To Tortola

Before we took off on vacation last week, I read a book called Amazing Airplanes to Bobby and Mary to reground them in high flying travel.

The book took the kids from ticketing, through the terminal, onto the jet way, up 30,000 feet and down again in a manner that I associate with my earliest air travel experiences. Stewardesses with little hats, compartmentalized meals on the plane, peanuts, drinks, magazines, leg room, guests waiting to greet you at your gate, and lots of happy, eager faces.

'Airplane up!' said Bobby.
'Yes, honey, we're going up, up, up in the airplane tomorrow!'
They couldn't wait for vacation.

***

Shortly after I put the kids to bed that night, I checked my phone's news feed out of habit. Nice was under attack; terrorism striking again. I went to bed jittery. The photos of the massacre on the front page of the Wall Street Journal in the morning were horrifying. Uneasily, I finished packing up the car. I looked at my phone as we backed out of the drive way and saw another message from my Mom to coat myself in insect repellent on a daily basis. She had new facts about Zika to share. The unfriendly mosquito WARNINGS at O'Hare echoed her worries.

The prominently displayed Zika placards weren't the only annotations in the airport to the book I had read to the kids. There were quite a few others and Mary was quick to point them out asking for explanations. Security dogs roaming through the lobby of O'hare. Customer service representatives acting more like the first faces of security rather than bubbly cruise directors. No leg room. No peanuts. And nervous faces masking the happy ones. Or maybe that was just mine.

'Can I pet the dog?'
'No, he's doing his job.'
'What's his job?'
'Making sure there are no bad guys at the airport.'
'I don't want to wait in this line.'
'This is how we make sure everyone is safe.'
'Why is there another dog smelling us?'
'To keep us safe.'
'Can I get a hashbrown now?'
'In a second, but you have to share with Bobby.'
'No.'
'Mary you have to stay right by me. Hold my hand.'
'No.'
'Come here! This is a busy airport, and I don't want someone to grab you.'
'Mommy, are you happy?'
'Yes, honey. Of course, honey.'

I felt bad. I knew my anxiety was apparent, and I just wanted my kids to have the innocent airport experience in the book, but I couldn't shake the recent events.

Somewhere along the four and a half hour flight to Puerto Rico, managing two kids who spent most of the trip running up and down the aisle of the plane while the rest of the passengers slept off the early morning wake up call, the stress started to melt away. By the time we boarded the 8-seat Cessna to hop from San Juan to Tortola, I felt an even greater sense of relief. We had made it. Everything was going to be okay.

We were welcomed into paradise with open arms by our ever generous hosts, Tia and Tom. My kids immediately jumped in the pool, while Tia handed me a glass of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc.

For the next five days, we lived with a group of 27 friends, some old ones, some new ones, some adults, some babies, most somewhere in between, and I felt like there wasn't a worry in the world. The vacation was filled with so much good: food and wine, adventures that took us to the bluest parts of the ocean and the whitest sand beaches, swimming, soaking up the sun, trail running, and sharing everything: toys, parenting advice, dances, laughs, kitchens and the meals served from them.

And noticeably absent was the bad. Removed from the constant headlines that our world is anything but at peace, I was able to find my own sound bites that told the story of fun, rather than fear.

• The only princess among twelve little princes, wearing her blue bird dress and lip gloss to dinner, was more interested in climbing rocks and playing super heroes with the boys than playing the part of a little lady. Good on you, Mary. 
• Mary and Bobby make great roommates. (Something to put in my back pocket for now.)
• There is a name for the dance party that is always happening in my heart and it's called Club Rouge.
• In the absence of Catastrophe de Menthe, Mount Gay provides an awesome, giggle inducing alternative.
• When trying to explain to your kids why Daddy is breaking coconuts by himself on the front lawn at dinner time, blame it on the Mount Gay. 
• Never Have I Ever done anything of illicit interest. 
• The idea of a kids dinner time and an adult dinner time is ingenious, especially when on vacation.
• Cooking for 14 people is actually quite easy when you get to cook in a kitchen with not just one view, but two.  
• There are far more good people in the world, than bad.  
• And despite what the media continue to tell us, you got to live your life, hey-a-hey-a-hey-a, and keep on living it. Because we should 'have nothing to fear, but fear itself.'   

Lo.

R and R (and R)

A couple days ago, on the way home from our resort's posh pool complex, Mary fell asleep in her stroller. The veritable war against her nap had been getting out of hand while on vacation; my ears were beginning to ring with, 'NO SLEEP! NO NIGHT NIGHT!'; so on that particularly hot, humid, Georgian afternoon, when I saw her head start to lilt and her eyes slowly draw to close, I decided to keep walking. Four lazy miles and a couple blisters later, she woke up refreshed and ready to play (hard) once again. I on the other hand, knew that it was 5:00 right where I was.

While many may diagnose this type of stuff as classic two-year-old behavior, I'd like to argue that Mary has a genetic strain of what I call calendar horror vacui: my family's unique fear of empty spaces in a daily agenda; the urge to seize every second of every day and gauging the success of any given day on the number of things you could fit into it. Mary clearly inherited some of that, and thus treated her vacation like one of the big kids last week. Play hard. Don't nap. Ever!

For other families, and for Bobby, vacation is purely about rest and relaxation; not only a break from work, but a respite from diets and workout regimens, an excuse for indulgent meals and lazy morning afters, an agenda cleared of responsibilities and filled with refreshed beverages. While the notion of rejuvenation is a vital component of our vacations, we tend to do it by adding another r to the equation: that is relentless activity.

In my family, vacation has always acted as a chance to recommit in a frenzied way to those things that tend to get squeezed out of your life by work. And this year's summer holiday was no different. Exercise in all its various forms and formats was the theme of each day; and from sun up to sun down everyone did their best to pursue as many passions as possible.

Morning walks to watch the sunrise.

Fishing for something to eat for dinner

And fishing for lost balls.

Running, biking, swimming, logging mileage, and congratulating each other for achieving a virtual triathalon every day.

Leveraging creative capacities and exploring nature's beautiful creations.

Pursuing the Southern art of cooking, baking, and barbecuing. 

  

Dancing and singing along to beachside crooners.

Catching up on movies, books, and games, while sipping one last glass of wine.

And photographing all of it.

But perhaps one of the most challenging, yet rewarding exercises that the family tried all week, was an exercise in living under one roof again. It was far removed from 6524 or 1026, but Cottage 155 on the 13th Street of Sea Island played host for a week of ultimate bonding within a shared (luxurious) living space.

It was an exercise in passing germs again, in particular one little virus that went from kid to kid, and now Mom to Mom.

It was an exercise in sharing a kitchen and the meals that came out of it.

It threw us back to shared rooms and with it shared bedtimes regimens.

It prompted a couple spats and splashes of spit up; but nothing that couldn't be promptly cleaned up.

There was a good old fashioned birthday celebration.

Everyone played a parent, taking turns watching the kids and taking the time they needed away from them.

We shared laundry machines and a Mom that uses them so well; sand toys and beach towels; a pantry and the snacks it held; remotes and WiFi; bikes, strollers, cars, and a living room where we could congregate at the end of the day to relay our adventures du jour.

As we started our trek home to Chicago yesterday, my foursome parted ways from the extended group and spent an afternoon soaking up a little history in Savannah before boarding our flight home. Trimmed down to size, my nuclear family seemed a little quieter and dare to say a little sleepier.

And this evening, as I watched my kids run and roll around in our front yard after dinner, home sweet home once again, I couldn't help but think how fast they will grow up; how soon our house won't be big enough; and how much I will need a vacation like the one I just shared with my extended family.

A big thank you to my parents for getting the gang back together, under one roof, for a non-stop fun family vacation. And a big thank you to the Cloister and Sea Island for entertaining and serving us so beautifully all week. We did it all. And I'm pretty sure we'll be back to do even more next time. 

Lo.