I don’t know how other mothers do it.

They’re obviously made out of different (read: superior) material. Any woman who has ever accompanied a couple of young, hyperenergetic kids to heaven (read: Disneyland) and survived to tell the tale, will be in perfect sync with what I have to say.

Everyday, for three days -- and what seemed like half the nights -- I dutifully climbed into a monorail carting the faithful to the land that Walt built -- but not before receiving my quota of quack-quack kisses from Donald and Daisy Duck at the breakfast table. This is the original dream factory, created by a man who saw the future -- and the future was a mouse named Mickey.

There is no escaping Walt Disney’s long reach, right from the moment the plane lands in Los Angeles to that unforgettable hour-and-a-half wait anticipating the arrival of a plastic-smiled Snow While outside a pink fairy tale castle on the magical premises themselves. Mickey Mouse is everywhere -- even on the shower caps in the bathroom. But mercifully not on the toilet paper.

There is no way of ignoring the world’s most lovable rodent mascot -- and believe me, it isn't by accident that matters are so. If people adore Mickey, it’s because Walt and his A-team wanted them to. The selling of Mickey is perhaps one of the smartest and most successful marketing tricks in the world. Disney characters are more easily identifiable than the Pope, and second only to Michael Jackson. That’s the power of pop-culture at its pop-est.

Anaheim is one hundred per cent committed to projecting and promoting the Disney Dream. Not a single opportunity is either lost or wasted in Disneyfying the wariest of visitors. If Goofy is hanging around goofily in the coffee shop, Minnie Mouse is also there to pose for countless photographs. Never mind that a few terror stricken Japanese kids are diving for cover and begging parents to spare them from Lady Mice, clad in polka-dotted frocks. Looking at various faces in the cheerful Cafe where cartoon characters put in scheduled appearances, it’s hard to say who looks more thrilled -- the awestruck baby boomers nibbling water-crackers or their awesome babies sucking Winnie-the-Pooh candy.

I know I behaved like a perfect idiot myself the first time Shri Donald flung his arm, err, wing, around my shoulders and everybody clapped. The squirming came later -- when it struck me that under that clever costume was just another hired helper, possibly a Hispanic from across the border, for whom the daily fancy dress parade represented nothing more than a regular meal ticket.

There are lessons to be learned at this shrewdly positioned theme paradise -- lessons that extend beyond marveling at the marketing genius of the entire enterprise. The numbers are staggering whichever way one looks at them. And yet, there’s no hitch, no glitch, not even the stray hiccup. Everything glides along as smoothly as the so-called “submarines” which take the gullible for a picturesque underwater ride, past fibre-glass mermaids, plastic fish and fake ferns. Nothing is for real here -- and nobody particular cares -- least of all those excited kids biting into Mickey’s ice cream ears (yes, even chocolate-vanilla delights are appropriately molded).

We do’em all, every single ride going, including the Carousel. By the tail end of the second day, I’m ready to throw in my sneakers. The thought of queuing up for one more thrill -- and never mind if Indiana Jones himself is hiding in the dark cave through which mechanized jeeps careen crazily towards a distant tunnel -- I can’t stand another minute of this hi-tech, shiver-down-the-spine experience.

I dare not tell my kids that. Not when they want to drag me to the far end of the sprawling grounds to shake hands with Quasimodo and watch Esmeralda dance. I try to talk them out of it. I shamelessly offer disgusting bribes. It would be easier to convince Pocahontas to abandon her Pale Face lover (a cheesy actor in a Mamta Kulkarni-style blonde wig). I swear to myself, this is it. Tomorrow they climb into that monorail alone.

The next morning I complain about painful corns, arthritis and old age. Nothing works. I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, into the land that’s more dizzy than Disney. My insides have been turned to mush on the roller coaster ride through a monstrous Matterhorn. I’ve spun around in gigantic teacups, driven a ‘sports car’ along a crowded circuit, been shot into space, scared witless in the Haunted House, winked back at the Pirates of the Caribbean, gotten lost on Tom Sawyer’s island and walked, walked, walked.

Is this Walt’s idea of parental bliss?

Surely not.

There has to be some other (easier) way of proving ones maternal love. Mickey, are you with me?

Designed by Rajesh Karkera

Pictures courtesy Disney