The Disney Driven Life

Community Blog for Neurotic Disney People

Tweet This Post

I have never been much of a traveler.  It’s not that I haven’t thought about it.  I have. I can just imagine the places I would go . . . the things I would see . . . the people that I would meet if I were to travel!  However, there is one issue.  It is this one issue that stops me from even traveling beyond my own home–food allergies.

It’s hard enough just getting through an ordinary daily routine, but mine includes stressful meal preparations that must exclude foods like beef, pork and dairy.  The idea of accidentally overlooking any trace of these foods is a great worry for me.  If I don’t take great care to eliminate them, it is never certain what may happen or how I may feel afterward. This is really difficult to accomplish just at home.  Forget about traveling the world.  It’s out of the question.

I was fine with not traveling to the great unknowns of the world. My vacations consisted of heading down to the beach and preparing my own food every night. I was satisfied with anything that would ensure me not paying homage to the porcelain gods, and I let it be known that I would rather burn in the sun than have a rash from a reaction. However, when my husband asked for my hand in marriage four years ago, we began planning a honeymoon to mimic my Cinderella fairytale wedding.

He hated the beach, so my safe, go-to place was no longer an option.  We needed another destination to celebrate the start of our union.  It took us a little while (and quite a bit of arm-pulling from me), but I finally convinced my special guy to make ours a Disney honeymoon. So with reservations set, we made our way down to the happiest place on Earth.

Having no idea how Disney’s dining situation worked, I went down with my best “let’s see what happens” face.  I figured if I needed to, I would stick close to the hotel and the magical commode that Disney supplied in-room. At least my view would be nicer.

We arrived right on time to our first dining destination, Kona Café at the Polynesian Resort.  I smiled all the way to our seat even though I passed the dessert plate and longed for just a taste, knowing it would kill me.  My consolation was that I could still admire the beautiful delicacies despite my inability to eat them.

We were handed the menus, and I stared at the options. Hmm…this one had beef; this one had pork; this one contained milk. When the waitress came around to take our drink orders and asked if we were ready, I stared blankly at her.  What to do? What to do?

I decided to ask if there was any way I could get a substitution for something I couldn’t eat. “Of course,” she said and asked if there was a specific reason. I explained I had a food allergy to beef, pork and dairy.  She immediately turned and fled to the kitchen, leaving my husband and I wondering what had just happened.

It only took minutes, but the chef came out.  He was followed by our waitress. Around us, tables began to look up from their meals as he made his way to our seats. “I hear someone here has an allergy,” the chef greeted.

My first reaction was embarrassment. I hadn’t expected someone to come out of the kitchen just to ask me about it.  Quietly I nodded my head, reciting what I was allergic to once more. I began thinking that there would be an issue.  I began thinking that perhaps eating around “unsafe” foods wouldn’t be as easy as I had originally thought, but then the chef did something no one had ever done before with the exception of my own family.

He offered me my own variety of options. Sauces would be taken off; butter would be eliminated, and nothing would be cooked anywhere near the other meats. The possibilities were endless.  He assured me that whatever I wanted, he would create regardless of it being on the menu or not. Shocked, I placed my order for a grilled mahi mahi dish (without any of the frills) along with some fresh steamed vegetables. I was amazed at the effort Disney made to ensure I had a fabulous vacation.

“Do they do that everywhere?” I asked my waitress once the chef had left.  “Yes,” she confirmed.  “They do this anywhere on Disney property. All you need to do is inform your host or hostess when you check in that you have a food allergy and the chefs will handle it.”  She took down my husband’s order before turning back to me, “One last thing . . . what would you like for dessert?”  Dessert? Did she just say dessert?  I think I am in love with Disney dining.

Contributed by: Aleisha M. (NDM#150). Aleisha brings her experience with special dietary needs in WDW to The Disney Driven Life as this week’s guest writer.

Tweet This Post

DISNEY DINING BOOT CAMP

There is a bit of advice often tossed out to parents: Pick your battles carefully.  The idea is that you can’t force your way upon your children in every situation, so choose the scenarios that are of the most importance to stand your ground.  Let the “less important” matters go by the wayside because they aren’t worth the fight and can actually cause you to lose the greater battles. 

I have always thought these words to be very wise and wished I could apply them the way I preferred.  But many years ago, when we were first hit with medical issues, I lost my ability to pick my battles.  At that point, the battles were chosen for me.  I couldn’t choose to make my children sit still in church because I had to wage war at the hospital lab to get them to sit still for blood draws.  I couldn’t choose to get serious about potty training because I had to take extraordinary measures just to get my kids to pass a bowel movement at all.  I couldn’t go toe-to-toe on the thumb-sucking issue.  My primary concern had to be getting my little people, who were not yet a half-decade old, to swallow horse pills. 

Table manners were among these “less important” issues when we found ourselves at the mercy of special dietary needs.  It was no longer about how my kiddos ate their preservative-free, sugar-free, gluten-free, casein-free, soy-free, completely whole foods meal.  It was simply about them eating it.  This compromise always seemed of little consequence, though.  We didn’t eat in public, and our menu was far enough from the standard American diet that no one wanted to come over and eat with us.  Therefore, there were never any witnesses to the barn-like mentality of my children at the dinner table except DH and me (and we overlooked it since we were simply grateful that our little animals cooperatively consumed their brussel sprouts and other edibles). 

But now I realize that disregarding table etiquette may have been a misstep.  We will be eating out when we visit Disney’s Hollywood Studios . . . in a five-star restaurant no less.  My trio of miniature omnivores is ill-prepared for their entrance into the world of fine dining, and I cringe at the thought of their meal-time antics in public.  There is no alternative.  A new battle has been chosen, and to prepare for it we must now institute Disney Dining Boot Camp. 

As soon as I get my little ones seated at the table, I give a brief introduction to the concept.  “OK, guys.  When we go to Walt Disney World, we will be eating in a restaurant.  It will be a very fancy restaurant, and we may even see Chef Patrick.”  DD7 speaks up, “Yeah.  We know this, Mom.”  I instruct, “What you don’t know is how to eat properly when you are in this restaurant, but you are going to learn.  You three have certain table habits that are unacceptable when eating in public.  We don’t want Chef Patrick to regret that he invited us to his wonderful eatery, do we?”  My troops are solemn and shake their heads.  “Well,” I continue, “then we have to learn a new way of eating, and we have to learn it fast.  From this moment on I will be like Roz in Monsters, Inc., watching you . . . . always watching.  When you show bad manners, I will tell you.  You will correct your behavior, and you will learn appropriate Disney table etiquette.  Got it?”  My three dwarves answer with a resounding, “Got it!” 

In preparation for this moment, I created the meal that will be served in the restaurant.  This way my diners can begin their training and develop good habits in reference to the exact foods they will confront at the time of testing.  So as I place a plate of grilled chicken, peas and blanched strawberries in front of them, their eyes widen and their lips smack. 

A prayer of thanks is expressed and the children immediately grab their poultry to sink their teeth into it.  “STOP,” I yell.  Frozen in time, chicken pieces are held en route and mouths hang open in mid-bite.  The only things that move are little eyes as they turn toward me.  “When we are in a restaurant, you do not touch your food with your hands.  You use a fork or a spoon to get the food to your mouth,” I instruct.  All chicken pieces are placed back on the plates, and my kiddos patiently wait for me to cut their food into bite size pieces. 

Once the pieces are cut, the kids resume eating.  All looks well except for the sight of DS5’s morsels being mangled between his teeth and sloshed in his saliva.  “DS5,” I bark, “Close your mouth while you chew.  It will bother the other diners if they can see the food in your mouth.”  DS5 shrugs and tries to remember this new form of chewing.  When he momentarily forgets, DD7 quips, “Kip yo mof cwohsed!”  “DD7,” I explain, “that would be more meaningful if you didn’t have food in your mouth when you said it.  If I can see the food in your mouth when you talk, it is just as bad as seeing it when DS5 chews.  With Disney table manners, you can either eat or talk, but you can’t do both at the same time.  You choose which one you want to do most.”  DD7 nods her head to communicate that she understands. 

I glance at DD2 who has begun to make a pile of discarded chicken bones on the table next to her plate.  I gasp in horror at the sight.  Once again the children cease all movement and look to me.  “No, no, no, DD2,”  I reprimand, “That is yucky!  You never-ever put food on the table.  All the food must stay on your plate.”  “But I don’t like the bones,” she expresses.  I explain, “That doesn’t matter.  You just put the bones on the side of your plate.”  DD2 begins to cry, “But I don’t want them on my plate.”  I breathe a heavy sigh and am about to relent due to her apparent lack of reasonability.  However, I note that my other two students of etiquette are intently watching my response to this situation, and I know I cannot falter.  This battle has now been picked.  I must stand my ground.  Chef Patrick is counting on us, and I cannot let him down.  “DD2,” I declare in a firm tone, “You will not put food on the table.  It will remain on your plate until it is thrown away.  If you cannot cooperate, you will not be permitted to eat in the restaurant at all which means you will not go to Disney’s Hollywood Studios.”  This time the children are the ones that gasp in horror.  I have become the Disney Dining Nazi, but there is no going back.  My mission is of such magnitude now that we will “do or die.” 

The rest of the meal is filled with terse instruction.  “DD7, don’t reach across the table to get the salt.  Ask for someone to pass it.”  “DD2, I don’t care if it was the best strawberry of the bunch.  If it falls to the floor, you may not retrieve it.”  “DS5, you may not wipe your mouth on your sleeve.  That is what a napkin is for.”  “All of you, under NO circumstances are you allowed to pick up your plates to lap up the strawberry juice!” 

I confess to myself that it has been a tough time of instruction, but by the end of the meal, my small Disney diners are getting the hang of this new style of food consumption.  Rather than a trough, my Piglets seem worthy of the dining room table.  I am pleased, and I feel confident that we will be ready for the ritzy restaurant that lies in our future. 

A few hours later, some movement catches my eye as I walk past the dining room table.  Upon closer inspection, crumbs are found all over the table and floor of one seat’s position.  It has attracted a small gathering of ants that are thrilled with the treasure they’ve found. 

I summon my trio to the crime scene and ask for an explanation.  DS5 admits that the mess is his and that he made it when I gave him permission to indulge in a snack.  “Well,” I interrogate, “why didn’t you use your Disney table manners?”  Defensively DS5 responds, “I DID use Disney table manners.  I just forgot to use a plate.”  I look at his big, sincere eyes and realize that while we have accomplished so much today, we–apparently–have more ground to cover.

Tweet This Post

SAINT PATRICK

I sit at my computer to check the park hours of DHS.  While I’m notating particulars about Extra Magic Hours for Disney resort guests, a pop-up box notifies me that I have received an e-mail from someone named Chef Patrick. 

I open the letter to read a thoughtful note from the chef of The Hollywood Brown Derby.  He explains that he was contacted by Brenda about our family’s circumstances and is very interested in enabling us to visit the park.  He then requests an e-mail back specifying the items that my children cannot eat. 

I am quick to put my current task aside.  After all, if our dietary dilemma does not get resolved, Extra Magic Hours will be meaningless anyway.  I feel much like Milo when he cohesively organized all his research in hopes of securing passage to the lost city of Atlantis, and I carefully begin construction on my dietary epistle to Chef Patrick.  Since the list of foods my children can eat is more brief and specific than the list of foods they cannot eat, I start my small e-book with this itemized list.  After that I give an abridged explanation of my children’s medical diet, the science behind it and our current position in it progression.  This is all followed by explicit warnings of the potential physical, behavioral and neurological consequences for my children if their food is not prepared within the set guidelines.  

As I proofread my e-mail that is probably worthy of publication in a medical journal, I wonder what Chef Patrick’s response will be.  The diet actually is a return to whole foods in a very restricted and pure form.  However, I am acutely aware that to most contemporary persons, the kids’ diet seems like a maniacal menu designed by The Swedish Chef and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. 

I expel a heavy sigh and acknowledge that the note cannot be helped.  If I am going to trust this man with the health of my children, I need to be sure that he understands the magnitude of our situation.  So with some reservation, I hit the “send” button, and my short novel takes off through cyberspace to an inbox somewhere in Orlando. 

Several minutes have passed, and I’m back to searching the Disney website for details on height restrictions of attractions and recommended activities for toddlers.  Another pop-up box informs me that Chef Patrick has responded.  Already?  I know that Disney tries to be timely in responding to guests, but this is very impressive.  I open the new message and read, “May I call you right now?”  “Oh my!  Is this a good thing or a bad thing,” I wonder.  I oblige by sending Chef Patrick more specific contact information and wait for the phone to ring. 

Over the last two years, our family has received a wide variety of reactions to our diet.  But the most common reaction is one of disbelief.  In spite of the evidence that my children’s recovery provides, most people seem unable to grasp that our extreme dietary measures have been completely necessary.  So–more often than I care to recall–I have been treated like a small child whose observations are received with an inattentive nod, vacant gaze or condescending smile that communicates, “You are misinformed and misguided, but I’ll pretend to agree just to appease you.”  When DH and I first encountered these responses, they were shocking.  Then they grew to be infuriating.  At this point, they are expected, but they have never become less painful.  So I brace myself for what I may confront in my next phone call.  

The phone rings, so I pick up.  I’m greeted by a kind voice, “Hi.  This is Chef Patrick from The Hollywood Brown Derby.”  I return the greeting.  Chef Patrick explains, “I’m sorry to bother you.  I received your e-mail and have looked it over.  With all my experience in dealing with dietary issues, I’ve never seen the likes of this.  I’m calling because I want to make sure that I fully understand it.  Is it alright if I ask you some questions?”  I take a big breath and agree to answer his questions even though most of these types of conversations turn into something resembling an interrogation.  

We start off discussing the kids’ medical condition and its affect on their digestive system.  I explain that most likely the reason he is unfamiliar with their prescribed diet is because most individuals on it are unable to visit restaurants.  This is why we haven’t been in a restaurant as a family in two years.  Chef Patrick exclaims, “Two years!”  But rather than with disbelief, Chef Patrick treats my research and experience with a sense of respect and admiration.  He continues to ask very specific questions about ingredients and cooking processes.  His manner is one of genuine interest, and he asks me to occasionally pause so that he can catch up on his notes.  I find myself feeling slightly at ease with Chef Patrick.  He is very likeable, and even though I am neurotic, he seems to take me seriously. 

After all the questions have been answered, I express my fear that the meals could accidentally be cross-contaminated due to the nature of a restaurant’s operation.  Chef Patrick very calmly addresses me, “I want to lay all your fears to rest.  Should you decide to come to my restaurant, your meals will be treated with the utmost care.  My restaurant is the only five-star restaurant within a Disney theme park.  For this reason, we have two kitchens–one that is rarely ever used.  If I’m on duty that day, not only will your meals be pulled off the main line and prepared in an entirely separate kitchen but I will also prepare them myself.  I want your family to eat in my restaurant.  You have been through so much.  Please allow me to serve you this way.  I truly want to feed your family.” 

I nearly choke as my eyes tear up, and I struggle to catch my breath.  His words ring in my ears. I WANT to feed your family?  Of all the times I’ve witnessed reactions to our story, I’ve never encountered this.  I’ve seen arrogant condescension.  I’ve seen irritated tolerance.  At best, I’ve seen sympathetic compassion.  This is the first time though I’ve seen aggressive inclusion, and I am moved in a powerful way.  

It is in this moment that I know I can place the safety of my family’s health in the hands of this incredible man.  He has succeeded where so many have failed by being humble and realizing there are some things that he can still learn in life (even from a Neurotic Disney Mom).  Because he has made himself teachable, he has also made himself trustworthy.  My defenses are coming down, and I smile as I imagine my family enjoying the luxury of a restaurant together for the first time since DD2’s birth. 

Chef Patrick and I end our discussion with my promise to make a reservation and his promise to remain in touch.  He says that he plans to periodically check on our progress before we arrive, and once again I’m awe-struck by his desire to be so “hands-on” with us. 

I feel most of my apprehension melt away.  In its stead, the familiar feeling of Disney excitement grows.  Somehow this saintly man, disguised as a chef, has broken the curse of Disney-phobia that has tortured me for too long.  Upon recognizing this, I whisper a prayer of thanks for his entrance in my life.  He is the Genie in a lamp that I’ve been waiting to find, making my Disney wishes come true.

 *Contact information for Walt Disney World special dietary requests:

(407) 824-5967

WDW.Special.Diets@disney.com

http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/guest-services/special-dietary-requests/

Tweet This Post

A MORSEL THAT’S HARD TO SWALLOW

It is decided that we will only spend one day in a theme park during our upcoming trip.  Although I have been doing my best to not allow my newly acquired Disney phobia to get the best of me, it has been hard for me to entirely shake it.  Traveling with our special dietary needs is a concept that still makes me very uneasy, so I decide not to set our expectations too high.  We will brave one park for one day, and we will remain content within that limitation. 

The park, Disney’s Hollywood Studios (DHS), seems like a good fit for this trip.  My little starlets have never been to this park, and DH and I have not been since our honeymoon.  It is a park that can be almost completely seen within a day if one carefully plans and strategizes (which all NDMs instinctively do).  And because DHS has a large amount of shows with only a couple rides that exempt small children, our choice is particularly wise for DD2. 

As I analyze the situation, I am continually frustrated by our dietary circumstances.  I want to feed my children food that I have prepared because I know this guarantees their safety, but it is impossible for us to carry entire meals for our family around the park.  The amount of edibles would require a large cooler to be schlepped around the full day.  I am not about to consider this possibility when I will already feel like a pack mule under the weight of a diaper bag, a camcorder bag and a backpack that contains all the essentials for surviving a WDW theme park.  Plus, I will need all my hands available to manage and direct my Disney troop. 

In the back of my mind, I hear the voices of easy-going Disney guests advocating a retreat back to the villa during meals.  But this habit is strictly forbidden for my family.  It is deep within the NDM code to never leave a theme park before its closure forces such dreadful action.  So if I intend to train my family to be proper Neurotic Disney People (and I do intend to do this), a mid-day retreat is out of the question. 

Think, think, think.  I tap my furrowed NDM brow with the tip of my index finger as I search for an inspiring solution.  This technique in mental exercise always helps Winnie the Pooh visualize “outside the hunny pot.”  Perhaps, it will assist me as well. 

Ah!  I’ve got it!  But my plan of ingenuity will require special permission.  I retrieve the phone number of Brenda, the primary supervisor of Disney’s special dietary department, and quickly dial the digits.  Surprisingly, she answers personally rather than a voice message.  I quickly introduce myself, my circumstances and my brilliant idea.  I propose, “If DH and I made reservations at a restaurant for lunch and dinner, we could drop meals off there for the children first thing in the morning.  Then the restaurant could store the kid’s food in the refrigerator until we arrived for our reservations.”  In my mind, the notion is perfect.  The restaurant will receive our business; the children will be safe, and our family will experience eating together in a restaurant for the first time in two years.  However, Brenda finds a glaring flaw in my scheme.  It is illegal. 

Disney is responsible whenever a guest reacts negatively to a meal eaten within their restaurants.  So to ensure they are only held accountable for incidents that they have actually caused, these eating facilities are not permitted to serve food that they have not prepared.  As a loyal NDM, it is difficult for me to imagine persecuting an innocent Mouse in a court of law, but apparently there are people who do this sort of thing.  As a result, it has dashed all hopes of my family living the Hollywood life for a day. 

I do my best to hold it together, but tears fill my eyes.  Our dietary restrictions have kept us from being able to do a great many things these past years.  I have tried to stay positive in spite of it all, but this is more than I can bear.  As I attempt to thank Brenda for her time, I hear my voice quiver.  She hears it as well and begs me to consider trusting one of her chefs.  As I try to explain the complexity of my children’ s diet and my apprehension, I find myself taking big breaths and long pauses to stave off the sob fest that I am dangerously close to engaging. 

Brenda extends her sincerest sympathies and remarks that my fears are natural.  She assures me, though, that if I’m willing to give her a chance, she will go beyond the routine process of filling out the standard Dietary Needs Form.  She will put me personally in touch with chefs that not only ensure my kids’ safety but guarantee that their meals will receive exclusive attention. 

I begin to hope.  Maybe if I’m able to speak with some chefs first-hand, I will be able to ascertain whether they actually can handle the grave responsibility of safely feeding my delicate, red carpet walkers.  I tell Brenda with some trepidation that I will take this initial step with her.  She is elated to hear it and promises that I will begin receiving e-mails from DHS chefs within a day or two.  I express my gratitude, and we end our conversation. 

I sit and wonder if I have done the right thing.  I desperately wish that I did not have to make such a scary decision; however, as the family of a NDM we cannot live in a bubble that floats outside of the realm of Disney.  I’m perfectly content for my bubble to exclude almost everything else in life, but when Mickey is on the outside looking in, it is time for the bubble to pop. 

I try to relax and feel comfortable in the direction I’m taking.  After all, this is Walt Disney World we are talking about.  If anyone is on top of their game, it is this company.  Surely I can place my family in their hands and trust we will be taken care of, or can I? 

I bury my conflicted facial expression in my hands.  Will I ever fully recover from my doubtful Disney state?  This is the most distressing condition a NDM could have.  It sure would be nice to access Genie and his magic lamp right now, but I’m starting to wonder if my deliverance from this misery is even beyond the reach of the most powerful wish granters.

*Contact information for Walt Disney World special dietary requests:

(407) 824-5967

WDW.Special.Diets@disney.com

http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/guest-services/special-dietary-requests/

Tweet This Post

THE MORNING AFTER

The world is coming to an end.  That must be it.  There is no other reason to explain the strange feeling that has suddenly overcome me.  I am afraid to go to Walt Disney World.  Surely it is a sign of the apocalypse. 

Now that all my weeks of hyper-focused energy have landed us a stay at Disney’s Old Key West Resort, I am paralyzed by the thought of actually going.  This happening is absolutely bizarre, but there is some method to my madness. 

We entered the realm of “special dietary needs” years ago, and it has imprisoned us ever since.  Our children haven’t eaten a meal prepared outside of our kitchen in two years.  And since their entire diet is composed of perishable, whole food, this has meant that we have never been away from home for more than 18 hours.  It has not been easy.  It has not been pleasant.  But my children have made great strides in recovery because of it, and we have grown accustomed to it.  Now I realize that I am terrified to go outside of these boundaries that have been a means of protection for so long. 

There are only a handful of specialty meats, fruits and vegetables that my children can eat.  Most of them can’t be found in grocery stores.  It has taken me years to search out healthy, organic farms that raise meats and grow food that my children can eat without negatively reacting, and none of them are located in Orlando.  What if we run out of food while we are there?  What if the food goes bad en route?  What if we have a dietary infraction and undo all the progress we have made over the years?  What if I forget to pack a critical supplement?  What if we need our specialized doctor?  What if Mickey is ill-equipped to handle the delicate natures of my angelic spawn and the frazzled nerves of their bewildered NDM? 

These are not the only things to consider, though.  The preparations of this trip will be the likes of which I have never seen before.  As I gnaw on my fingernails, I acknowledge that I was not raised to vacation this way.  I have no experience as a traveling “special needs” mom.  The modern conveniences of drive-thrus, restaurants, and pre-packaged foods have always played a dominant role in my vacation training, and I feel quite out of my element as I look to what lies ahead.  A normal trip to WDW already necessitates a great degree of detailed planning, and this “abnormal” trip will require even more.  Since I cannot avail myself of the common luxuries that most utilize when on vacation, I will have to do a lot of thinking “outside the box” in order to avoid disaster.  The pressure is intense.  What if I am caught unprepared?  What if I fail?  What if my family is permanently damaged in some way by my inability to rise to the occasion? 

The “what ifs” won’t leave me alone.  They attack my imagination from every side and grow more horrific in nature.  The last fingernail is ravished, and my cuticles become the focus of my crazed oral fixation.  I envision a hundred dreadful Disney scenarios in my mind.  Each one features starvation, a fatal bacterial infection, a life-impairing accident, an acquired disease or a brain-eating amoeba.  I can’t do this.  We can’t go.  We will never survive. 

My fingertips have transformed into bloody stumps and no longer satisfy my need to nibble.  I look at my toenails and wonder if it is possible to somehow bring them to my gnashing teeth.  I am in between a rock and a hard place.  I must get to WDW for my 10^th anniversary, but I cannot go because it may kill my family.  As I look for a corner to curl up in the fetal position and bang my head, I realize that I have somehow lost the endearing “Disney” factor of my esteemed title.  I no longer resemble a Neurotic Disney Mom.  I have regressed to the state of just Neurotic Mom.  The revelation is enough to scare me more than my Disney paranoia.  I need professional help.  It is time to call Bill. 

Bill, being the knowledgeable Disney man that he is as well as a father of a kid with ”special needs”, is uncommonly compassionate while I expel the barrage of irrational notions in my mind.  He gently reminds me that his son’s medical condition is akin to the one my children have, and his son has survived every year that they’ve gone to Disney.  He declares that not once has his son ever contracted the West Nile Virus from a rabid mosquito roaming Lake Buena Vista, and he is doubtful that mine will either.  I find comfort in his soothing words and begin to relax. 

As Bill expertly executes his therapy session, he even goes so far as to suggest that my family could possibly dine in a restaurant due to Disney’s expertise in accommodating dietary needs.  I gasp in horror at the thought.  Going to WDW is one thing, but entrusting the preparation of my children’s food to another individual is an entirely different matter!  It took me a great many months to get a handle on all the particulars of this restricted diet.  I find it incredulous that a chef who is preparing meals for an entire restaurant simultaneously can give the meals of my little digestively-challenged kiddos the specialized attention they need.  But Bill is insistent, and begs me to at least consider the notion.  With this, he passes on the contact information for Brenda who is the primary supervisor of the “special dietary needs” department in Disney.  I am doubtful that I will actually reach out to this woman because I have no intention of allowing anyone else to take on the serious responsibility of feeding my children, but I record the information “just in case.” 

I thank Bill profusely for his time and patience, and I hang up the phone.  He has gone above and beyond his call of duty as DVC reservationist.  It is certain that providing NDM counseling for panicked vacation planners is not in his job description; however, he did not shy away from the task.  In fact, he managed it quite smoothly and took it in stride.  Is it possible that he has done this before? 

I am feeling more at ease now about the monstrous planning project that I face.  In fact, I can see that taking on this new level of Disney vacation preparation is an absolute necessity.  Clearly, in the last 24 hours something tragic has occurred in my composition to cause such Disney dysfunction.  It is absolutely unacceptable for a NDM to be Disney-phobic, and this must be corrected.  So for the betterment of my own mental health, I resolve to move forward with the trip and push through this temporary malaise to find my zippity-doo-dah, Neurotic Disney self once more.

*Contact information for Walt Disney World special dietary requests:

(407) 824-5967

WDW.Special.Diets@disney.com

http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/guest-services/special-dietary-requests/

Tweet This Post