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.

Happ-eeeee

Last weekend, we celebrated the Fourth of July, fireworks, food, family (those with us, those away from us and those above us), and two new additions to Bobby's vocabulary:
Home.
And ...
Happy.

He first said 'home' when we were bike riding on Friday evening. The outing had gone too long for his rumbling tummy and he was getting fussy. He slowly rounded his lips, huffed out an 'h' and drew out the o-o-o-o-o-me. H-o-o-o-me, h-o-o-o-me, home, he said over and over again, proudly confirming that he had conquered the imperative word that meant food, milk, and his cherished owl named Hoo Hoo. 'H-o-o-o-me, Dadda, Dinner.' (Dinner was a newbie too.) So home we went. 

***

Despite his somewhat serious stare at times, Bobby is generally a very easy going, happy, albeit wild little boy. And there are many things that make him extra enthusiastic.

Like birthday parties.

His daddy. And getting too close to touching his 'hot. hot. hot.' grill.

Picnic Food.

Snack Food.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner food.

Treats. And more, more, more treats.

Company and saying cheers to them.

Water. He loves water.

Hugs and squeezes and most of all the tickle machine. He loves being tickled and laughs for the world to hear.

While his smile and giggles have communicated his contentment to me for the past 17 months, he said, 'happy' to me while we were driving in the car last weekend.

I responded, 'Are you happy, Bobby?'

'Happ-eeee, happ-eeee, happ-eeee.' he said, over and over again, because it takes repetition to own that word once and for all. I wondered if he truly understood the emotion associated with it; his smile told me, yes.

While he's been learning a new word or two each day, he's also been tying together the ones he already has into coherent statements.
Hi Mommy.
Hi Daddy.
Bye, bye, Bunny.

Big bear.
My turn.
Show. Show.
My turn.
Wa wa.
My turn.
No, No, No!

Up airplane.
Up moon.
Nigh, nigh.
Nigh, nigh.

Train choo choo.
Truck, beep beep.
Tunnel, echo!
More tunnel, echo!

Donut. Donut. Donut. Donut. (Thank you, Debbie.)

So I'm hoping it's just a matter of time before he'll figure out that happy and home go together. That despite the crazy, uncertain, complicated, and yes, scary world that we live in, home will always provide happiness. Which in today's society is no small task. It's not easy to strip away the stress of the work day, the grief from the headlines, and the uncertainty of what's next. But you have to try.

Keep it alive through date night, summer reading, a morning run, sleep, more sleep, breaks, more breaks, find the comedy and irony in it all (if you can), grasp onto your faith, share your views of hope and above all love everyone in your sphere of influence as much as humanly possible. Because if not from home, if not from your community, where else are the seeds of happiness and love going to come from?

Lo.