Mice On Ice

My husband earned another Pater Ex Animo stripe today. Through his work, he was able to secure tickets to Disney on Ice.

At any other time in my life I would have scoffed at the idea of sitting in a stadium watching over-sized and slightly freakish mascot-versions of our favorite childhood characters wobble and teeter on a makeshift ice arena. Instead I held back on the cynicism, reserving judgment because I knew my kids would probably enjoy it.

Let me say that I stand corrected. The show kicked ass. My kids sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed for nearly the entire performance. While I thought my daughter would be excited to see the princesses, I was in no way prepared for the sheer enthusiasm of my son. He practically shrieked Look! It's Aladdin! And Jasmin! And PINOCCHIO! AND IT'S MULAN!!!!

I must also sheepishly admit that their delight brought tears to my eyes. It took a good five minutes or so to get my shit together. For every shout of joy, for every point and jab of their chubby little fingers, a tear fell.

It has been four and a half years since my daughter was born, five if you count my pregnancy. Those five years have somehow not entirely erased those three years of limbo when I did not know whether or not I could have children. I used to get like this at birthday parties and playdates. Not enough so as to draw attention to myself, but a burning behind the eyes and a lump in my throat as I sat in. the. moment. As I took in my surroundings and watched my children and realized how god-damned lucky and fucking privileged I was to be there. To bask in the light my children shine on the world around them.

One would think I would have outgrown those moments. Somehow, I still seem to get blindsided. Now don't get me wrong. The show, while awesome, was not weep-worthy. It just felt so amazing, so huge to be a part of something so momentous to my children. Yes, it seemed like it was just a mouse on ice. But it was so much more than that.