Storyland is an amusement park designed for young children. It’s a family park with bright rides, cheerful music, and storybook surroundings. But for me, it’s also a time machine. Years after carrying babies through the park while my older kids – just toddlers – ran excitedly to the next ride, I still find myself visiting with my adult(ish) children. We may not stay all day anymore, but we fill our hearts and cherish the precious nostalgia. Some magic is meant to grow up with you.
I was standing in line for the antique cars at Storyland the other day, as one does, and happened to overhear the children in front of me in line calling out which color car they hoped to get. I smiled to myself as my towering young men melted back into tiny boys in my mind’s eye. I remembered standing in this same line years ago, trying to corral four kids, at least two of whom couldn’t sit still for more than thirty seconds without inventing chaos. Tears were shed. Patience evaporated. And the line crawled on.
But when I heard those kids begging for the blue car, I remembered one time in particular. We had waited at least half an hour, and good behavior was wearing paper thin. My kids, calculating the passing cars like tiny stockbrokers, realized their favorite colors were nowhere in sight – a catastrophe in the single-digit world. As I braced to deliver the devastating news, a voice in front of us cut through my despair:
“You can go in front of us. It looks like all the colors you want are right here. We don’t mind.”
This family, who had stood in line just as long as us, recognized the plight we were in and immediately offered up their spot. Their children were older, and apparently emotionally mature enough not to dissolve into puddles if they weren’t in the green car. I was beyond grateful, a level of gratitude only achievable when you’ve been stretched to your limit and someone hands you a tiny lifeline. We shuffled around and the day was saved.
That whole scene played out for me again, both right in front of me and years ago in my memory. As we approached the front of the line, I had the opportunity to give up my place in line to make a little girl happy, and her smile brought me back to those early years.
What struck me most about it was that it isn’t really about the color of antique cars. (Unless you ask the kids, of course.) It’s about the swapping, the rearranging, the ridiculous contortions we twist ourselves into for the sake of our children’s joy.
And isn’t that what it’s really all about?
I hope my kids always have people in their lives willing to swap places so they can get their favorite color car.
