We arrived at the seaside retreat that is the Boardwalk to find sunshine and only a slight wind. We have stayed at all levels of the hotel accommodations at Disney but there is something that just screams vacation about going deluxe to me. The atmosphere is created in part, by the dedication of the CM's from the moment you arrive to the last second you depart. Maybe it had to do with the circumstances surrounding this trip but I also was glad I did not have Pop's retro music blaring as the backdrop during many of the conversations we would be having poolside as the week progressed.
We waited patiently as the driver took our luggage from beneath the bus cavity, tipped him for his hard work and began to proceed up the walk to check in. The color palette is cool and comforting inside the resort and I always imagine what people who did go to ocean side retreats on the shores of the Atlantic in the 20's, thought of themselves. Were the women with long swim dresses and bathing caps contemplating their future a much as we tend to do or was the fact that marriage was a covenant you entered and did not ever intend to leave something that gave them a sense of responsibility and security at the same time? Was the dapper men, with their handlebar mustaches perfectly groomed and hair, waxed into place, happy to be committed to their wives and children or did they almost feel a sense of entitlement to wander since the majority of their spouses would never leave their side?
I mean women have came a long way in this society. From the right to vote to the ability to choose a corporate ladder to rise up versus a PTA board. There is many good things about those developments but I also think it has caused some ambiguity in role definitions within a marriage. Many of the friends and co-workers we see, fight every year over who has to take time off when the kids get sick if they both work. The other side of that coin is they argue over whether the wife can stop working and switch to a housewife/SAHM role because she wants to be there to raise her children but the lifestyle they have created, demands two incomes.
I think the money issue was a huge factor in my wanting to hold off having children. We wanted them and I knew we would always have at least two whether we were blessed to have them naturally or need to use fertility or adoption to achieve babies. That was the game plan at 24 when we married and now, at 33, closing in on 34, we still had none. Work had moved us around the countryside more than we had mapped out in our plotted itinerary of life and moving to higher pay scales meant more hours and showing diligence in areas of our life not involving the bedroom.
I had parents who were young when they had me and my twin brothers and I knew the devastation of being told that tonight's dinner would be a twist of yesterdays with a dash of potatoes thrown in to bulk it up a bit. It also uncannily resembled our menu from two nights ago but now had green vegetables already built in from last nights morphing. I was not devastated because we were starving and had no food on the table, I knew others had less than I and was grateful for that, but rather because the look my Mother had on her face was hard to miss. She was from an era that took pride in table presentation and being a great cook to an appreciative family meant the world to her.
Offering "Round 3," as they were famously known at my home, meant the term leftovers, had taken on a more significant role than the originally served meal had. That was hard for my Mom to accept with ease. It was never that her cooking was bad because it wasn't, it was just the fact she was limited to culinary masterpieces by what my Father was able to bring home and as a sheet metal worker, often laid off, we never knew what that would be. So when she would talk up what our stomachs would be filled with over the weekend and Friday came and Round 3 was awaiting us, even the candles and folded napkins she used to set a better ambiance, could not detract from the reality staring back at us from the plate.
My brothers and I were only two years apart and would often walk to nearby parks and baseball fields to collect pop and beer cans. Early mornings were the best to do this. Not only were the flies less bothersome but the noontime sun in summer, also meant kids would be out playing and then our can strategy was not as sly and covert. It was one thing having a huge bag of cans to take home and load up into the station wagon and take to the recycling center for DQ money or birthday presents for our parents. It was an entirely different reality to be humiliated by neighborhood children pointing and laughing at us while we walked away, garbage bags slung over our shoulders and the remainders of beer seeping out from the bag, onto our clothes.
My brothers would take out their anger when we did get caught by kids, in the garage, as they sledgehammered their way through Dr. Pepper and Budweiser cans. It was a useful therapy because not only did they get their frustrations out but they also made it even more exciting to weigh in. Condensed cans meant more money per bag and I always liked to play the low-ball trick on myself. We would guess how much money a bag would be worth and then the one who was closest would get $1.00 more by collecting 50 cents from each of the losers. I don't think I ever was the recipient of the extra buck because to me, getting to guess low meant I could surprise myself when it was more. My brothers always just assumed I was an idiot and bad judge of size and weight.
Last Christmas, we went out for drinks when we were all home. Just the three of us. While buying them a round when it was my turn, they brought up the fact we were drinking beer at all and pontificated on when it happened, that we went from hating the smell of beer, to looking forward to it? I reminded them of the cans and one brought up my never ending 50 cent decrease. I told them of my master plan, that lowering my bid meant I got to look forward to something good every week of summer and the table got very silent. I thought they would laugh. Instead, they looked like they had just found out that indeed, Santa was not up at the North pole after all.
So many years later and those memories still haunt me. When I pass recycling cans with the sticky, sweet, syrupy smell of rotting cola and fermenting beer, I remember not having what others had and what we as a family were willing to do to try and be equal. I hate that those memories have played against my confidence and psyche for so long. I detest the power I have given them over my life in the now because I can't let go of the then. I loathe even more that they have made me doubt myself on when I should have children. Simple things from a mostly happy childhood should not cause trauma in your adult life. Yet, here I stood, in line for a Disney vacation, checking into a beautiful hotel with a man who wants everything with me and does not ask for anything from me and I know without hesitation those damn cans are part of the reason I am not holding his hand.
Or those of a chubby fingered child, pulling my arm down, begging for a time frame of when we would finally get to see Mickey.