When the wakeup call came at 0600 hours, my husband leapt out of bed. The time had come for our predawn assault on the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. “Everybody up!” he barked.
No one budged. The troops’ resolve had flagged.
“Go AWWWAAAAAAAAY!” snarled my teenager.
“Why did you ever marry him?” wailed my son.
I decided not to get into the existential issues that that question raised. I chose instead to begin sobbing.
To improve morale, my husband began to recite the “We few, we happy few” speech from Henry V. He loves giving that speech. It’s very annoying in the best of circumstances.
My daughter said, desperately, “We’ll get up! Just. Please. Stop.”
On our way to breakfast, we bumped into a bellboy.
“Good thing you’re up,” he said. “The Harry Potter crowd is about to arrive. It’s gonna get crazy.”
As if on cue, at 6:30 a.m., the elevator doors opened and families began pouring out.
We stared at them as the 20th Maine must have stared at the waves of Confederate troops assaulting Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Where did they all come from?
Our family was suddenly united in a way we rarely achieve. We turned as one and made a beeline for the park. It was still dark out. Fathers, mothers, and children began racing by us.
Our pace was slowed by the fact that our oldest was recovering from mono. My husband suggested that she sling her arms over our shoulders, and we drag her along with her legs trailing, fallen comrade style.
“Fallen comrade style?” He was serious. I pictured a relapse. I pictured a photo circulating on the Internet. I pictured my “Most Irresponsible Mother Ever” award.
Just then, our bellboy bicycled by us with a rickshaw. “Run, dude!” he shouted to my son.
Few things get the blood pumping like a rickshaw full of Midwesterners about to get ahead of you on line.
My husband and my son took off without a backward glance. My younger daughter asked, “Will you guys be all right?” and then raced after them.
When the walking wounded and her guilt-stricken mother arrived at the entrance to the park, the rest of the family was in back of a line already dozens deep. It didn’t look too bad, I suggested, panting.
“This is only the first line,” my husband said, grimly.
Once in the park, even Mono Girl broke into a run. The sun came up. Suddenly, Hogsmeade rose up before us, glistening, snow-capped, magical. Mouths agape, my children slowed to a stop.
“No marveling!” shouted my husband. “Focus!” he exhorted.
He swept his arm in an arc from behind him to his front, in the universal “Charge!” gesture. I heard someone shriek “We can come back! Hurry!”
It was me. Having come this far, I was not about to let a few butterbeer signs and wand shops slow us down. Hogwarts loomed above us. When we got inside its cavernous walls, a group of tourists bottlenecked to our right.
“That’s the bag line, baby!” my husband shouted triumphantly. We fist-bumped.
I know. I can’t believe I told you that, either.
We waited only five minutes before getting on the ride. It was thrilling.
It was also 7:10 a.m.
I was too tired to scream.
When we got off, our children were beside themselves. Our oldest announced, “That was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And so we got on again. Because we could.
To read Part I of this installment, click here.
