I know it is wrong to complain about vacations. Growing up, my family didn’t really do them; we camped instead. We struggled with an enormous mildewed army tent, “vacationing” amongst mosquitos the size of hummingbirds. I shouldn’t complain, but sometimes vacationing with kids feels very unlike a break.
Once upon a time, we decided to fly to L.A. and drive to San Diego, trying to save a few bucks. My arms ached after driving Mach-ten on the freeway, cars zooming around me from all six lanes. We took the “scenic” route, on the advice of the rental car employee, which I now realize was a minion sent from the netherworld to test our marriage.
“How much longer is it?” I say, too late to turn back.
“Ummmmmm,” my husband stalls. The scenic route is non-stop traffic,with ocassional peeks at the coast. The goldfish crackers are dwindling, I need to pee. It will be three hours longer, and I don’t care about the view, and the kids only want to get out of the car. Steam escapes my ears. We near the end of this particular hell and my husband growls, “What will make this situation better, Erin?”
“A New Husband,” I snap. “But a cheeseburger will have to do.” I swerve into the nearest, nastiest of family restaurants. Then, miraculously, we all burst out laughing.
This trip wasn’t too bad. Only one trip to the hospital, one ear infection, one allergic reaction (mine) and one finger slammed in a door. Its always the “food issue” that gets us. When my kids get hungry, which is always, they do not peep like baby birds. “I am dying,” they say, an hour after a massive snack. My husband is the same. He gets a look in his eye that is a hair off malice. I throw power bars at them like they are zoo animals.
Last year, we went to Maui, which was amazing, I can’t complain. But again, one minute we are swimming happily, and the next, the sun is too hot and the sand is in everything and the flip-flops are floating out to sea and WAHHH!
Food time, I think, frantically throwing all our gear into bags. My daughter is having trouble walking so I pick her up, along with all the other gear, looking like the whitest sunburnt Sherpa ever. The kids are crying and my husband is running away, pretending not to know us. We take a shortcut through the Sheridan pool. (We aren’t staying at the Sheridan. We are staying at some dude’s apartment that is retro seventies tiki, complete with two can openers (and not much else) lots of tiny ants, and another guy in the guest house named Gary that we didn’t know would be there.) So I do the only thing I can think of to get his attention.
When he looks back, I flip him off.
He turns, gob smacked, and marches back.
“Did you just flip me off? In front of the Sheridan, in front of the kids?” He whispers.
I just smile, hand him a child who is wearing a short dress and has somehow lost her underwear. But I’m giggling. Better enjoy it, only three more days until vacation is over.