We used to go to Disneyland a lot. For a long time, it was me, Mom, Auntie, Cousin Ja, Cousin Je, and the all-wonderful Gramps. Cousin Je, the youngest, was famous for getting tired, or cranky, or just deciding to be diffcult, about halfway through the afternoon, trouncing over to a bench, curb or planter, throwing herself down, and refusing to move. ("My feet hurt!" was the usual complaint.) We, of course, would all pretend to leave her there, or would tell her that she's being a brat, or would just sit down, fake that it was all our idea to stop, and enjoy some kind of ice cream treat.
Cut to 15 years later. Je has a 3-year-old son of her own, A., and Auntie has a job that gave them free access to an amusement park in Virginia for the day. (As I hear it, this is what happened.) Dearest A. was too afraid of the characters at the park; and screamed throughout the kids' roller coaster.
The justice, my friends, is that about halfway through the afternoon, A. announced that his legs were broken, and that he would not be walking anywhere anymore. And then just sat down! He insisted on being carried, if he was going to go anywhere. Auntie was cracking up throughout the whole thing, as would the rest of us had been! Apparently, Je, realizing the irony and humor that her mother was receiving from this, was not too amused. (I love you, sweet Je, but this is just super funny to me.) Justice! 15 years in the making!!
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