Traveling With Children

As if I were setting out to really ensure that I am bat sh** crazy, I spent the last week holed-up in my in laws house in Southern Florida where the Jews reign and there are enough New York accents to make you feel like you’re living on the Island. (Hello, Boca!) I figured taking my kids solo (w/ a babysitter) on “vacation” was a better alternative to creating lots of mindless play dates and overpaying for “winter camps” during the the second week (why oh why do we need two weeks!) of my son’s holiday (not ours) break.

It all seemed like a good idea in theory, this getaway to a typically sun-filled state and away from Chicago, when my husband canceled at the last minute due to pressing work issues.  We had already run out of board games, arts and crafts projects at home and I had already spent a month’s supply of cash on sitters in 4 days. My in laws welcomed the change of plans with open (and tanned) arms and even accepted another house guest.

I should have known something was amiss. Because while I only joke about my craziness, my in laws actually think I am.

Before I even arrived, I was told to give a detailed list of what the kids might need for food before I arrived. Their refrigerator is admittedly quite barren, with legions of AA batteries filling the bottom drawer (I should have taken a picture.) The only food my dearest step-mother-in-law stocks in the house are filled with enough sugar to kill a diabetic and I cannot say the last time I’ve seen anything with the suffix -berry on the premise.

So, you can imagine the horror when I gave them my grocery list consisting of every Horizon Organic, Applegate Farms, and [insert available organic fruit here]. Their fridge had never been so busting with food. The eclairs, black and white cookies and double-cream Brie cheese did not know what to do with their healthy and HCFS-free comrades. I give my in-laws credit, though, they didn’t get lost on the way to Whole Foods, although I probably can count on one hand the amount of times they had ventured there.

But, when we arrived, much to my amazement and delight, the house was stocked with all “proper” foods and snacks. Not only was it very generous of them, but it got me to thinking we were all finally on the same page about what my kids (and me) would eat. Then, I got this, in between (their) Christmas-cookie bites:

“You drink Diet Peach Snapple?”

I didn’t say I was perfect.

Our joshing didn’t end with the food. Apparently, my case of the “crazy-s” extended to how I disciplined my eldest (not enough) to my inability to make a decision on the day’s plans (that’s what happens when the weather dips below 70 in Florida – the options of what to do or where to go become as difficult as a sub-zero day in Chicago.) There was cajoling to get me to abandon the house and leave them in charge. There were countless “don’t worrys” and “we’re fine.”

But away from my own turf, with a clingy and snot-nosed (oh, I didn’t mention the part about the eldest acquiring a cold whilst on “vacation”?) four-year-old, I became, shall we say, a little bat-sh** crazy. This was “my” house for a week due to their generosity, but it wasn’t MY house. It’s one thing when your kid streaks naked around your own living room before bath time, and quite another when it’s done in a living room filled with Larry Rivers and Roy Lichtenstein prints. (That living room is not for toddlers. Or me, really. I’m quite a slob.) So I was on hyper-vigilant-kids-you’d-better-be-behaved alert. Me, hurling orders and demands of little people that should have been reserved for Air Force Cadets. Me, a little more nervous and stressed than I usually am. Which is already too much.

Perhaps I acted this way because I wanted some reassurance that I could do this vacation with not-my-blood relatives all on my own. Perhaps I wanted to go down as the best daughter-in-law on record in the entire municipality of Boca. Perhaps I just wanted to make sure we’d be invited back next year. Or, perhaps I’m just a little crazy when it comes to my kids.

Just ask my in-laws. I love you, too.

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I’ve never been so tired from a vacation trip in my entire life.  I’m not complaining about spending a week in the sunny mountains of Colorado, but oh man, if someone would have told me I would have been woken up at 5:30 every morning only to take care of a delerious non-napping toddler for the duration of my vacation trip, I would have asked to be sent back on the next flight back to O’Hare even if the only spot was in the cargo hold.

Vacations trips as a solo parent are exhausting.  While Nana and Papa are supremely helpful, no one is mommy.  No one can put a jacket on like mommy. No one can fill a glass of milk like mommy.  No one can wipe a nose like mommy. No one can play with the zebras and “smooth tigers” like mommy.  Yes, we bring the Schleich on vacations too.

There were times of pure joy and happiness in between the mommy mommy whining.  Ever see a 3-year-old on skis? It’ll melt your heart.  And your wallet, but that’s where Nana and Papa’s helpfulness come in handy.

I ignored couldn’t hear the shouting for mommy through the helmet.

I know I’m extremely lucky to have been able to get away like this.  But I just once wanted the roles to be reversed.  Mommy, can I get you a glass of milk? Mommy, would you like to sleep in after sunrise?

But as such, I am the mother of a toddler, who, in strange locations, just needs a familiar being to latch onto.  Besides, by the end of the vacation trip, everyone around me was too tired to pitch in even if the little man would have let them.

Ski lesson for the grandson: $100. Falling asleep on bench at lunch spot: priceless.

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