Vacation Grown-up Style

Howdy y’all! (that’s what folks say around here. We’re mid-Atlantic, but there are plenty of those crazy not-to-be-mentioned flags flying about up this way…) That’s a whole other topic.

The topic today is controversial, at least if you’re a parent: Vacation.

As far as I can tell, there are two types of these: The with-kids and the without. At the risk of being pegged with rotten vegetables and called a bad mom, I will tell you that I am a huge proponent of the latter. At least while kids are of the not-yet-ten-years-old variety.

We have lots of friends who have taken kids on vacation, and they have lots of great things to say. These great things usually include:

“We didn’t see them the whole time!”

“They were totally taken care of, completely entertained.”

“They did their own thing. Fantastic.”

Is it only me that starts to wonder why you’d want your kids with you on vacation if you don’t see them the whole time? There are lots and lots of all-inclusive family resorts and cruise lines that offer kids’ clubs and activities designed to relieve you of your parenting burden so that you can enjoy your trip in the relative peace that comes with lack of responsibility for tiny people. But if your goal is to NOT see your kids the whole time you’re on vacation–or even MOST of the time–then why on Earth would you take them along?

This is not a popular opinion, but here it is. I don’t think kids are equipped to really enjoy travel until they are past the whiny self-centered, food-driven ego stages that generally occur before they are about ten years old. I can really only go by my own spawn, and by stories related by others…but my kids would have just as much fun staying home and going to the pool with us for a few hours as they would staying in a hotel or tiny stateroom on a cruise and doing exactly the same thing. My kids don’t remember details. Like, at all. So taking them anywhere to do anything like “sightseeing” would be silly. If we took them on a cruise, I would bet money that they would be unable to tell you which ocean we sailed upon at the end of the trip, or recount what color the water was. And there is little chance that I’m going to be paying to tote them off to a cash-fueled Disney-themed week of Princess and castle-inspired kid crack-fest when all they’re likely to remember is that they didn’t like the funnel cakes and couldn’t find a good straw at the restaurant.

It comes from my upbringing and innate selfishness, I guess. My parents left us routinely when we were kids, for two weeks at a time. They flew off to exotic island destinations, just the two of them, and came back tan and smiling at each other in a way that I really didn’t understand. They did this every year that I can remember, leaving my brother and I with babysitters and relatives and whoever they could shanghai into watching us. (though, of course, we were ANGELS).

When I was a kid, it pissed me off. I didn’t like being left, and my Grandma was super overprotective. But now that I’m a mom, I think I understand. And my parents were frank with me, telling me that having time alone together was critical to our family, whether I knew it or not.

There was a time when I asserted to my dad that I was the MOST important thing in his life–my brother too, of course. And he told me I was wrong with no apologies. “Your mother,” he said. “Is the most important person in my life. You and your brother are number two.” Man, that pissed me off.

But now I see that taking time away from your kids–however you can do it–is absolutely critical to a marriage. You chose each other, long before children were involved. And if you can’t remember why…well, then you’re lost.

The Major and I took five days away this summer. And it was the first time in about eight years that I got to just sit next to him and laugh at a silly joke. It was the first time in eight years that I got to read a book start to finish without an interruption, without a priority making me feel guilty about it. And it was the first time in eight years that I looked over at the guy I married and remembered WHY. If the kids had been there, even if they’d been shuttled off to some all-day distraction, I wouldn’t have been relaxed enough to be able to enjoy any of that, or to enjoy the freedom of having space and time to ourselves. To just BE together.

My parents did eventually take us on their trips. We went to lots of islands, learned to scuba dive, and to appreciate less-than-luxurious accommodations in luxurious locales (my parents were both school teachers). But the important thing, I think, was that I never expected that they would take us. It was a privilege — one we accepted and earned eagerly after so many years of wishing we could go. And even as a twelve-year-old on my first vacation (to Maui), I knew that what I was experiencing was something special. Because I hadn’t been dragged along on countless trips that I couldn’t possibly appreciate. All those solo vacations they took were actually great for me, and undoubtedly great for my parents. For me, they created a sense of gratitude. For them, they helped solidify a strong foundation that has them still married after almost 50 years.

I’m not big on parenting advice, but I’ll offer this: Go away without your kids. Once. And don’t call home. Take the time to remember who you are at the basic level, who you were when you fell in love. Take the time to recall what your marriage is about… because if it’s all about your kids? One day you’ll wake up and find that you’re lost.

Updates and Heavy Things

Hello there. Remember me? I’ve been trapped under something heavy, and that has kept me from posting. Use your imagination. Let me know what you come up with and we’ll go with that. Better than just admitting that sometimes when I juggle I drop things. (I’m why we don’t have nice things…)

Anyway, so here I am. The kids are excited about school coming to a close for the summer, so things are a little amped up out this way. As far as general life updates, the Major and I bought a house in December, so there’s been a lot of stuff to do. It was nice renting for a while, but we’re happy to get to do what we want again. I guess this also means that we’re staying for a while, even though we are three thousand miles from home. I’d always expected that we’d get back West at some point…it never crossed my mind that we wouldn’t. That’s where we live, after all. Okay, maybe not really, but I think somewhere in me I’ll always be a Californian. Once we bought a house here, though, I guess I feel like we settled. In every definition of that word. I also switched jobs — kind of. I am doing exactly the same work, just for the government instead of as a contractor. It makes things a little simpler.

We moved in December, but it was important to me to keep the kids at the same school. Turbo had a lot of adjusting to do in Kindergarten and First Grade, and this year had really been shaping up to be his first truly successful year, thanks to his amazing teacher. There was no way in hell I was going to pull him out of that class and drop him into a totally new school. So it’s been long days of driving the kids to the busstop and returning to the stop in the old ‘hood to pick them up. My schedule is completely dictated by the bus… the good thing is that I get to see all my friends in the hood. The new hood hasn’t been as social, and I miss the joy of wandering into a neighbor’s house for a glass of wine when the kids get home.

I’m not really sure the kids get that once school is out they don’t really get a break. They have to go straight to summer camp… Sometimes I feel guilty that they spend such long hours in various establishments, away from me, away from home. But then I spend a long afternoon with them, and they wrestle and fight and generally rip the new house apart, and I feel more okay about it.

I think I’ve mentioned here before that I’m an undercover romance novelist, right? Well, tomorrow is a big day. I have a two book launch, and I’m pretty jazzed about it. I’m even doing jazz hands. you just can’t see because of the things and the stuff and the webitrons. But I am. And they. are. fabulous. Anyway, the books are based on the time I lived in NYC in my twenties. They’re all about friends and dating and generally running around and figuring stuff out, and they’re pretty funny, too. What’s that you say? You want to go buy ALL the books and be super duper supportive? Well, that’s very kind. Here’s where you can find them!

MEN AND MARTINIS

HIGHBALLS IN THE HAMPTONS

Happy reading… and I promise, I’ll be back around a bit more often.

The Revenge Poop

There’s been a lot of inappropriate bathrooming going on around our house lately… and it reminds me that this is really something we’ve been dealing with for as long as I’ve had kids. Please tell me I’m not alone in this.

When Turbo was just a tiny bean, wearing footy pajamas and a sleep sack (one of those cool suits that is like a sleeping bag at the bottom and zips up and has little armholes at the top… oh hell, THIS: leon_minky_yellow_100

Anyway, when Turbo used to sleep in those, there came a point where I’d go in, expecting to find him peacefully napping. And instead, his crib would look like a scene from a toddler horror film. He’d be sleeping peacefully, NAKED…surrounded by POOP! He would systematically remove his sleep sack, his clothing and his diaper, and then proceed to do God only knows what, resulting in the unmentionable scene I just mentioned above.

To solve this problem, we did several things, all of which he managed to Houdini through at some point:

– Duct tape the diaper on

– zip the feety pajamas up his back instead of up the front

– put the sleep sack on backwards

Anyway, Lunchbox never did any of that. And I thought we were safe.

I was wrong.

It was much later when it started, but now it’s Lunchbox who seems to have a strange sense of humor when it comes to things that belong in the potty.

A classic story around our house is the time when the Major was in a hurry and needed to take a quick shower and get out the door. Lunchbox enjoys a nice hot shower. And he likes to join the Major in there when he’s allowed to. This was not one of those days. That didn’t stop Lunchbox from stripping down to his chubby little butt and darting into the bathroom, only to be told no. He was none too pleased, let me assure you. First he cried, but then he got crafty.

The Major came out of his quick shower to find a naked Lunchbox striding confidently out of his closet, a smug look on his face.

“Why were you in my closet?” the Major asked.

“I pooped in your closet.” Simple. Straight to the point.

“No you didn’t. Tell me you did not. Poop. In. My. Closet.”

“I did, Daddy. I pooped in your closet.”

The Major poked his head inside and turned on the light. And there, strategically placed in the center of the floor was exactly what Lunchbox had told him he’d find.

Commotion and punishment ensued. But later, the Major confided that he felt a surge of pride. I was disgusted.

“Do you know how hard it is to poop on command like that?” the Major asked me. “That’s like performance pooping. I’m so proud.”

I continue to be disgusted.

This has been termed a “revenge poop.” And it was used several more times. Once in Turbo’s closet. I think the days of the revenge poop might be an an end, but now we are entering new territory: the pee of retribution.

Dark times ahead, folks. And lots of carpet cleaning.

Things I Never Thought I’d Say

As a mom of two boys, I have accepted that I will be the singular force acting in the name of cleanliness in our household. I know and accept that I will be the only person within our home who notices the crap on the floor, the crumbs on the couch, and the Lego brick that has been sitting on the stairs for the past three weeks. (I leave things like that there to see if someone … ANYONE else … might notice and pick it up.) I’ve come to terms with that.

And my response has been to let go quite a bit. I’m not nearly as anal as I once was. I don’t mop the floor every other day, or even weekly at this point. I insist on picking up clothes and books, but the playroom is pretty much an untamed wilderness that I will not attempt to navigate. It’s like little kid Las Vegas in there. What happens in the playroom … you know.

But you gotta draw the line somewhere, right?

This morning I entered the boys’ bathroom (mistake number one) to hang up a towel, and noticed yellow puddled stains on the lip of the tub and down the side. (I should note here that I knew immediately that it was urine, and that really didn’t phase me. Having little boys means that urine ends up in many near-potty locations, as it seems that boys and their parts get distracted pretty easily and cannot focus on getting things where they belong. I’m used to mopping up around the base of the toilet, and even on the walls in immediate proximity.) I called the small people in to look. And then I had one of those moments where I found myself saying something that I could never have predicted, when I was young, single and naive.

And it reminded me of all the other things I never thought I’d hear myself say. For your entertainment, I include a list of these here for you today (warning, it seems that much of our lives revolve around poop and nudity. If you’re easily offended, look elsewhere):

THINGS I NEVER THOUGHT I’D HEAR MYSELF SAY

10. We ALWAYS wear pants at Red Robin!

9. Please don’t touch your weiner while we’re doing math.

8. No pooping in the bathtub!

7. Why is there poop on my Christmas hand towel?

6. We ALWAYS wear pants when we have company!

5. Did you poop in Daddy’s closet?

4. Why are you paying with Play-Doh naked?

3. Did you drink a whole bottle of maple syrup?

2. Good job wiping your own butt!

1. We don’t pee on furniture! (variations of this have included: …in the potted palm! …in the front yard! …in the neighbor’s planter! …into the bathtub! …on the rug!)

This One’s For You, Gate Guard Guy

I work on base most of the time. So that means that every morning after I wave my tiny people goodbye as their little bitty heads peep up over the bottom edge of the windows on that huge yellow bus, I hop in the car and drive myself to the base. And every morning I whip out my CAC and wait in line and then take my turn being checked by the various security types who man the gate. Some days it’s policemen, other days it’s sailors. I might be a bit biased, but I prefer the military gate guards to the civilians. They’re nicer most of the time, and sometimes they salute me, which just feels like a win any day of the week (though I know the salute has little to do with me and is more a show of respect for the rank of the dude I happen to be married to. Regardless, I like to think of it as a nice “you go, girl!” kind of affirmation that I did well in my choice of spouse.” Whatever. Not the point.

The point. And I do have one, irrelevant though it may be… Is that most mornings I get something along the lines of, “thank you ma’am. Have a good day.” I pretty much became “ma’am” the day I married the Major. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that age-advancing term of respect has smacked me in the face any time I’ve been near a military facility since that day more than a decade ago. I went from “miss” to “ma’am.” And it’s completely stupid, but it sucks. Especially if I’m due for a color or if I’ve recently noticed that the forehead crease is looking more pronounced.

But today, not only did I get the totally-not-intended-for-me-but-damned-cool-anyway salute, I also got a “miss”! WIN! I haven’t been called miss in ages. I nearly pulled over to hug the cute little sailor guy in his cute navy blue camis. But the guy in line behind me probably wouldn’t have been too pleased. And it might have been misinterpreted and started some kind of security incident. So instead, I just drove on through, feeling much younger than I did when I woke up.