The honor system
The truths we bend for a free ride.
There’s an open secret among parents of young children: Disneyland only offers free admission up to age 2, but the people at the gate aren’t supposed to ask visitors how old their kids are. Multiple friends divulged this to me (with a wink) when I revealed to them that you were about to turn three. It’s a valuable pro tip which can potentially mean hundreds and hundreds of dollars saved, especially for those of us who live in Southern California. All I have to do is forfeit my integrity and infantilize you for as long as I possibly can.
But hey, raising a kid is expensive, and I’ll take all the freebies I can get. If airlines didn’t require you to have an assigned seat once you turned two, you’d be my lap infant until you graduated high school. When you were younger, I could whisk you virtually anywhere as my plus one. You were like a living, breathing buy-one-get-one-free coupon! At cafes, baristas would give you complementary babyccinos just to dote on you drinking out of a cup. But these days, they don’t even offer a smile while charging $4.50 for a splash of milk. Meanwhile, the number of museums, zoos, and play spaces that waive your admission are dwindling. Most of them, like Disneyland, only let children in without charge until they turn three – presumably because up until that point, they are drooling sacks of rocks that won’t remember anything anyway. But once a kid blows out those three candles, all those open doors revolve into $30/hour cover fees to shake out parents desperate for a few moments of distraction from a toddler who just unlocked the ability to nag.
Kids don’t carry ID, so these places rely on customers to observe the honor system, and to pay when their children become of age. They expect honesty, particularly from adults who are supposed to be setting an example for how not to lie. But the truth can have a price, and at the Happiest Place On Earth, that price is $281 per head on a peak day.
I’ve witnessed the Disneyland “hack” out in the wild, while preparing to enter with my legit baby. “But I’m four…” I once overheard a kid say, while his mom rehearsed Benjamin Buttoning him outside the gate. I’ve seen grown children stuffed into strollers with a blanket draped over them, their humongous feet dragging on the floor while their parents hurriedly shuffle them in. Once I even saw a ticket agent, in an act of solidarity, command a panicking parent, “Tell me she’s two. TELL ME SHE’S TWO!” I don’t think this is what Walt meant when he envisioned a place where we could pretend that we’re younger than we are.
We just celebrated your third birthday this past weekend, so now it’s my turn to have my honesty stress-tested by the Mouse. I already failed an early exam I hadn’t mentally prepared for, when we took you to see dinosaurs on your special day. “Uhhhh…two adults and one…b-b-b-baby, please…heh heh…,” I said all shifty-eyed to the ticket person, unable to convince myself to pay for a third ticket that would’ve been free just a few hours ago.
I’m already musing over which hustle I’ll use to sneak you into Disneyland one more time. Maybe I’ll circle the parking lot until you fall asleep in the car, tie a bonnet on your head, and stroll you in casually. That way, you won’t be conscious while your father stains his character. Maybe I’ll dig through the back of our pantry in hopes to find a remaining baby pouch that you can suckle on as I silently usher you through the entrance. Maybe I’ll smother my guilt by repeating to myself that my transgression is nothing compared to all the lies peddled by the Disney corporation. I mean, when I put it like that, I’m actually just reclaiming what’s mine – performing a noble deed, a rebuke of hyper-capitalism, sticking it to the true villains of the world. An Avenger, if you will.
The hardest truth – the one that I’m having trouble even telling myself – is that now that you’re three, you’re definitely no longer a baby. The baby-you has been so hard to let go of. Within your first few months, before I had even caught up on sleep, I learned I couldn’t call you a newborn anymore. Then you turned one, and I pretended I wasn’t listening when your doctor said you’ve crossed your infant stage. When you turned two, I convinced myself that I at least get to call you my baby as long as you’re still finding your steps, babbling, and pooping your pants (certified baby activities). But now you’re racing across narrow platforms, and negotiating how many vegetables you’ll eat in exchange for ice cream, and demanding privacy when you go to the toilet. The fact that I’m now supposed to purchase adult tickets for you to amusement parks is just pouring salt on the wound. It’s already a heavy toll to know that one day you will no longer kiss me good night on the lips, seek a hug from me when you’re scared, hold my hand to cross the street, or eventually need me at all for most things.
The last time I took you to Disneyland, we stood at the center of Tomorrowland and you were fixated on the signage for Star Tours. “I want to go there,” you said with confidence, pointing at the blinking neon outlines of space ships. “Let’s just try,” I said, knowing disappointment was imminent. We went to the ride entrance, where we were greeted by a sign that read, “You must be THIS TALL to ride.” This tall referred to 41 inches, at least a foot taller than you were. You gazed upward at the measuring stick like it was the top of a skyscraper. “Not quite there yet,” said the guy at the front, chuckling like he didn’t crush the spirits of toddlers dozens of times a day. Your eyes sank and began to tear up. “Carry me,” you whimpered, raising your hands above your head. I lifted you up, rested your head on my shoulder, and headed toward the carousel. In that moment, you must’ve wanted nothing more than to grow up already. I must’ve wanted nothing less.