose. He reached out to touch it. Just like he did the first time he saw his stuffie in my old room. He held it only for a brief moment, and gave a small, fleeting smile. This was his moment.

My son seemed to understand that he was looking at the very character that he had been clutching, the namesake that got us to this day in the first place, Mickey Mouse.

As we left Mickey’s house, my son kept softly saying “Mee-kee”. The reality of who he had just met was hitting him. And the joy and pride in watching him soak in these moments was hitting me.

The rest of the day, we didn’t focus on hitting as many rides as possible, but instead on following our toddler’s lead and seizing opportunities to explore where we could. Our group separated at some points so that everyone could have their best Disney day as well.

The family that remained with us got to experience a different, special version of Disneyland as well. One with our son. We watched the Bluey show, rode Dumbo and Small World, and met more characters. It was so special to see how much fun they had in this place they know so well, differently. Because of our son.

The instinct to protect my son from new, possibly uncomfortable situations came up here and there, of course. It may not have been as heroic as Mulan or Hercules, whose courage I was desperately trying to channel, but I was letting go, stepping back, staying calm, and letting him try new things– all while remaining close by.

That would be my version of courage. Not protecting him from discomfort, not forcing him through it, not abandoning him to figure it out. But instead, staying close enough for him to feel safe to explore, while trusting him enough to try.

After a full day of Disney magic complete with corn dogs, themed cold-brews, a boat ride, and a Mickey bubble wand, the last thing we would do inside Disneyland was watch the Paint the Night parade. My husband and I had never seen it either.

We didn’t line up like the many families who took over the sidewalks of Main Street. We had to find a spot toward the exit amidst a crowd. We were packed in, so we left the stroller elsewhere and decided to carry our son. Normally, for something like this, I wear a belt with a little seat for our son to sit on. But it wouldn’t lift him enough to see over the people in front of us, so I carried him and found our windows as best we could.

Then, the lights shifted in a way that firmly planted us in the moment; in a way that would keep this memory vivid in our minds for years to come. The parade was starting.

Our son was pointing so excitedly and dancing to the rising music so much that he was swaying my body. He laughed and bounced with such joy that it gave me strength I didn’t expect. I held our toddler through the length of the entire parade and lifted him to see all the characters while dancing along with him. I never would’ve thought I was capable of that. Hercules should channel me.

Meanwhile, I could hear my husband laughing and exclaiming in amazement with his cousins behind us. Our incredible tour guides, whom my husband had grown up with and made magical memories alongside.

Just as I had with my own family, years ago.

Just as our son did that day.

So there I stood, holding my son up to see over the crowd as he’d look back at us in amazement. The parade was beautiful. But my son’s face? Magical.

We ended the night sitting outside the park, watching the fireworks with cousins. It felt as though the credits were rolling on an incredible day filled with heroes and acts of courage, big, small, and in every way, magical after all.