We leave for Disney in three days.
My wife is preparing for every conceivable contingency. If a small tropical storm forms over Epcot, she’s got a poncho. If Jett suddenly decides she only wears purple socks, we’re covered. If civilization collapses somewhere between Frontierland and Tomorrowland, I’m fairly certain Mary will calmly unzip a hidden compartment in her luggage containing emergency rations, a first-aid station, and the paperwork to establish a new government.
Meanwhile, I’m packing... absolutely no clothes.
Not a single extra shirt. Not an extra pair of shorts. I’m simply wearing what I’m wearing when we leave and bringing enough clean underwear to survive the Florida swamp.
That’s it.
Oddly enough, one of the things I’m most excited about is carrying the tiniest bag imaginable. No decisions. No outfit changes. No “just in case.” Just my standard Dad Uniform and the radical belief that I can enjoy one of the biggest vacations of my life without hauling around a portable wardrobe.
Now don’t get me wrong—I am incredibly excited.
Not because it’s Disney.
Because it’s this Disney.
Jett is at that magical age where every castle is real, every ride is the greatest invention in human history, and somehow every YouTube video she watches only makes her more excited than the last. This isn’t just a vacation. It’s one of those fleeting moments that quietly disappears while you’re living it, only to become priceless years later.
That excitement, however, has a traveling companion: anxiety.
I’m a fairly spicy human.
Heat. Crowds. Noise. Waiting in lines. Constant stimulation. And thousands upon thousands of people wandering around with the unmistakable expression of someone who has completely surrendered their ability to walk in a straight line.
Disney seems uniquely capable of turning otherwise functional adults into human Roombas.
They stop suddenly in the middle of a walkway. They drift diagonally for no apparent reason. Entire families fan out shoulder-to-shoulder at precisely the speed required to ensure no one behind them ever reaches their destination.
It’s honestly impressive.
And yet...
I already know I won’t remember most of that.
I’ll remember Jett’s face when she sees the castle. I’ll remember laughing with Mary. I’ll remember collapsing into the hotel bed each night after a day that somehow felt both endless and impossibly short.
The truth is, I’m not really excited about Disney.
I’m excited about future nostalgia.
So I’ll carry my tiny backpack while Mary carries enough supplies to sustain a small expedition across central Florida. Somewhere between her preparedness and my complete refusal to prepare, I suspect we’ll accidentally become the perfect travel team.
Besides, if Jett saw me pack extra clothes, she’d probably be more shocked than she is when Mickey starts talking.