One year ago, almost to the day, I looked at my husband and vowed, “Let’s not go on vacation again until they’re all at least twelve.” We were in Cape Cod. All three children had rejected their fluffernutters (yes, peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches), and in their various ways, they were all exuberantly declaring their misery. And I suppose, so was I.
The vacation was a dud for good reason. Our two boys, aged one and six at the time, were both diagnosed with coxsackie the day we arrived at the hotel (of course, that required a trip to a not-so-local medical facility). Each had fever, sores on his hands, feet and mouth, and was understandably miserable.
We settled in to watch copious amounts of TV, but the hotel lacked a DVD player, DVR, or any of the other TV-watching luxuries to which my children are accustomed. We were relegated to watching–horrors–only what was on TV at the time. It was a cross to bear and they survived, but only by watching their first non-animated shows that left my four-year-old daughter assuming that “jerk” was an alternate name for “brother.”
When the quarantine was over, we ventured to the beach. Certainly, blisters on one’s feet, even in the process of healing, don’t make for a great time playing in the sand. My little one clung to me and refused to leave the safety of the beach chair with me. (I’ll admit that part was awesome–snuggling, AND an excuse not to move). The oldest only wanted to go deep into the water and my daughter only wanted to be at the water’s edge. That was less fun for my husband as he spent much of the time with our daughter on his shoulders, waist-deep in the ocean, fending off the “my turn” whining.
Finally, on the last day, newly healthy but perhaps a bit sick of all of us, our six-year-old decided that he wanted to go to the kids’ camp at the hotel. We dropped him off, shocked that he was choosing to play in a small room of strange boys instead of exploring the beach with us. We even waited outside for half an hour, sure he’d change his mind. And then we went to the beach. The two little ones played quietly in the sand (the one-year-old while sitting on a blanket), filling buckets and dumping them out, digging and raking. My husband and I jumped into our books and quiet conversation, sure that our good fortune would end at any second. After two blissful hours, we left to pick up our son and pack up the car for our return.
A year later, we’re getting ready to go back to Cape Cod. I’m not sure what we’re thinking except to offer that hope springs eternal. I’m praying that this year, everyone stays healthy. I’m hoping everyone is happy in the sand, and that each child has an easier time accommodating his or her siblings (ha!). Mostly, though, I’m thinking about the pressure we put on ourselves to have our family vacations live up to unrealistic expectations.
Sure, I know that hours in the car, sleeping in close quarters, and picky eating on the road are ingredients for conflict, but I also know that one year later, our kids talk about our amazing vacation to Cape Cod. They can’t wait to get back to the beach and are reminiscing about the kinds of ice cream they ate next to the pool. I know that these pockets of out-of-the-ordinariness are what we remember from childhood and that in remembering my own family’s vacations, it is the disastrous moments that my siblings and I rally around. It’s worth keeping in mind, but even so, what I’m really hoping for is some non-fever related snuggling, a chance to finish my book, and at least a few chunks of sibling harmony.
A girl can dream, right?
Tali Rosenblatt-Cohen is a mother of three (all of whom will be in school come September. Hooray!). An indoorsy type, books are her only hobby. As such, she is a former literary agent who currently writes, edits, teaches writing, and reviews books. She and her family live on the Upper West Side.
