We were awakened the next morning by the sound of Mickey’s voice on the other end of the phone.
As I recall, there was nothing noticeably different about the call on this particular morning. It was the same message followed by the same infectious two syllable laugh as we had heard all week. But unlike on all the previous mornings, it meant something completely different on that day. Because for the first time all week, having Mickey stir us from our slumber did not mean we would soon be heading out the door for some serious yellow.
It meant we would soon be heading out the door.
Period.
They say time flies when you’re having fun, and our time in the World had definitely flown. It was hard to believe the week was already over and we were lying there in our surprisingly comfortable bed, staring departure day dead in the face.
We lay in bed for a little while that morning, not particularly wanting to get up and get moving. I think it was partly because we were trying to make the morning last longer and partly because we were trying to make the morning last longer. We were also worn slap out and didn’t feel like moving a muscle. So that was a factor as well.
Along with the other reason.
I recall there was a lot of throwing our arms up in the air and uttering overly dramatic expressions like “Not Checkout Day.
Anything but Checkout Day!” Because we’re cool like that. And we occasionally like to amuse ourselves. And no one else.
After a little stalling, we finally rolled out of bed (one of us under extreme protest) and began getting ready.
I showered and carefully picked out the going home outfit, which is extremely important considering the fact that I was about to be subjected to hours upon hours of alternately sitting in one spot and turning around and contorting my body like a sideshow freak in order to reach and check on the little people in the backseat. And having to listen to and deal with the following phrases...
I need to potty right now. Pull over.
What city are we in?
Are we there yet?
Willyoustoptouchingme?!
What city are we in now?
I see an Arby’s sign. Pull over.
I can't reach my pillow.
Movie's done.
I’m hot.
What city are we in now?
My tummy doesn’t feel so good. Pull over.
I’m cold.
I’m hot.
I’m cold.
And that’s just what
I would be saying on the ride home. Let’s not even get started on what the kids would be dishing out. So the outfit had to be comfortable. Breathable. And slightly puke resistant. Just in case. Cause you just never know with us. Especially if there’s a Ruby Tuesday’s involved.
While I threw on my finest: a Disney Tshirt, shorts and flip flops, DH appeared from out of nowhere sportin’ his Disney finest.
This little beauty…
Oh yeah. The man was wearing the Grumpy shirt.
And a fake scowl thrown in for good measure.
It’s a tradition that on the day we leave Disney, my husband dons the Grumpy shirt, signifying how he feels about the day. Actually, this was only the second year in a row that he’d worn it. In much the same way that State beating Bama will become a tradition if they pull it off again next year, the wearing of the Grumpy shirt has also become a tradition.
Because basically, if it happens more than once, we’ve got tradition. Those are the rules according to me.
Of course, our last day in the World is not the only time he wears the Grumpy shirt. He also wears it around the house on occasion. To Wal-Mart on December 23rd. To the circus (especially if there are knife wielding clowns who “speak” via whistles present: leave it alone). Sears Portrait Studio. The gas pump. He’s taken to wearing it to work lately and had he had it back then, he probably would’ve worn it on the day he taught me how to drive a 5 speed in a (somewhat) empty parking lot. It’s a wonder the man still wanted to marry me after that hilariously frustrating day. It’s also a wonder our heads are still firmly attached to the rest of our bodies after that day. Talk about shock to your system.
Now that I think about it, maybe that’s the reason he always drives.
Regardless, the man wears the Grumpy shirt on our last day because although he may try to front, my husband loves Disney just as much as I do. Well,
almost as much as I do. Because after all, he ain’t the one writin’ the trip report.
He also wears it on the last day because he hates packing the car.
You’ll understand why shortly.
I recall we had to physically separate the kids from the bunk beds that morning. They had much love for the bunk beds and had grown accustomed to turning the cool as all get out light fixtures above their heads on and off at will. Needless to say, they were none too happy with the thought of leaving them behind.
Hearing the news that our children were being forcibly separated from the bunk beds, our daughter’s stuffed animals staged a sit in on their behalf.
Okay, not really.
Minnie didn’t really go all Susan Sarandon and Mickey didn't go all Tim Robbins. It was just a pyramid gone bad.
Or was it?
We finally pry the kids’ hands free from their death grip on the bunk beds, one finger at a time. Then we tickle them to combat the blues and help them get cleaned up and dressed in their Disney finest: a Disney Tshirt, shorts and
Crocs.
For those of you keeping count, that would be
four people wearing
four Disneyworld shirts. All together. We were four people attempting to cross the threshold back into the real world looking like a gift shop manager’s dream. Yes, we occasionally like to look like tourists. Or do we? Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. But it just worked out that way. Regardless, there would be no mistaking where we’d been later on that day when the four of us strolled into that Sonny’s BBQ on the way home. It didn’t help matters when Grumpy tried to pay for our meal (which DID not include appetizers or dessert:
sigh) with our Key to the Food. And then got irate that:
A. Our AKL room key was NOT considered an accepted form of payment.
B. The meal was NOT free. Ditto the gratuities and tax.
All that to say: the first meal back in the real world after an entire week of Free Dining stunk worse than a certain Canadian bathroom after a visit from the Funk Fairy.
Anywho.
Our gameplan for that morning was to finish packing up the mountain of gear sitting around the room, get the van loaded, check out (
sigh) and then head over to Boma for breakfast. And
that would be our last meal on property.
Not the Hess. Boma, baby.
We were going out with a bang.
I don’t remember what time our ADR was at this point (again I say: it’s been eight months, cut me some slack) but let’s just assume it was fairly early. It was breakfast, after all. Not brunch. Or lunch. Or linner. So in order to make it, we would, once again, need to get a move on.
I seriously need to work on that overdue thing.
As we look around, we notice that the room and everything in it is a complete mess. Actually, to say it was a mess is an understatement. There were half packed suitcases propped open, numerous souvenir bags lying around, assorted Disney paperwork piled up on the table, toys scattered from hither to yon, and way too many pairs of shoes dotting the landscape of what had been our home for seven days. It was almost embarrassing how many pairs of shoes I’d brought just for the girl alone. Not to mention her Mama. I suppose I am to shoes what Mel is to bathing suits.
I seriously need to work on that overpacking thing.
We finish throwing all of our stuff into whatever container we could find to throw it in at the time (because a whole different set of rules apply to departure backing) and then we raid the bathroom for all the Mickey themed toiletries we could get our hands on.
We swiped the soaps and shampoo and we grabbed the shower cap too. Because you never know when you might need to wet the entire
bottom half of your head. Along with your hairline.
After loading the booty into the toiletry bag, we locate the AKL stationary and provided pen. I take a moment to scrawl “LALA WUZ HERE!” on a sheet of paper.
Then underneath it just for kicks, I add “You might wanna dust the place with Lysol”.
I open the nightstand drawer, slide the note in, and slam it shut with a smile. Then I hand the stationary back to DH, who throws it into the suitcase, along with the pen.
Take what you can. Give nothin’ back!
Once everything was packed and waiting by the door, DH called for a bellman to come haul our stuff downstairs. I actually felt sorry for the poor sap who arrived at our door. He had no idea what he was about to step off into.
As the kids and I stood around watching, the guy piled bag after bag onto the cart. It seemed it would never stop coming. Even I was amazed at how much stuff we had. As I looked at the cart, which was already half full, and did a quick count of the bags still sitting in the room, I realized we’d done it again. We seemed to be leaving with much more than what we arrived with. That’s always the way it is with us though. And I’m not just talking in material terms here either. We were bringing back more than just bags of shoes and souvenirs from our time in the World that week. We were bringing back happy memories and future shared laughter. We were bringing back movies that existed not only on tape, but also in our minds. Movies of the four of us riding Soarin’ together and the kids laughing hysterically at the antics of The Mouse and crew at Chef Mickey’s. Memories of a quiet moment shared amongst the madness of Biergarten. The ill timed Typhoon Lagoon nap. The Honorary Musicians moment. Our son’s long anticipated meeting with Red. My long anticipated meeting with a Dole Whip.
It was all there. It was all ours. And it was all coming home with us.
Once again, we found ourselves
blessedly overpacked.
Literally. And figuratively.
After the bellman wedged the very last bag onto the cart (he had to put his hip into it), he turned around and slapped me with his eyes.
Don’t think I deserved that.
Then he proceeded to wheel the rickety cart down the hallway.
As the poor little wheels on the cart strain under the pressure of their load, we realize it’s gonna take awhile to cram all of our stuff into the van.
Duh. So DH turns and thoughtfully suggests that the kids and I just hang out and take it easy while he goes down and loads the van.
Roughly translated, that means “I don’t want anybody gettin’ in my way or puttin’ junk on top of the cooler as I go about the very tedious and extremely important business of packing the van. Now be gone, Woman. And take the rugrats with you.”
Got it.
I tell him the kids and I will make one last sweep of the room and meet him downstairs in the lobby when he’s done. Then I remind him to listen for his cell phone and give him a Tic Tac to hand off to the bellman for his troubles. The man stares at me for a few seconds. Then he slaps me with his Grumpy shirt and takes off to catch up with our stuff.
We turn to go back into the room and I hand the card over to the boy, who, by this point, has become a pro at inserting our room key and waiting for the green blinking light before throwing the door wide open with a smile and inviting us womenfolk to come on in and take a load off. As we’re walking in, I say “Wow! Look at this room! Can you believe we’re staying here all week?!”
For some reason, they don’t find my attempt at humor very humorous and they both slap me with their pint sized Disney Tshirts.
I may have deserved that.
Once inside, the kids kick off their shoes and get comfortable. Like they’re staying or something. Then the three of us walk straight over to the balcony. We throw the door open, step out into the virtual sauna, and grab some seats.
Don't judge. It was there. And it was the last day. Gimme a break. I would’ve taken a picture of a Mickey shaped melanoma by that point. If I had come across any, that is.
The girl climbs up into my lap and the boy sits across from us as we take in the AKL savannah for the last time.
I don’t really recall there being a lot of animals out that day, but there must have been because the kids were doing a lot of pointing in the shots that I took. Then the boy turns and declares “I love this place, Mom. This is the coolest hotel ever.” The girl seconds her older brother’s motion with a very emphatic “Yeah!”
And just like that, AKL is given the ultimate seal of approval.
We sit outside and take in the scene until the humidity curls not only the hair on my head, but also the hair on my toes. Which was strange, because I don’t have any hair on my toes.
We wave goodbye to the animals and our sweet upgraded savannah view. And then we turn to go back inside to do one final sweep.
Before he puts his shoes back on, the boy takes a moment to rub his feet on the hard carpet. One last time. And yes, it was the same hard carpet that he had been so excited to feel against the bottom of his bare feet on our first day in the room, the same hard carpet that means vacation to him. He feels it one last time for the road.
And then he puts his shoes back on. And he turns and heads for the door.
As we walk out, the door closes loudly behind us and we set off down the hallway. We turn right, walk the length of the lobby, turn left, then turn right again and head down one flight of semi hidden stairs. We had walked that same route so many times that week, I feel like I could still do it in my sleep.
Over the length of our stay at Animal Kingdom Lodge, we had slowly gotten used to the low level lighting and the sweet woodsy smell that permeates the entire building. So on that morning as we walked into the lobby, we weren’t slapped in the face with the darkness and the smell the way we had been when we first entered the lobby seven days before. We had grown accustomed to it all and I remember thinking that I would probably miss the smell of the place when I was gone.
I was right.
We walked through the front doors to check on DH and see how far along he’d gotten on the packing of the van ritual. Unfortunately after two grueling hours (give or take a couple of hours), he was still only halfway done. Upon seeing me, the man immediately slapped me with his Grumpy shirt.
Twice.
For good measure.
Then he yells “This is ridicurous! Whose idea was it to bring all this stuff?!”
The kids point at me. I point at them.
Between me and you, I don’t think he bought it.
So I offered to help, picking up a laundry basket and tying it onto the roof.
Apparently there’s a rule prohibiting that as well. I quickly tried to redeem myself by placing the
ECV lady from the elevator in the Land next to Jiminy Cricket and the little girl who sings Wishes. Obviously you didn't believe me when I said they were all coming with us. I'm sad to report that placement didn't work out so well either. Jiminy ended up having to cover the little girls ears as the lady on the ECV launched into another profanity laced tirade because she kept banging against the side of the van on the way in. The kids only made things worse by systematically going behind their father, taking out the items he’d just placed in the van and loading them back onto the cart. While they hummed.
It was a regular Little Rascals episode. Without the dog, of course. And the He Man Woman Haters Club. No one’s hair looked like Alfalfa’s. No one was force fed castor oil. And there were only two kids, not fifteen.
Other than that, it was
exactly like a Little Rascals episode.
My husband immediately suggested that the kids and I go back in and check out the lobby while he finished up. Apparently he had it under control. Gotcha. You don’t have to tell me twice so we took off into the lobby. While we waited, we strolled out toward the huge window at the back of the resort.
We tried out
every one of the couches and then we looked at this thing again.
We took a picture of this lovely lady. Whoever she may be.
I bet she was just checking in. Daydreaming about what a great time she was gonna have in my room. Figures.
We finally spot DH making his way through the doors. He gives us a wave and then immediately walks over to the front desk to check out. Full on down to business mode had kicked in and he was ready to get the show on the road and stop fiddle farting around.
NOOverdueandOverpacked.
He didn't think I saw him, but I caught him trying to trip a couple of people who were obviously just arriving. People who were more than likely heading up to our room
at that very moment with every intention of jumping up and down on our bed.
I guess Disneyfreude trumps full on down to business mode any day of the week.
Once we were officially checked out of the AKL (sigh), we moped across the lobby to check in at Boma.
By this point, you should know that we’re huge Boma fans. And if you don’t, you’ve been skimming. We
love Boma. Absolutely love it. But we’ve only eaten there for dinner, never breakfast. In our everyday lives, we’re not normally big breakfast people. Give us a bowl of cereal and a glass of ice water and we’re good to go. But like so many other things, when we’re on vacation, all the rules go flying out the window and we periodically enjoy consuming large amounts of stuff that’s not good for us first thing in the morning.
Before we left, a friend suggested we try Boma for breakfast one morning. I read some reviews on the DIS and, liking what I read, secured an ADR shortly thereafter. As it turns out, it was a great call because breakfast at Boma would end up being one of the best meals of our trip.
We make our way over to the restaurant that morning ready to eat and then hit the road. But what we saw made us stop dead in our tracks.
Apparently the secret about Boma was out. The line just to
check in was long. Crazy long. Longer than Crystal Gayle’s hair. Longer than Kato Kaelin’s fifteen minutes of fame. Longer than this trip report.
I trip over my husband’s jaw as I rush to stake out a spot in the ever growing line.
Meanwhile,
three days later, we finally make it to the front of the line. I give them our name and they give me a pager. I ask the CM how long the estimated wait time is. She responds with a laugh and a shrug of her shoulders. I’m not kidding. She literally laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Then she tells me that she can’t give me any idea how long the wait will be. She could have said “It shouldn’t be too long” or “No more than about twenty minutes.” I could’ve lived with that. But the fact that she found amusement in my questioning of the estimated wait time did not bode well for us.
I turn to look at my husband, who has already shifted into “It’s All About The Time” gear and think to myself “That’s not gonna go over well.”
As I grab a seat beside my family, the boy grabs the pager and the man asks how long the wait will be.
“It shouldn’t be too long. No more than about twenty minutes. Give or take....”
Thirty minutes later, I’m getting itchy. And that’s right about the time they call our name. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. We hop up and eagerly follow the CM to our table.
Once situated, the concept of the buffet line is explained to us in great detail. DH stops our server in mid sentence and tells her to skip it. He informs her we’re familiar with buffets and we’re pretty sure we can find the plates. He lets her know we’ve got a schedule to keep so if she can just bring us a lil sumpm sumpm to wet our whistles, it would be greatly appreciated. Then he thanks her and smiles. Because he’s really thirsty and he doesn’t want anybody spitting in his juice.
Enter... West African Frunch.
Apparently this stuff is the signature juice at Boma. Whatever that means. I think it’s a mixture of pineapple juice, papaya juice, lemonade and several other juices that you probably wouldn’t normally drink for breakfast. Unless you were in Fiji. Or Camaroon. Much like the members of U2, on their own, they’re pretty good. But put ‘em all together and you’ve got yourself a combination that’ll rock your socks off.
Yes, it was that good.
The server poured the delicious nectar into our little juice glasses. But she stopped about halfway, which worked out to be maybe two or three ounces. Tops. Our son was drinking more than that before the umbilical cord was cut. Then she turned and was out of sight before the words “You gotta be
kidding me” had a chance to form in our minds. With our server nowhere in sight, we licked what little juice we had out of the inside of the glass and assumed that when we came back, our cups would be refilled. Then we set off to check out the buffet.
But first we had to find the plates.
As much as we love dinner at Boma, dare I say it: breakfast was even better. I’m not kidding. It was, without a doubt, the best breakfast we’ve ever had. Better than Denny’s Grand Slam. Better than room service at the Ritz Carlton. Better than my own Mama’s breakfast pizza. It was that good. And totally worth the wait. There was smoked pork loin, there was carved ham, there were muffins and croissants and danishes and scones, there were made to order omelets, pancakes and waffles, and the fresh fruit was some of the best I’ve ever tasted. It was all delicious and there was such a huge variety. It honestly boggled the mind.
I helped the kids load up their plates and as we sat back down at our table, we said the blessing. And then our son took one bite of his waffles, which were drowning in syrup and butter, and announced “Man, I love this place!” The girl drank her juice and when asked how it tasted, responded “Tastes like
goooooood.”
Which is the ultimate compliment coming from her.
And just like that, breakfast at Boma received four (?) thumbs up from the LaLas. Like the Dole Whip, it far exceeded our expectations.
As we ate, we drank the three swallows (give or take a couple) of juice in our glasses and motioned for our server to come over and fill ‘er up. Again. She was a very pleasant girl but she needed to come off the juice. Stop being so stingy with it. Signature or not. Again, she happily poured, but stopped short, filling the glasses with only a microscopic amount of juice. Yet again.
What is the DEAL?!
What’s in that stuff, liquid gold?
My husband, who was parched from packing the van, stared at his glass. And then he stared at the server. Our sweet little server. I watched as the rage welled up inside him. He took a deep breath, calmly pointed to his glass and then pointed back to his shirt with his thumb. And then he lowered his voice and said “You obviously don’t know who you’re dealing with. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm wearing the Grumpy shirt today. And I ain't wearing it for my health. So kindly make with the juice and make with it now, woman. Lay some West African Frunch on me!”
And with that, she laid it on him. But it wasn't the West African Frunch. It was more like a right cross. Followed by a left jab.
Okay, she didn't really. And he wasn't rude. But he did get his point across. And he finally got a decent portion of juice while we finished our much better than expected meal. We had gorged ourselves and knew we would probably be paying the price on the way home. I looked over at the girl and announced there would be no reading in the car. Or turning around in the car. That last one was for me. We have to lay down ground rules because with us, you just never know when a little projectile vomit is gonna show up on the scene.
Before we leave, we take the kids in the bathroom for a little pre trip emptying of the bladder and the girl confesses her love of The Little Sink. Disneyworld is the only place that she can actually reach the sink, the soap, and the paper towels without any help from me. That may not seem significant to you or me, but for an independent five year old, it was something really special. All week long, it had been a treat for her to walk into a bathroom and find a sink that was just her size. That’s one of the reasons we like the semi hidden Chef Mickey’s bathroom so much. It has a Little Sink. And it makes her happy. Which just goes to show that you can plan all you want but sometimes it’s the little unexpected things in life that end up meaning so much.
Fo shizzle.
The girl bids farewell to The Little Sink and tells it she'll see it next time. I'm not kidding. She really did. I think I even heard a little sigh as we walked out the door.
And with that, we roll out of Boma and into the AKL lobby for the very last time. We slow our steps down and look up into the cavernous lobby. Goodbye cool as all get out light fixtures. Goodbye little bridge. Goodbye animals, both large and small. We’ll miss you but we’ll see you on the flip side.
We breathe in that scent. That now familiar scent. No, not the poop trucks. The other scent. I close my eyes just for a minute and drink it all in. The place, the memories, the moment, and the yellow. There was so much yellow.
And then I open my eyes and grab my husband’s hand.
“Well, La. Do we have everything? Are you ready?” he asks.
I exhale deeply and take one last look around. The place was amazing and I didn't particularly want to leave. We had an awesome time that week, the four of us. I look over at my husband and my children and my focus switches from the room to my family. My tired, but happy, sweet little family. They are beautiful and they are amazing. To me. I put my arms around the two wonderful little blessings that God has given us. And I pull them in close to my side as we begin to walk toward the door.
“Yeah. We've got
everything we need. I'm sure of it." I tell him with a smile.
"Well, then. Let's hit it."
Up Next: The Epilogue
And, Zzub is back on ignore.
)
Sorry I'm still sniffling from the installment and feeling soppy.
My coworkers think I'm nuts because of the random explosive laughter (Not explosive diarrhea. NOZzub.) at otherwise quiet times of the day. I even find myself goofily grinning as I'm driving home, thinking back on your and Zzub's reports.
Although, you don't really look anything like I expected...
I can't wait to try this with my kids!!!
And loved that your adorable little girl sings Wishes! like nobody's listening. So sweet! 
