Dream Vacation

So just when I finally agree to Disney, Sophie ups the ante.

I walk into her nursery school and one of the aides comes up to me:

“I heard the exciting news!”

“Pardon me?”  What rumors had Sophie spread, now? 

“Your trip to Paris.  Sophie told us she’s going to France.”

“She what?” The aide is now looking at me like I’m a five-year-old, with a little pity mixed in.

“Oh yes, she told us all about how she’s going to visit the Eiffel Tower.  Sounds wonderful.”

“It does sound wonderful—but we aren’t going to Paris.  I think this is a little wishful thinking on Sophie’s part.”

“Hmm,” said the aide, looking puzzled.  I was puzzled too. 

I quizzed Sophia on the way home.

“Sophie, why did you tell everyone at school that we’re going to Paris?”

“Because I want to.  Can we?  Pleeeeeeease?  Pretty please?”

“Soph, maybe one day, but not any time soon.  We’re going to Disney World, remember?”  You know, that place you’ve been obsessed with for the last two years, I think, but don’t say.  Sophie freaks out when I get sarcastic.  Rightly so. 

“Yeah, but, I want to go to Paris and make new friends.  I want to climb the Eiffel Tower with them like you and daddy did before you were married.  Hey.  Hey!  Can I bring some of my own friends?  Can we take my friends to Paris with us?”  She doesn’t even stop to take a breath. 

“Come on, Soph.  We can’t afford to take your friends to Paris.  And, besides, I don’t think their parents would let us.”

“Yes they would!”  I broke cardinal rule number one:  NEVER, EVER argue with a five-year-old. 

“I’m sorry, Soph, but we’re not going to Paris.  That’s final.” 

“How about if it’s just us?” she suggested, hopeful that this concession would be the thing to win her a trip abroad.  The thought passes through my mind that she might have premeditated this move.  In social psychology it’s known as “the door in the face” tactic:  one makes a deliberately outlandish request at the outset, so a subsequent, lesser request is more likely to be accepted. 

Fortunately, I am familiar with such strategies. 

“No can do, Soph.  Paris is out.  We’re going to Disney.”

Sophie slumps down.  “Hmmmph!  You never let me do anything fun.”

At least not in the last five minutes.  

Away from Her

This weekend, for the first time since I went on my do-I-want-to-have-another-child cruise almost three years ago, I am away without Sophie.

It is so quiet, so peaceful.  Last night, I slept eight continuous hours.  Today I made breakfast for no one but myself.  And then I sat down here to write, without having to make Sophia a lunch, brush her hair and teeth, and drop her off at nursery school before having the space to do so. 

Heavenly. 

And yet, my thoughts keep turning towards her.  Not in a worrisome way.  But feeling her absence strongly.  In the little house where I am staying, there is an extra room off of mine with a single bed and a slanty ceiling and a tiny closet/crawl space just perfect for lining with blankets and hiding out.  I want to climb inside it with her.  At the beach, I gathered up well-worn stones, sanded to smoothness by the water that I want to give to her.  Yesterday, I saw a tiny crab, laboriously carry his oversized claw, walking sideways. I was reminded of last weekend, when Sophie and I watched The Little Mermaid together and the sea gull called Sebastian a “silly side walker.”  At the time, I had explained what it meant.  Now, I am sorry I am not able to show her.

As happy as I am to be alone, I know I would also enjoy having her at my side, sharing this with me, delighting in her every revelation that comes with a new experience.  Her gasps of surprise.  Her dances of delight.  The way she rushes toward each new thing with enthusiasm and intensity.  The looks on the faces of others watching her.  Knowing that she spreads joy everywhere she goes.  The pleasure of being her parent. 

But, to my surprise, there is no ache in my heart.  No sense of regret.  No sorrow.  This vision is simply a fantasy, a wish to have her here with me—not guilt-driven intrusive thoughts intended to punish myself for going away alone.

It might have been that a year ago.  I might have felt badly that I was going off to rest and renew, while saddling Kevin with the evening and morning routines and leaving Sophie in school for a full day.  I might have struggled to justify it—to Kevin, to others, but mostly to myself. 

“I haven’t taken a vacation in years.”

“Kevin’s going away to Ireland in October.”

“I work hard.  I’ve earned this.”

No.  I simply want this.   It is a secret that I am no longer afraid to speak.  And I say it with great joy. 

Exotic Trips Made Easy

Before we leave for Illinois this Christmas, I hit the library. It is a whirlwind trip. I slap Sophia on the computer for 15-minutes while I quickly gathered enough literature to sustain us for the 32-hour round trip excursion we’d be embarking upon the next day.

First, I mine the books-on-tape. I’ve pretty much sucked the few shelves of audio picture books dry, relying on them for a five-minute reprieve from Sophia asking me, “Can you please tell me a story about Sophia and Curious George [drive me completely insane]?” But, to the right, are the chapter books. The big guns. Charlotte’s Web. 101 Dalmatians. Mary Poppins. Not the Disneyed up versions. The originals. I look at the back. 275 minutes. Hello, my lovely. I pop them into my sack.

“Soph, are you okay?” I check in with her.

“Shhhh!” she scolds me. “I can’t hear when you talk to me!”

She’s fine.

Next, I cruise the new books, helping myself to three pristine tomes: a posthumously printed collection of little known Dr. Seuss stories, a truly fabulous spoof of pulp fiction entitled, Boy Saves World from Giant Octopus (any book in which the father is a meticulously rendered drawing of Gregory Peck at his finest is an excellent book, in my opinion), and the Big Book of Families.

Then I scanned the holiday section, which has a two-book limit. I hold up three, deliberating. Larry, one of our favorite librarians, comes up behind me. “You can have three,” he whispers. “You guys are special.”

Being a regular has its privileges.

“Okay, Sophy Wophy. Put the earphones down.” She pretends not to hear me. I’ve got to get home, make dinner, and start packing pronto. This kid doesn’t understand that we have a SCHEDULE to keep.

“I’ve got Charlotte’s Web on tape….” I sing, holding up the bait. The earphones come off in a flash.

“Let me see. I want to see it!” I let her fondle the package, while Larry checks us out.

She’s wiggling as I try to strap her into her car seat. “I want to listen to Charlotte’s Web right now!” We should have been five minutes ago. “Sorry, Charlie.”

“My name is not Charlie! It’s SOPHIA!” Yes. I know.

The next morning, I’m getting everything together in preparation for take off. I’m rushing around like a maniac while Sophia happily plays with her dollhouse people.

“Gotta go, Soph. I have a million things to do before we leave this afternoon.”

“No. I want to stay here. I want to play Cinderella with you.”

“I’m sorry, Sophia, but we don’t have time. Put your shoes on and grab what you want to take with you in the car.”

“No! I don’t want to go!” Sigh. I pop Sophia in the car and throw in The Great Big Book of Families after her. We go to the bank, and then head over to the car wash. I try two before I finally find one that seems to be open. But no one’s around. I’m perplexed. It’s Hanunkkah, not Christmas. Do Jews own carwashes? I glance down at my watch. I’ve got a half an hour before Sophia has to go down for the nap and I haven’t even fed her yet. I walk into the car wash calling out, “Hello? Anyone there?”

“Yeah. The pumps broke. Can you come back in 15 minutes?” Fifteen precious minutes?

“Sure.” I take Sophia out for a bagel, which we eat in the car listening to holiday tunes. I’m sweating. She looks happy and peaceful, cream cheese smeared under her nose.

When we get back to the car wash, it’s still a couple minutes before it’s up and running, “This might take a few minutes,” the guy tells me, “I’m the only one here.” Fabulous.

“How come none of the car washes are open today but yours?”

“People don’t usually get their cars washed in the rain.” It was raining. I hadn’t noticed. Oh well. The car is filthy. It had to be done.

I take the Big Book of Families out of the car to keep us occupied while Green Car has his spa treatment. “No! I don’t want to read that!”

“Fine. I’ll read it to myself.” I retort, and begin to read aloud, full of feeling. Sophia peeks at the page from behind the book. I pause. Come on. Ask me for it.

“Mommy. Keep reading.”

“Oh? You want me to read to you, now?”

“Yes! Read it to me now!”

“Please?”

“Read it to me right now please!”

And so I read. We come to a page about vacations. “Families take all kinds of vacations…some can afford to take exotic vacations….while others stay close to home.”

I snort.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Nothing. It’s just that I can’t wait for my vacation to be over.

That night we drive up to my mother’s, do Hanukkah, sleep, attend the preschool holiday show, and finally get on I-80, Illinois bound. To her credit, Sophie is a gem. Barely a peep out of her. She’s looking at books, listening to her music, chattering away.

For insurance, I’ve come armed with a bag of wrapped items. Small gifts to reward Sophie’s patience along the way. Each was specifically chosen for its portability and absorbing qualities: Fancy Nancy Colorforms, Disney Princess Color Wonders Coloring Book (proof that I do not practice complete princess deprivation), an Encyclopedia of Words sticker book (over 600 stickers!), Princess Mosaic sticker-by-number. The grab-bag items prove to be so engaging, we only have to give her two the first sixteen hours. Of course, we punctuate these activities with music, I Spy, 20 questions, word games, napping, snacks, and bouts of silliness. About halfway there, Sophie’s face lights up. Suddenly she asks,

“Daddy, are we on an exotic vacation?”

I think back to the exotic trips (albeit few) that I’ve taken in the past. Latvia. Prague. Jamaica. And line them up against this endless stretch of highway to our Midwest destination. I snicker.

But perhaps, compared to our brief jaunts to Philadelphia or North Jersey, in Sophia’s world this is exotic. We’ve seen a log cabin on the back of a truck. We’ve flown by acres of farmland and expansive sky. And tonight, we’re sleeping in a hotel. One with a pool. I can remember this as being the height of luxury. The pampering experience of eating chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP. Of waking up in a bed that’s not your own (which, now, skeeves me). Of having all the HBO your optic nerve can stand.

Finally, I’m ready. Ready to slow down and join Sophie on her exotic vacation.

Just Like Heaven

As a member of the online book club, From Left to Write, I received a copy of The Unexpected Circumnavigation from the author, gratis. I was not paid to write the following article, which was inspired by the book. You can read other members’ musings and impressions by clicking here, on June 28th.

It has been almost four years since Kevin and I have taken a vacation alone together. We’ve had a stolen moment here and there, but nothing quite as indulgent as the four-day trip to Vermont we had planned.

When I first attempted to broach the subject of our long-weekend get away to Sophia, we were all seated at dinner. “Guess what!” I began. Kevin, intuitively knowing where I was going, shook his head no, his hand stretched out before him as if to stop me. I shot him a questioning look.

“I don’t want her worrying about it,” he said, just above a whisper. Sophie shoved in a mouthful of lasagna, oblivious to our interaction. “Okay,” I shrugged. I was fine deferring to his judgment, though I less concerned about this possibility. My mother had generously offered to take her for the duration of our trip. Since we have been driving up to and staying with my mother every week for the past two years, I felt pretty confident that Sophia would be okay with the arrangement.

But, just to be on the safe side, I introduced the concept with a story. A couple days later, we were alone at breakfast when Sophie made her usual request, “Mommy tell me a story with you, me and Curious George.” I seized the opportunity to paint an idyllic vision of a “vacation” with her grandparents.

“Once upon a time, Mommy and Daddy and Sophia decided to take a vacation.”

“And Curious George,” she reminded me.

“Who’s telling this story?” I asked, “Curious George is going to make a surprise appearance.”

“Okay,” said Sophie cheerfully.

In the story, Mommy and Daddy leave Sophie at her grandparents for a vacation, while they go on their own vacation for a couple of days. Grandma and Grandpa take her to visit some relatives who have a boy Sophie’s age and a beautiful glistening pool in their backyard. When Sophie arrives, she discovers that the boy has also invited his best friend (you guessed it) Curious George. The three of them frolic in the pool together, eat mac n’cheese n’ peas for lunch, take a nap in one big bed, and wake to an ice cream treat. I forgo the Curious George formula (George innocently causes a stir that has unintended positive consequences, which ultimately allow everyone not only to forgive his naughtiness, but to hail him as a hero.). Instead, I appeal to Sophia’s idea of heaven. By the end of my “story” she is grinning ear to ear.

Later, I overhear her telling her beloved stuffed Snakey Pie the story. “Once upon a time, we all went on vacation,” Sophia begins. Snakey Pie stops her, “What’s a vacation?” he asks. “It’s when we go to Grandma and Grandpas and Mommy and Daddy go on a very long date.”

Bingo.

I know that, in reality, despite the inclusion of Curious George, I have not created an unreasonable expectation. My mother has big plans: the zoo, the Jersey shore, relatives with pools, a Chinese restaurant, the play ground, the library, ice cream and intense periods of pretend play. Sophie will not be disappointed.

When we arrived at my mother’s, Sophie sprang from the car. I quickly transferred her things to the house, and within minutes my mother was whisking her away to the zoo. “Good bye, Sophia. I love you. Mommy and Daddy will see you in three days. And we’ll call you every night.” I held out my arms for a hug. Sophie shrank away from me into grandma’s side.

She was mad at me. So be it. I was a little sad that our parting wasn’t sweeter, but she was entitled to feel the way she felt. After all, we were ditching her.

As we climbed into the car and started up the engine, Sophie came running back. “Mommy! Mommy!” I rolled down the window and leaned out for a kiss. My mother held her up to me and we touched our puckered lips together. As soon as her feet were back on the ground, she scooted off towards Grandma’s car for her trip to the zoo.

This time, she didn’t look back.

Neither did I.

I’d like to think it’s not because either one of us is cold hearted, or even relieved to finally get a breather from the other, but because we share a secure attachment. She is sure of my love. She understands it’s permanence, whether I’m present or not. She knows I’m coming back. I can remember, as a teenager, babysitting for a 10-month-old boy. He would cry bitterly when his mother left. Instinctively, I whispered into the soft down of his head, “Mommy will come back. Mommy always comes back.” This soothed him. In a similar vein I have reassured Sophia time and time again, “I will always be here for you.” And, in moments of nascent empathy, Sophia has echoed this sentiment back to me, “Mommy. I will never leave you. I will always be in your heart.”

Once in the car, Kevin’s first order of business was to remove all the kids’ CDs from the car stereo. We drove the five hours to Vermont listening to music that has been idling in storage for the past four years. We enjoyed sustained conversations with each other during which we were able to complete, not only entire sentences but entire stories without interruption. We made a pit stop that did not involve 15-minute machinations of removing and returning a child to a car seat. We ate a dinner that did not require feeding anyone “like a little baby,” or reminding someone 47 times to “please sit in your seat.” We made out without having someone climb between us. And that night, there as no one to get ready for bed other than myself, nothing to listen for other than the lake gently lapping at the shore.

Just like heaven.