Vacation With Kids. Seriously, Stop Laughing

The phrase "vacation with kids" is the biggest oxymoron I've ever heard in regards to family life. Especially the moron part. Vacations with children are hard. They involve intense planning, remembering 4,000 details at any given moment, and lots and lots of time in close quarters with, umm, children.

Did I mention that we drove to Florida. And back. This was 42 hours of car time, with my driving 38 of the hours. Why didn't anyone stop me? What kind of friends do I have? Please, you should have talked sense into me. Even with dual-DVD players and lots of fun games, coloring books and stops along the way... But even as insane as that was, it was an adventure.

Before I come across as a total Debbie Downer, let me say that I love my kids a ton and realize that moms who aren't working outside the home spend way more time with their kids than I do (you have my undying admiration). And our vacation had some truly wonderful moments, memories I will cherish and always look back on fondly.

Beach day

Like the moment my son was blowing bubbles on a nearly-empty beach on an 82-degree February day while my daughter played happily nearby.

Or the moment when both my kids stared in amazement and then squealed with delight when they saw Shamu up close and got to touch a dolphin at Sea World.

Or the moment my daughter, whose own half-eaten ice cream cone fell on the floor looked over at my dad's cone and stuck her finger right in it to take a big swipe, smiling and laughing the whole time.

Or the fact that I got to spend time with my dad and one of my best childhood friends, who has a giant sandbox in the backyard for her kids, a fancy little chicken coop where we found recently-laid eggs and scared the rooster into crowing not one, but three times, and cows roaming the property (for tax purposes, my friends) and orange trees from which we picked fresh fruit to take home.

Shamu flips

This blog post isn't about those moments. It's about the moments right after. Like when my daughter then grabbed the bottle of bubbles forcibly from my son's hand and dumped it into the sand, sending my son almost to tears. Then he grabbed her arm too hard, she threw sand in his face.

Or my daughter's 20-minute scream-fest (please, hide the thin glass) after the Shamu show ended and it was clear we had to vacate the stadium and move on to something she totally did not want to do, like go to the bathroom.

 Or the tantrum my daughter had after I wouldn't just get her another ice cream cone, right there in the middle of a diner-like restaurant in deep-red bible belt country where most people expected me to pull out a freshly-cut switch and give her a whooping right there (no, seriously, I know that look well--it was right up there with the nasty comment, made loud enough for me to hear, at the Cracker Barrel on our way back to NY when my misbehaving daughter wasn't taken out of the restaurant fast enough for some lady's liking. Hello, lady, it's Cracker Barrel, not Capital Grill). 

Well, Grandpa still has a cone

But these paled in comparison to The Worst Birthday Ever. Those of you know know me know how much I love birthdays -- and not just my own. I LOVE birthdays. I love doing special things for other people on their birthday and I make a big deal. As for my own birthday, I love that too. I used to start counting down on Christmas Eve, but I outgrew that silliness. Ok, so it was only a year ago when I stopped. But whatever, it's a BIRTHDAY! It's the one day of the year where you can celebrate yourself without feeling too sheepish and where you can celebrate another person a little over the top on their day.

The Worst Birthday Ever started out with some foreshadowing I didn't recognize until it was over. I got up. My husband didn't. He was on vacation, after all. So he slept in while I took the kids to the hotel lobby where a breakfast of pre-fab eggs, oddly round sausage patties, and make-your-own waffles awaited. Nobody said happy birthday. Half a plate of eggs on the floor and one spilled milk later I hurried the kids up to the room before management came to shoo us away. My husband was just getting out of bed.

I'll help myself!

I got the kids ready to go to the beach, got all our stuff ready for the day and off we went. I asked the kids to "guess what today is?" My daughter said, "BEACH DAY!" My son remembered and said, "It's mommy's birthday." My daughter, ever the drama queen, said, "No, I want it to be MY birthday. When can it be June?" My husband, who had only himself to get ready, finally says Happy Birthday.

Fast-forward. This was the day of the bubble-dumping affair. I should have known after that moment that trying to go out for dinner would be a mistake. But a girl's gotta dream. Just to be safe, I picked a restaurant we could walk to from the hotel. Good thing I did: I had to leave with my daughter -- who had started putting straws in her nose, sliding out the edge of the chair and darting to other tables and, finally, screeching -- right after the appetizers arrived and before I even finished my fruity, highly-alcoholic drink.

I should note that my daughter is a wonderful little girl, sweet, caring and very, very independent and spirited. She is very clear about what she wants. When she doesn't get her way, everyone knows. Like, everyone in the room, the building, the town. I am sure this will serve her well later in life but right now, it's not serving me so well. My dad says it's payback, but exponential.

A sandbox the size of a small living room!

 Back to the hotel room, I committed a major mommy crime. I told my daughter she had ruined my birthday. And then I put her in the crib -- time out -- and laid on the uncomfortable hotel bed and started to cry. I realize the ridiculous of this. But I felt like I was entitled to a little pity party. It was my birthday. No card, no dinner, no sleeping in, no peace. I wanted... a vacation. And a birthday card.

When I complained about The Worst Birthday Ever after the fact to a friend, she scolded me, "You are a mom, that's all... You don't put all that thought and love into other's special moments to get anything back. You do it for them. The trick is to not feel like the martyr you really are!"

Ok, ok, good friend, you are right. But I still want a do-over. On the vacation and the birthday. I'm done whining now.