Fun is where you find it
To you, it's a Buick. To my son, it's a thrill ride.

by Terri Mauro

I must have missed the Disney press release about this, but there's an irresistible new attraction at the Epcot portion of Disney World in Orlando. It's not a ride, it's not a show, it's not an amazing computer simulation or brilliantly orchestrated animatronic display or IMAX movie. It has cars, but they're not moving. They're just sitting there, on display--eight GM vehicles, Saturns to Cadillacs, sportscars to minivans, doors open, welcoming all comers to sit behind the wheel and...well, sit behind the wheel.

Hey, it was my son's favorite attraction. He played there for hours. It was the red-hot E-ticket highlight of his visit to Florida, and he measured every moment of our Magic Kingdom visit two days later against it. Oh, sure, yeah, jungle cruises, teacups, It's a Small World, yada, yada, yada. Where was the GM display? Where were the cars? Don't tell him about the racecar track--those cars are fake, and loud. Give him a real live driving machine, albeit a stationary one, and he's a happy boy.

In truth, he would have been a happy boy if we'd just stayed by the pool at the timeshare. Parks and lines and crowds and noise and unpredictable movements aren't his 16-ounce cup of overpriced soda. He's a man of simple tastes. Give him water, sun, and a couple of pool toys and he's set. It's just his pesky parents who want to drag him off to be enchanted, dammit. Have fun! Feel the magic! Ride a ride already! This is what kids do!

My daughter's a little more appreciative of all the theme park folderol, but really, she'd be happy by the pool, too. We met some friends for lunch at Epcot, and their kids were also begging to just go play in the pool. Thank goodness for the Orlando economy and the health of the Walt Disney corporation that Boomer parents have an ingrained, biological need to bring their young to theme parks in order to recapture the wonder of their lost childhoods. Bad luck for us that all our kids are wondering is when they can get the heck out of there.

Next time, we'll just rent a bunch of cars, park them near the pool and let the kids go crazy. The way theme park prices are going, this will probably be a bargain.

Buckle up before you ride off that cliff
New safety standards for cartoon characters.

by Terri Mauro

"Quit bugging me!"
A sister pleads, a brother's pleased.

by Terri Mauro

My son is delayed in just about everything. From his small size (way down there off the bottom of the charts) to his fine and gross motor skills to his language ability to his social and emotional development, he's running anywhere from a bit to a lot behind. Therapists, special-ed teachers, and his father and I work tirelessly to bring him along and catch him up. Yet when it comes to harrassing his sister, I must admit, the boy is right on schedule.

I was an only child growing up, and so I missed the sibing-rivalry experience. I always wanted a little brother or sister, but now that I see what that entails, I think there's a lot to be said for solitude. I had counted on a sibling as an in-house friend, an ever-present playmate, someone always available to bask in my wonderfulness and reflect it back at me. But at the same time, that little person sharing your home can be your enemy, seeking out your weaknesses and exploiting them, saying just that thing that will make you lose your temper, preferably in front of Mom and Dad.

My daughter, with neurological problems of her own, is certainly easy to bug. With her rigidly literal world view and inflexible sense of right and wrong, there's a hair-trigger quality to her outrage. And that's not lost on the boy. Among the things that he knows will tick her off are copying her in any way, from deliberately repeating her words to simply asking for the same kind of juice; hugging, pinching, or touching without filling out the appropriate paperwork first; making up funny stories instead of always telling the cold hard literal truth; and saying her name in a loud and sing-songy way he likes. This is a boy who has no skill for social cues, who cannot seem to read other people, and who has yet to develop much sophisticated emotion himself. But his ability to drive this one girl crazy is unerring.

So much of what he does is impulsive, obsessive, or compulsive that it's hard to believe he could be doing this on purpose. He repeats phrases in that sing-songy way all the time, and it seems to come from a part of his brain that has little to do with conscious thought. He's often in his own world, which can be seen from ours but does not run on the same rules. His preoccupation with his own needs and interests can make him hard to reach and hard to discipline. But with his sister--well, I've seen that gleam in his eye. There's deliberate manipulation going on there, and though I'm sorry for her unhappiness, I can only take that sort of involvement with another person's feelings and reactions as a positive step forward for him.

But he better not get any ideas about teasing me.

Rites of spring
Tests of mettle for students and parents.

by Terri Mauro

We've just survived one of the rites of passage of elementary school: the Standardized Test. I can remember taking them in my distant youth--bubbles to fill in, multiple choices, story problems, a break from the routine. I don't remember them being as big a deal then as they seem to be now, but in truth I don't recall all that much from, um, thirty-some years ago. Maybe we really did drop everything for a month and do nothing but study for the test. Maybe it did last for a week. Maybe my teacher did mandate early bedtimes on test days, and maybe the school's budget and reputation were determined by how I did.

That's the way things are now, anyway. My daughter's class was told to "study like crazy," and so we brought the pages and pages and pages of worksheets with us on vacation and took a little time between the pool and the parks and the play to get ready for the Big Test. Bad luck for the school, the teacher, the district, all those entities who stand to lose, that the test dates were immediately after spring break. A week of no discipline, of trips and disrupted routines and jet lag. All that classroom prep slipping away.

But we survived. My daughter thought the test was kind of hard, but mostly easy. My son is in first grade, and so doesn't take the test, but the other kids in his self-contained special-ed class are second graders, and test-worthy. So he spent much of the week in a different classroom, with a group of hearing-impaired kids, and now he wants to learn to talk with his hands. So at least something educational transpired in those five days.

Gambling for wimps
A Web site offers gain with no pain.

by Terri Mauro

I've always been a lousy gambler. No nerve. I play the cheapest slot machines I can find in Las Vegas or Atlantic City--that used to mean nickel slots, but now there's just a few of those machines in the farthest hidden corners of the casino, and you have to fight deeply entrenched senior citizens to get to them. You'll never see me walking around with silver dollars, though. Too cheap. Even betting quarters makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Lottery tickets are out of the question, even when the jackpot is a bazillion dollars, as it's been in New Jersey these last few days. People are lining up around the corner to buy lottery tickets. People from other states are beseeching New Jersey-ites on e-mail lists to buy them lottery tickets. Story one on the news is lottery tickets--who's buying them, who's selling them, who's winning or not. Lottery fever--they've got it. They're in it to win it. And I'm thinking...I'm thinking, I'm going to buy a ticket, I'm going to lose, I'm going to feel stupid. No one anyone knows ever wins those things. I've got a dollar and a dream, but no guts.