The child is a frequent flier, booking flights of fancy regularly. Popular destinations include Neverland, where Peter Pan declines adulthood. The many topographies of OnceUponATimeLand, where princesses pine for true love’s kiss. Dragonland, where children with Saturday-morning viewing privileges cavort. And Dreamland, where parents urge the cranky to go, early and often.
We readily vouch for Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy, inviting these phantoms into our sleeping children’s bedrooms without embarrassment or fear. We call on the flowing cape and tight tights of the superhero to right wrong. We dispense–without irony–the scraped-knee kiss.
That such illusion is absent in Adultland is immaterial. Childhood is lit with the magic of magic, and so it should be, at least until the little ones can access the director’s commentary on DVD.
But some fantasies endure, long past the age when big-eyed wonder is becoming. Like Walt Disney World.
There are children–full-sized, school-age adults-to-be–who persist in the conviction that an actual place exists overrun with tap-dancing mice and peopled by cartoon characters larger than life. Its skyline is dominated by the spires of that castle known to the video-savvy child as “Preview Palace.” In this place, they say, the skies are always blue and the days balmy. The confused child may be so carried away by such imaginary play that he asks his parents to take him to this Magic Kingdom. Not via story line, but airline.
We try, as best we can, to dissuade him from this sad fantasy. We explain that Disney World is just pretend. Or that it exists only on TV. Or, when shoved, back against the wall, by the tear-streaked child, that it is only open to children accompanied by grandparents.
And still, the deluded child persists. He marshals the help of adult syntax, enunciating carefully: You are saying a lie. He knows this world exists, is accessible by credit card, and guaranteed fun. That for the entire duration of his stay he will never see broccoli bud or tofu chunk. That he will be proffered gargantuan ice cream cones, garish T-shirts, and the opportunity to twirl upside down until ice cream and T-shirt are united. He goes to school; he has informants. He harbors only one concern: Does the Disney-bound child require shots?
You give in. No, no need for shots. Only parental escorts need to pre-medicate.
