Okay, I am now going to confess my most horrible parent story. The only good thing in this story is that it occurred before the child turned 2 and so has no actual memory of the event. Otherwise I would be paying for it for the rest of my life. I still have a lot of guilt.

I missed my friends. I still do miss my friends. I can't say I miss the freeways or the television or the smog but I definitely miss the friends. So, I packed up the child and myself and got on a flight and hours upon hours later, arrived in LA (this was the first buddy pass courtesy of my little brother and the people in Dublin didn't know what they were doing and they sat us in upper class and I read There's a Wocket in my Pocket 8 times straight to the child). My parents picked us up at the airport. Everything was great.

The child's godmother wanted to take her to Disneyland. She wanted a great trip and had booked us into the Grand California. It was fantastic. I mean that. We checked in and then headed over to the other Disney Park thinking we would spend a bit of a day at one and then the full day with Cinderella and her castle. We had the typical problems. I went on a ride to come back and find my child clutching some large plush toy and the godmother smiling coyly. We had some dinner at the Wolgang Puck establishment (which isn't there anymore) and then decided we might like to go on the ferris wheel. Who knows why. I don't like ferris wheels. They scare me. And well, this park seems to be going for the scarier type of ride. Give me Space Mountain any day of the week and even I would not take a toddler on Space Mountain. Needless to say, we didn't enjoy the ride.

We got out. I carried the child in front of me. She was getting tired. The sun was setting. I am not only a horrible parent, I may be the clumsiest person the planet. No, really. I tripped over a grating around a tree. I dropped the child. I brushed off the concerned Disney employee out of embarassment. I put child in pushchair. We went back to the hotel. She had a bath, she cried a bit, she went to bed. She woke up and I spent hours wheeling her around the Grand California trying to get her to settle. We got up the next morning. We went to Goofy's Kitchen. She had fun. She ate. She cried every time I put her down. I was getting annoyed. We decided she was too tired to do the Disneyland thing and we were exhausted from the previous 12 hours, we drove back the valley. The child took a nap. It was the afternoon. The godmother pointed out that the child was crawling and not walking. We started to panic. We called doctors we knew. We were told go to the emergency room. We did. An x-ray later and well, my child had a broken leg. I had dropped her. I had broken her leg. I had not had it treated for almost 24 hours. In the end, she got a bright pink cast and had a great time, even in the pool with it. I, however, am still wracked with guilt.