I planned Disneyland for my birthday, the kind of day you save for and circle in glitter on the calendar. Two nights before, Mom and my sister announced a “small change”: I’d push the stroller, handle snacks, and take my nephews to the bathroom while they “enjoyed rides I’d hate.” My gift had turned into a shift.
I didn’t argue. I printed three bright lanyards labeled “Chaperone” with a color-coded kid schedule, loaded them with snack credits, and set mobile orders to ping their phones all day. For myself, I mapped a single-rider route and reserved a front-row spot for the parade.
At rope drop, I handed them the lanyards and a grin. “Happy Babysitting Day. My trip starts now.” While they queued for Dumbo with meltdowns and sticky churros, I flew through Space Mountain, laughed with strangers on Pirates, and let a Dole Whip melt like sunlight on my tongue.
We met under the fireworks. Their hair was frazzled, my cheeks were calm. Mom squeezed my hand. “Next time, it’s your day—for real.” I nodded. “It already was.”
