The ultimate helicopter parent narcissism.
What, exactly, is the point of heroes, fantasy, make-believe, entertainment, etc. if the persons portrayed are like us? Can we not enjoy the story of Jor-El/Clark Kent/Superman without being a Kryptonian baby in exile, a mild-mannered reporter, a superhero or, less ambitiously, a 6-4 250-lb white male with black hair?
Must we be an orphan, a resident of Tattooine or a Jedi apprentice to enjoy and/or look up to plucky Luke Skywalker?
Is Frozen a world-smashing hit because its female fans are princesses, with or without the curse of a cold touch?
Did everyone who enjoyed Pocahontas have Native American ancestry?
I could go on. This is the poorly-disguised wail of parents who, despite their claims and acts, feel cheated, disappointed, even angry that their daughter has Down's.
Disney has contorted itself into pretzel knots time and again to align itself with an untold number of PC agenda items. Somehow, it's never enough, because there will always be an audience member who wants to a custom-made film hero like they order sandwich toppings.
The parent purports to speak for his child but his Freudian slip is early and obvious: he's worried about his own reactions. The child can and probably does enjoy Disney like the rest of us do: as entertainment. Young kids may live vicariously through the characters but even kids realize that they will never take flight like Peter Pan nor live in a hollow tree like Winnie The Pooh.
Here's an idea, Keston Ott-Dahl, you whining milquetoast. Turn off the damned TV and create a fantasy world of characters and adventures with your daughter. You can choose any attributes, powers, plots or outcomes you like. See how easy that was?