The Not-So-Magical Backpack at the Most Magical Place on Earth

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I had parked the stroller right near Cinderella’s castle. Grandma and my middle son were in a restroom nearby, going potty before we left The Magic Kingdom, a.k.a. “The Most Magical Place on Earth,” for the day. I was trying to keep my eye on my oldest, who was twirling around a nearby lamp post. The baby was happily ensconced in the stroller, having a nap.

Since I had schlepped a heavy backpack, as well as my nine-month-old in a front pack for much of the day, my back and shoulders were tired. I took the opportunity to shrug off the backpack.

When I bent over to retrieve something from the huge carry-almost-all pack, groping blindly, I felt that the contents were slimy.

Eeeeeewuhhhhh!

I withdrew my hand and lifted my sunglasses, looking down my nose as I squinted to examine the situation. My hand was covered with orange ooze, even under my fingernails. Not only had the little tub of cheese crackers opened up inside the pack, but also, liquid was somehow involved.

It was ninety-something degrees: we were in the middle of a Florida heat wave in April. This orange goo was smeared all over the contents of the pack — nearly everything we’d brought into the park, which is significant when you’re carrying supplies for three children.

“Oh, gross!” I shuddered as I realized this gunk was no doubt a contributing factor to the clammy feeling on my back. My son trotted over, drawn as a moth to a flame to anything disgusting.

A nearby woman, perched on a rented mobility scooter, intruded with a nasal, “Are we having fun yet?”

As I glanced over, my first impression was that the basket on the front of the scooter was just like the Wicked Witch of the West’s.

I realized she had been watching me fumble and probably witnessed my expression morph from surprise to disgust to exasperation.

I was also annoyed by her inclusive “we,” which sounded condescending.

Who is “we”?

Not feeling very magical at that moment, I replied with a weary smile, “It’s been a long day. We’re just ready to go home.” I didn’t want to say anything snippy in front of my son, who had attached himself to me, peering at the woman cautiously.

“That’s why I don’t have kids,” she scowled, watching as I took stock of the mess in the backpack, removing items one by one.

I gasped and turned to my son. “Honey, do you need a drink?” I gave his water bottle a quick clean-up with a baby wipe before handing it to him.

Yep, she is definitely not part of my ‘we.’

“Thank you, mama.” He was now holding on to the stroller where the baby slept, protectively.

The sour woman persisted, “How many more days do you have?” as if it were a prison sentence.

“Two more days,” I told her, without returning the question. I didn’t really want to talk to her at all. I knew there was no way I could explain why I had come to Disney World with my kids if she was the type who saw children as nothing but a burden.

And if she didn’t have children, why was she at Disney World?

Raising kids is not a predictable or tidy thing to do, and it was unfortunate that this woman had seen one of the more challenging moments involved in parenting, for it only served to validate her opinion that having kids was a job, not a joy.

What she didn’t get to see was that there were a lot of fun parts, too. I got to sing and play and rediscover the world through new eyes. And ultimately, I got to experience the true meaning of unconditional love: to feel the love of God pouring through me to my children, and then reflected to me from them.

The “Most Magical Place on Earth” was wherever my kids were.

I had planned to surprise the boys with the trip for months, mostly so I did not have to endure weeks of them asking, “How many more days until…”

They could barely get through the morning of a birthday party day without asking every ten or fifteen minutes, “How much longer to so-and-so’s party?”

On Easter, Grandma and I put clues in some of the Bigs’ Easter eggs — pictures of the entrance to the Magic Kingdom and Mickey Mouse. Watching them as they realized that we were actually going to Disney World and that we were leaving that very day was magic in itself. We’d also be visiting with my younger cousin, who was a Disney college intern.

“Pack your bags, boys!” I told them, and we were on the plane five hours later, headed for eight jam-packed days full of excitement with just a touch of vomit, potty accidents, bickering, and overtired children who, for whatever reason, couldn’t get to sleep at night.

Of course, I was ready for a vacation after we returned from our family vacation, as many moms are. But it was all worthwhile when I heard the kids tell God, even years later, “and thank you for that time we went to Disney World,” when they said their prayers.

You’ll find a version of this story in my book, Snakes, Snails, and Puppy Dog Tales, which is available in paperback and free with Kindle Unlimited.

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© 2025 Caroline B. Poser. All rights reserved.