Actually, my happiest place on earth is Target. Disneyland would be somewhere on the list, I guess, below a tranquil villa in Tuscany, a peaceful house devoid of husband and kids, or even just a lazy Sunday morning in bed curled up with a good book. Far below.

I’ve been to Disneyland four times in my life: first as a tween, then as mother of a tween, then again during my second pregnancy, and finally just last week with the teenager and toddler. The only thing I remember from my first visit was the drive home when a cute boy in the van next to us saw me checking him out, then proceeded to take off his shirt, presumably to show off his prepubescent “muscles.” What I mainly remember from my second visit was the super comfy Sheraton beds and Steve ordering his first fillet mignon in their restaurant. All I remember from my third visit was all the waiting and waiting and waiting while everyone else went on rides that I couldn’t go on because I was pregnant. And I’m pretty sure down the line, the only thing I’ll remember from this fourth time around was all the walking and walking and walking we did. Oh, and the screaming toddler. Whoever thought going to Disneyland in the midst of the Terrible Two’s is FIRED. So yeah, those are my memories from the Happiest Place on Earth. Either I’m losing my memory in my old age, or I’m evidently just not that into Disneyland.

Here’s the thing. To me, amusement parks are just long, exhausting days of hurry up and wait. Speed walk and push your way through the crowds, then wait in line for fifty minutes for a six minute ride. Stand in mob after mob to watch shows you can’t even see because of the fifty million other people standing in front of you. And the crazy thing is? Adults would be all pushed up in front while kids stood behind them with a view only of a sea of asses. At the World of Color show, I felt so bad for a little girl standing behind us that I tried to usher her to the front. She then proceeded to giggle and poke me in the neck with a sharp object again and again for the remainder of the show. Of course. No good deed…

Sure, Disneyland seems like a real life fairy tale full of princesses and magic. But when I looked past the fairy dust, I saw frustrated parents of children run amok and innocent bystanders getting run down by aggressive strollering (please excuse my mother-in-law!). People cutting in line and cramming into elevators and pushing their way onto trams. Exasperated teenagers suffering internet withdrawal and extended periods of exposure to fresh air and parentals. (Or was that just my teenager?)

But–BUT–then I saw Lily, wide-eyed and overjoyed as she watched Mickey and Minnie and Goofy and the Princesses and the Lion King parade past her. And my eyes started to tear up like a mo fo, completely against my will. To see how excited and happy she was to meet her TV and storybook friends in real life…it was awesome. I think maybe that’s the real thing I’ll remember from this trip.

Disneyland is kind of like birthing babies. It’s painful, but worth it when you see your kid’s face. And after a year or two, memories of the pain fade away and your dumb ass does it all over again.

Sooooo, it’s about that time of year again. The dreaded birthday party. You know, I managed to avoid the whole kid party mumbo jumbo for sixteen years with X. I always told him that he could either have a big party, OR we could use all the money I would spend on a party and instead buy him a SUPER COOL present and a round of mini-golf and pizza for him and two friends. Sure, I resorted to bribery, but we both came out winners I think.

It’s not that I don’t want to throw parties for my kids. I had THE BEST parties growing up, which made for some awesome memories. I want that for my kids too. But I’m just not that kind of mom. I’m not good at throwing parties. Plus, I’m poor. And kinda lazy.

Last year one of my best friends threw a carnival birthday party for her two kids. As in, she got a permit to block off her street and proceeded to fill it with tents and game booths and ponies and a jump house and bubbles blowing throughout the place like a magical wonderland. There was a snow cone maker, a popcorn maker, a nacho machine and a real life hot dog warmer. There was a prize booth, a cake walk and funnel cakes. It was insane. At one point I pulled Lily aside and was all, “Don’t be getting any funny ideas. You’ll be getting Chuck E. Cheese’s for your party.” And she looked at me like, “Don’t front. You know I’m getting a wading pool and some chicken nuggets in our backyard.” She knows me well.

While my friend is definitely Super Mom, I’m pretty much the Anti-Mom. While she enrolls her kids in Gymboree, I let Lily ride the play cars at the mall. While my friend’s diaper bag is stocked with snacks and hand sanitizer and band-aids, Lily’s screaming from the back seat, “Milk?  Milk?  Milk!  MILK!!” because it’s 90 degrees out and I forgot her sippy cup AGAIN. While my friend potty trains her kids using videos and progress charts, I let Lily watch me go pee while repeating, “See? Pee-pee. Mommy pee-pee. Lily pee-pee?”

I admire the kind of mom my friend is. I’ll probably never be a Super Mom, but hopefully one day my kids will know that I did my best and maybe even think that I was a super mom, lower case.