A consolation vacation

We were tossed into retro romance the instant the Tang-colored door swung open and swallowed our tired bodies. Once our eyes adjusted to the brightness, we were surrounded by bold. There were the paisley bolster pillows for our backs, the purple and orange striped carpets for our feet, and slick, red plastic chairs for our booties.

Beyond our room, through the glass, those could have been tropical waters reflected in the turquoise sky. But once we slid the door open and stepped onto our balcony, the cool Northern California February breeze pinched our skin.

Still, we didn’t immediately go back into the heated room. That view held our dream of being dipped into warm waters like strawberries into melted chocolate. As if on cue, that’s when we noticed the hot tub below.

But this was not a romantic getaway. Yes, I shared a bed, but there was no nudity outside of the shower. There was no kissing, outside of playful pecks. There was no arousal, even though I’d hoped for a juicy dream. This was a weekend with my mother and two boys in Santa Cruz. We’ll call it a consolation vacation because my mind was preoccupied with snow and skiing. It was Ski Week after all. My boyfriend and his kids and me and my kids were separated by 200 miles, 6,225 feet in elevation, and circumstance.

I didn’t really want the thick coats and ice scrapers of Tahoe—at least that’s what I kept telling myself while we debated a walk on the beach versus a swim in the chlorine. I hate that my son’s medical diagnosis crops my map and makes mountains off limits unless accompanied by an oxygen tank. So I exercised my credit card and splurged on views and heated pools and hot tubs. Those high-thread count sheets, down pillows, and snow-white duvets softened the emotional toll of being stuck at sea level.

My family didn’t know that they didn’t get to go to Tahoe. No one complained that they played in the sand instead of the snow. No one complained that they soaked in a hot tub at a hotel with lime accents and veneer next to the salty ocean instead of in one at a cabin with floral wallpaper and wood paneling next to a clear lake.

But it was so darn romantic. “It’s like being on my honeymoon,” my mom said.

“Then I must be a disappointment,” was my snarky reply. Although what I meant was I wished we were there under different circumstances.

No one's butt but my own

There was no one to feed but me, no teeth to brush but mine, and no butts to wipe but my own.

It only took 72 hours to undo the damage done to my mental status as a result of spending three years with my children without a vacation from them. A three-day, mini trip to Portland was thoroughly enjoyable, and I'm relieved to find out that I am still me under the stress and frustration of two children who enjoy biting each other, kicking each other, and removing fists full of hair from their sibling's head. While I do love them dearly, I sometimes I feel like they bring out the worst in me, and I find myself shouting (when I should be talking), scowling (when I should be laughing), and wondering how to escape (when I should be enjoying these fleeting times).

Since I've been back, I've been trying to laugh things off a little more and let them sort out their squabbles a bit more frequently. So far it's working, but it has not been easy. They sure know just what to do to make me cringe.

Anyway, I can't remember why I used to hate traveling before I had kids. It was so easy, and there was so much less to carry. I even enjoyed being at the airport. Without children, there was no one to distract me from my latte and my book. And I'm already planning the next get-away. Being selfish, I've realized, is good for the whole family.

Been losing sleep

I just couldn't do it four nights in a row. I'm not that young anymore. And I just need more sleep. I don't know how people can go out night after night and have drinks and not go to bed until 3 am, and then still get up and be functioning members of society.

Three nights in a row was my limit. I went to Niagara Falls in Canada to a nightclub that plays nothing but 80s on Thursday night. It was fabulous--you know how I love the 80s--except for all of the 19-year-old guys. Yes, they can be cute, but for the most part, they are usually quite drunk, never offer to buy you a drink, and are terrible and aggressive dancers (Think Dirty Dancing without the suave part).

Then on Friday night, I went out to see a local band with my girlfriends. We danced and had some drinks and ended up at Denny's. I can't believe they still have Moon Over My Hammy on the menu!

And then Saturday morning I was supposed to have breakfast at my dad's house with the kids. Breakfast??!! I had just gone to bed five hours earlier and now I'm supposed to be awake and have my kids dressed and ready for the chitchat that goes with blueberry pancakes and scrambled eggs?

Then I looked in the mirror. And there was a very disturbing image staring back at me. My hair was straggly mess. There were dark circles under my eyes. My eyes were only half open. I was wearing the same shirt that I had slept in and I had not put on any deodorant. I was a mess. We ditched our plan to go to the zoo and I took the kids to my mom's house, put the baby down for a nap and crashed on the pull-out sofa for more than two hours. Thankfully my mom was there to watch Preschooler in Chief. My siesta was followed by a quick shower and then it was time to go out all over again.

There was dinner with my dad and the kids, then driving to my mother-in-law's house to get the kids to bed. We watched a movie, and then it was time to drive back to Lockport to go out dancing with my mom and her girlfriends. It was fun, but I have now put mascara on my eye lashes four nights in the past week and that is more mascara than I have worn in the past four months. I lasted about an hour before I needed to head back to my mother-in-law's house.

Just five hours later, the kids were awake.

I was supposed to go out again tonight. And. There. Was. Just. No. Way. It. Was. Going. To. Happen.

I don't think I'll complain about my I-like-to-go-to-bed-and-read-at-9-PM lifestyle once I get back to California. Or at least I won't complain about it for at least a couple of weeks and I start missing my friends and the dance floor. And now I'll take this opportunity to go to sleep. Good night.

You can take the girl out of WNY...

But you can't take the Western New York out of the girl. I arrived in Buffalo (yes, Buffalo is Western New York, not Upstate New York), after a long day of travel with two small kids and it was as if I was instantly converted to another version of myself.

My vowels immediately sounded more nasally. All words with an "o" started sounding like "aah" (for example: instead of hospital, it would be h-aah-spital). I was excited about my PT Cruiser rental. (Sadly, they didn't have one for me, and I ended up with an HHR, which is sort of like a PT Cruiser only it looks more like a pick-up truck.) I happily programmed my rental's radio to have all of the local Top 40 stations for the 30-minute ride to Lockport. After my boys were tucked in, I was ready to tackle the local bar scene. I hoped that I'd see someone I went to high school with. And I drank Yingling, a WNY favorite.

The bar wasn't much to look at, but it was spacious and it was full of faces that I wanted to be familiar. The dance floor wasn't overly crowded, but if it did get too packed, the dancers just back up in between tables and along the bar. The band was working hard and the crowd was the payoff. It wasn't the Cheeseballs, but it was a wonderful, town-I-grew-up-in close second. And I felt comfortable, at home, included, loved. It's no surprise that I managed to meet the band. And during the last set I got at least 15 shout-outs because it was my birthday. And I was with one of my best friends. It was perfect, except that Father in Chief wasn't around to enjoy it with me.

There is something about going home, home to the small town I grew up in that is comforting. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that my family still lives there. My dad still lives in the house I grew up in. My mom lives in the house that my family lived in when I was born. My grandmother still lives in the same house she has for the past 60 years. My uncle lives in my other grandmother's house. Two of my best friends still live here. Stores come and go, but the shabby downtown keeps trying to reinvent itself with renovated buildings and new bars. Mostly, it's comforting because when I lived here--17 years ago--life was pretty simple. The biggest worries were whether he was going to call and whether I was going to have to work on New Year's Eve.

Traveling with two

I decided to brave the airports with two kids so that we could go visit our families on the east coast. When leaving San Francisco, I didn’t have to fold my stroller. They just took it over to the side and examined it for explosives and dangerous water bottles. But the Atlanta airport was not so friendly. How exactly are you supposed to fold up your stroller to get through airport security while holding a baby? I ended up setting Baby in Chief on the table. Fortunately he’s not big enough to roll off, and Toddler in Chief is a good listener so he stayed right by my side. Once I got through the metal detectors, the only table-like structure was the one with the rolling conveyor belts. I clearly couldn’t put him on that, so I just stood there and wondered what to do. Eventually one of the security personnel came over and told me I needed to move because I was blocking the aisle. But TIC and I didn’t even have our shoes on yet. Finally, I was able to talk the security guy through the process of opening my stroller and we were able to move all of our crap to another table out of the way. Good times all around, and I can’t wait until I have to transfer planes in 40 minutes or less on my way back home.

Viva Las Vegas -- Pregnant-style

Woo hoo! Three nights in Las Vegas without Toddler in Chief. It was just me, Father in Chief, and the sights, sounds, smells, and sensory-overload in general of Sin City.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

My bag was packed with sassy pregnant outfits--polyester gauchos with glittery sashes, sparkly tops, flared short skirts, clunky black boots, small and fashionable handbags that did not contain a single diaper, goldfish cracker, crayon, or matchbox car. I had glitter eye powder, roll-on body glitter (courtesy of fabulous former dance companion Babs), liquid blue eyeliner, loud necklaces, negligees, massage oil, and red hot lipstick. (And there was no one's ass to wipe but my own.)

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Few of those outfits ever saw the flashing lights of slot machines or disco balls. The morning after we arrived, I dropped some cash at the Walking Company because my clunky boots were killing my toes. My grand intentions were to live it up and make this trip--this glorious, child-free getaway--a comprehensive excursion of every hip spot along the Strip. I aspired to strut my pregnant self through a memorable extravaganza of dancing and late nights and people watching. All my plans were quickly redefined. My sore feet, upset stomach, and overwhelming exhaustion redirected my three child-free days.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Sure I was just a tag-along to FIC's Amazing Meeting conference. So there I was, walking the strip in my comfortable and practical shoes, feeling tired and yes, very lame. How lame is it to go to Vegas and prefer to stay in and watch March of the Penguins on Pay Per View instead of heading out to one of the hundreds of dance clubs? It almost seemed wrong that such a G-rated movie was one of the choices on our hotel television.

Penn & Teller was our nightlife highlight. No dancing. No blackjack. No glittery shows. Just my tired ass seated for the two-hour show. And all that passive entertainment was so exhausting, that we promptly went back to our room…and slept.