Contemplating Kindle

So- I never thought I would say this but lately I've been contemplating Kindle.
As in- getting one.
I know, right.
I'm an old fashioned kind of girl. I love the way books smell, the way they feel. The excitement of starting a new one- I always skip ahead to the last page and just skim it. Ever so slightly. Just to see. And of course I read the acknowledgements, to see who the authors agent it.
But two recent events have made me start to think that it might be time to jump ship.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Wal Mart and perusing the books. The selection was very minimal. Most of the books had 40% off stickers. Some of the books were in bins, one marked $5 one marked $7. Some of the books in the bin were hardcovers.
"I hate to say this," said a stranger who was standing beside me, in the same predicament. "But I think we're going to have to get an EReader soon," he said.
I nodded slowly. "You may be right," I concurred, with a sad sort of smile, though I wasn't quite sold on it.
At least, not yet.
Although I sensed something. That somehow, this strangers words were  important, that things were shifting for me. For us, even, as I felt connected to this person, as book connoisseurs.

And I thought about Under the Dome, which I happened to be reading when I went to Mexico, which was unfortunate, because the book is over a thousand pages, and very weighty. I dragged that ting through the airports, to the beach and back every day. It was cumbersome, even to read,  much less carry  around. I would have preferred, I told my husband one night, if he had written the book in two parts rather than one that size.
And for all of my lugging it around in Mexico, I read maybe only a hundred pages.
In two weeks.
Pitiful, I know.

But in my defense: this is an example of a day at the beach:

Get down to the beach.
Unpack the kids towells and sand toys.
Sit down to read book.
One sentence later: "Mom, I have to go potty!" Alex says, holding himself.
"Okay," I say, getting up and walking the half block or so to the bathrooms. Along the way we stop and observe birds, his bathroom needs seemingly forgotten. He chases the birds for a while, cries when they fly away once he's within a few feet. Then he sees the outdoor showers, and of course he has to go in, he stands in the shower, playing with the water. Doing a version of the hokey pokey, putting the left foot in, the left foot out. I drag him away.

Finally, we get to the bathroom.
I sit him on the toilet. He has to take his shorts completely off, and his shoes as well. Then he sits on the potty, dangles his feet up and down. Looks at me with an adoring smile and says "all done." as he hops off.
"But you didn't go!" I tell him.
"I don't have to," he says, as he tries to open the door. I hold him back, wriggle his little but into his shorts and his little feet into his shoes.

We make the slow walk back to the beach.

Along the way we pass the bar. "I need a drink," he tells me. So we stand at the bar, order a Spiderman, which is a convoluted drink that involves red Jello and blue ice cream.  Alex insists on carrying it himself to the beach. By the time we get there, he has spilled most of it on himself, and it's almost completely melted. He cries that he's sticky, and this necessitates another trip to the shower area. I can't get him away from the shower area. I walk away, thinking he'll follow. He does not follow. A security guard comes over and stands, protectively, beside the shower, observing Alex. I watch from the beach.

 "There," I say, as I pick up my book. "The security guard is looking after him." But then I remember that the security guards are all, apparently, crooked and possibly involved in the drug cartel, according to a lady we met who was either the most brilliant detective since Sara Sidle or completely paranoid and deranged. I look at him talking on his two way radio, and wonder what he's saying, feeling vaguely suspicious about it for some reason.

I sigh and put my book down, walk back to the shower, pull Alex away, causing a slight scene in the process.We get back to the beach, I sit down, poised to read my book again. It feels nice.
I feel the sun boring into me, and I look up at the kids.
Hatless!
"Get your hats on," I tell them. I pull the hats out of the sand, shake them vigorously, put them on the kids, who promptly take them off. This goes on for some time. Finally I convince them to wear their hats, and they do so but  begrudgingly.
Then I remember that I haven't sunscreened them recently, so I go and rub them down with SPF 50.

Then I sit down, poised to read, finally.

"I have to go potty," Alex says, again holding himself and dancing around, and I think- I think this is for real this time, although I'm never sure until we get there.
"Okay," I say with a sigh, getting up.
And so on and so forth.

Anyways.
Would a Kindle have prevented these problems?
No. Nothing could have prevented these problems, except for maybe birth control, but it was way too late for that.
But, still. I wouldn't have had to cart that damn book around with me, everywhere we went, for two weeks, so that I could read precisely one sentence every day.
So here I am, contemplating a Kindle.
I don't know what's happening to me, somehow, I'm becoming current. I even have a Blackberry now.
I even know how to use it.
Well, sort of. I mean, some stuff I can do.
What's next- maybe I'll read the Hunger Games or watch Inception.
Probably not. But you never know?

Anyways, you tell me: how do you read?

Parasailing: It's Not as Easy As it Looks (with 33% more swears)

I didn't realize I wasn't entirely serious about going parasailing until it was too late.
It looked like fun, at least, it did when you were sitting on the beach, drinking a daiquiri and watching other people do it.
"That would really be something," I said.
"Yeah, I'd like to try it," my dad said.
"Me too," I said, absently
"I think I'll do it," my dad said, standing up.
"What? Right now?"
"Yeah," he said, as he stalked off towards the hut.
"Right now?" I asked again, trailing after him with camera in hand.
"You going up, too?"
I looked up at the person 200 feet in the sky, tethered to a speed boat by a rope.
"Uhh, I think I'll wait a bit."
"Nah, just do it," he urged me.
"I'll do it on Friday," I said, this being Saturday.
Because Friday was practically forever away.

Except that it wasn't.
I blinked and it was Thursday.
"That'll be you tomorrow," my mom said that morning, pointing at a parasailor.
My stomach clenched. "Yeah," I said. "Assuming, of course, that the conditions are good tomorrow."

Which, of course, they were.
"I'm not feeling so good,"I told my husband on Friday morning. "I think I'll just stay in bed today."
"Oh no you don't," he replied, dragging me up. "You've been putting this off all week. Let's just do it and get it done."
Reluctantly, I got of bed.


I'm not afraid of heights.
At least, not per se.
But the idea of being tethered to a speed boat and dragged around the ocean at great height with only a rope anchoring me was fast losing it's appeal to me.
But- I had given my word. And my word is my word. And I knew that I would probably regret NOT doing it. So I thought, I'm just going to do it. Even I feel like puking. Even if I do puke.

Besides- you could get a free T shirt if you go. And that sort of made me feel happy about it. Of course, I wasn't really sure where I would wear an over sized T Shirt with a giant, cartoon parachute on the back that says "Yo Yo's Parasailing. Since 1968."
But that wasn't the point. The point was, it was free.
OK it wasn't exactly free.
 You could it for the low price of ten dollars. And according to my logic: the sixty forty rule, that is free, because at that price-- they're practically giving it away!
Besides, what exactly, could go wrong?
It was a good thing that I didn't get the chance to google this or this.
Because, as it turns out, a lot could go wrong.

Truly, I probably would have backed out of it. I wanted to.
What kept me from backing out? I don't know. Stubborn determination. The onlookers. The force of inertia. The fact that Pedro already had me harnessed into that thing and had already taken my money and I probably wasn't going to to get it back.  The boat pulled away from the shore, trailing with it the rope that I was now tethered to.
My stomach was turning, churning.

"Has anyone ever gone in?" I asked the guy, pointing at the ocean.
He laughed in response.
But this was no joke.
"Has anyone ever gone in?" I asked again, now terrified and beginning to suspect that the answer was obviously yes if he wasn't going to give me a straight answer about it.
"Seniorita," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Relax, breathe."
"Has anyone gone in?" I asked again, more intently.
The rope before was fast uncoiling and I knew I would be airborne soon. I was beginning to think that I would puke. I imagined chunks fallilng as I ascended. Then I would be shark chum for sure.
And still the guy refused to answer my question.
"Don't worry," he said. "We have very calm day."

Oh Fuck, I thought as I began to walk forward, the rope getting shorter, tauter.
My feet were on the ground one second, and the next second, not.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Fuck fuck fuck, I thought, tightening my grip on the rope that tethered me to the balloon.
I was told that I could let go, but there was no way I would do that, no way I could. I held tight, afraid that the thing would come undone and I would float away, just like the movie UP, but deadlier.

I peeked open one eye. And then the other.

And it was beautiful. Breathtaking. Soaring above the ocean, with the mountains off in the distance.

That is actually me. You really can't make it out, because my husband doesn't know how to work the zoom button. Hey, what can I say. I'm still working on getting him to put the toilet seat back down. I was nervous and tense the whole time, but I survived! And I hve the pictures, and the T shirt, to prove it.

And would I do it again? Hell No.

The Mother Load

You don't get a vacation from being a mom. Even when you're on vacation. Maybe even, especially on vacation. There are a lot of things that could go wrong. Starting with the airplane ride.

I'm not afraid of flying. At least, not per se. But it doesn't make me feel very good when:

-in the boarding area an air traffic personnel person tells me, chirpily, that we'll commence boarding right away. They're just fixing our plane's flat tires.

-once we board, the captain announces that we'll spend a good deal of time de icing the plane. And a distant memory surfaced. Somewhere, sometime, I remember watching on TV- maybe an episode of Mythbusters, I couldnt' be sure- but something along the lines of even a tiny little drop of ice or condensation of the wing of the airplane could bring the whole thing down. I look at my kids, who are innocently and happily licking their lollipops, which were for take off. "I can't wait to take off!" Payton tells me. "Mmm Hmmm," I reply, absently, still watching the crew spray some sort of chemical on the wings. I hope they get it all, I think.

-The flight attendant approaches me and says, again chirpily- why are they always so chirpy?- that "the captain has decided to make this a four hour flight instead of five and a half. So I thought I should give you the heads up that you might want to keep your kids seat belts fastened for the duration of the flight. I'm expecting a really bumpy ride." I force a smile and nod.

Fucking awesome. Our pilot has apparently decided to go Kamikaze on us. Thanks for keeping me in the loop. Maybe I would rather not know that, I think, as my heart rate begins to speed up. I glance again at my kids, still licking their lollipops. For some reason it wrenches my heart to see them like that. So blissfully unaware of my deepening unease. I begin to wonder if my unease is a sign. Something more than just a feeling.

An intuition.
A premonition.
My heart rate speeds up again. And I think what if...
I have a sudden vision of the cabin losing pressure. Oxygen masks deploying. The children looking at me, eyes wide with fear. And I just know that I wouldn't be able to put my own mask on before helping them. The one thing you're supposed to do in an emergency and I don't think I could do it.
The engine revs, and the kids look at me with anticipation. "Here we go," Payton says.
"Here we go," I say. For better or worse, here we go.
And the thought occurs to me: I wonder if they keep on Valium on here- for emergency purposes? I mean, what if someone has a panic attack while they're on board? It's not like you can get off. All they offer is a barf bag?
Thanks.

But that flight wasn't bumpy at all!
In fact, the worst thing that happened was the in flight movie was Eat, Pray, Love. And that was pretty bad.
I was almost wishing that the plane would go down.

Anyways. That feeling cropped up, on and off during the vacation. We got to our suite on the third floor. I felt a lot better about that one than the one that was practically inside the parking lot (AKA possible crime scene.) Until I went out on the balcony. What if?

 I thought as I looked at the table and chairs that were near the railing. Knowing Alex he would try to...
"Keep this door locked when we're not out here," I told Geoff.
Paranoid?
Maybe, but bad things do happen, even in paradise. That thought was never far from my mind. I thought of Madeiline McCann often.

And of course, it doesn't help when I meet up with some kook in the hallway (at least I'm hoping she was a kook) who tells me that the hotel has MAJOR security issues. She emphasizes the word major so much that it actually becomes two words. May and Jor. Apparently, the staff is all corrupt and the maids are in it with the security guards and they communicate everything on two way radios- who's in what room, when they're in or out of their room, what kind of stuff they have in their rooms. It was hard to believe that Bertha, our maid, who was about seventy years old, who walked with a limp and had a dowagers hump, could be plotting against me. But then again- you never know.
And not only that, but the locals (read: drug cartell) can and do watch the movements of everyone on the third floor because the shrubbery doesn't go up that high and there's a clear view to the interior of the rooms. "Just keep your shades down," she said. "And you should be all right." Emphasis on should.

And so I felt, among other things, when I got home a sense of profound relief that we were all home and we were all safe. Payton had a slight sunburn on her cheeks. Alex had gotten a rash from his bracelet. Other than that, we had survived, unscathed.

Anyways, I think it's about time that I started to post some GOOD vacation stories, because believe me, there are lots- and I will do that. Mondays post: parasailing.

The Gritty Beginnning

Vacation is like childbirth in a way. A less bloody and gory way, generally speaking, depending on what floats your boat. But you tend to, when all is said and done, forget about the bad aspects of it and glorify the good.

Reflecting back on my vacation from last year I remembered nothing but palm trees, hot sun, pina coladas, a stunning view and three kids that might have been a throwback to a fifties sitcom. "Gee Wilikers, Pop, I'd love another soda! That's dandy!" Of course there were moments that were frenzied and chaotic and sometimes even awful - moments where Payton had a temper tantrum or Alex had diarrhea, or God forbid- both. Or the kids spilled their drinks in the restaurant and dumped their food on the floor accidentally on purpose because they were tired and cranky and probably had too much sun.
But those moments, it seemed, were completely forgotten.
Until we went back.

I was so looking forward to that magical moment when our vacation would start, to feel that warm sun our face. We would be glowing under it! Or so I thought.

Strangely, though, I cannot recall with any clarity or precision the moment that I first felt the sun on my face. I was bogged down with three kids, two carry ons, my purse, two fleece blankets, a plush dog and a plush monkey. I trudged down the stairs of the airplane and onto a tarmac, which I realize now must have been hot. Surely it was. But all I remember thinking was "Do I have our passports and our papers" Doing a head count of the kids. Shepherding them onto the bus, holding them close. The thought occurred to me that it was hot, but not in a "Wow this is amazing" way but more in a "Good God could they get some A f'ing C on this  thing? And would it kill the guy next to me to be a little less stingy with his deodorant?" I fanned my face with our passports, but then stuffed them back down into my purse. Would people kill me for my passport? I didn't know. I looked around. They looked like mostly older, white haired touristy people, but you never know.
You never do.

Finally we got to the airport terminal. People were swarmed around the luggage belt, which was spewing out black bags. Thousands of black bags. Ours was one of them. Ours were six of them.

Alex stood too close to the belt and someone nearly took off his head with their suitcase. I picked him up, consoled him, the offending party turned, gave me a dirty look. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I wasn't sure if you could be arrested in Mexico for saying fuck or what, so I smiled and muttered sorry while my baby's lip bled on my shirt.

OK there was no blood. I'm just being melodramatic here. But it was not good times in the luggage line. Bloody lip or not.

Then he had to go potty. Then Payton had to go. And then the stroller wouldn't unfold and I was sweating and holding the baby and pushing a now defunct stroller along, or trying to, but the damn thing was being so stubborn. And Geoff was giving me the look, the "I TOLD you not to bring that goddamn stroller!" look.
Yes- we have an "I told you not to bring that goddamn stroller" look. We have a lot of looks.
And did I mention that I was sweating?

And I wasn't sure, when we got to our hotel room an hour or so later, whether to be horrified or proud when my daughter, six, surveyed the room and then declared, quite matter of factly. "This is not acceptable."
"Hey," I told her. "Don't be like that! This is! Just great!"

I looked out the window. It was on the ground floor, facing directly onto a parking lot. Some faded yellow ribbon cordoned off the perimeter, and I wasn't sure if it was crime scene tape or not.
Probably not, I told myself. Hopefully not. It could have just as easily been left over from some kind of a fiesta night or something, although something about that didn't quite ring true. I mean- would you have a fiesta in a parking lot?
I doubted that.
But then again- what do I know about fiesta's?

In the parking lot, a truck pulled up and a couple of lanky looking locals unloaded a donkey (for the fiesta??)off of a flat bed while speaking loudly Spanish. I wasn't sure what they were saying. But they didn't look happy. Neither did the donkey.
The windows didn't lock.
Our room smelled like sewage.
"It's just not what I suspected" Payton told me, hands on hip. "Not at all."
Myself, I find it kind of endearing, but I pity the man who marries her.

But my point is this: all of that stuff was almost immediately forgotten, rather coincidentally, around the same time that I had my first rum and coke on the beach. We upgraded our room and got a beautiful suite with an ocean view. We looked out onto our parking lot (AKA possible crime scene) and said sienera with a stiff upper lip.

 The kids played in the surf, laughing and giggling and throwing sand all around. It was cute- that first day, anyways. After a little while- getting sand in your eye, and most importantly- your drink, not so fun.

We stayed like that until the sun went down and it got cold on the beach.

And, now, honestly, looking back on it- I even think that it was strangely beautiful, being in that crowded airport with the kids, holding them close, carrying that cursed, fleece Monkey blanky around with me, sweating with Alex on my hip.
Because it marked the beginning. A tough and gritty beginning, but beginnings often are?
No?


Anyways- the rest of the vacation?
was perfecto. We went parasailing and swimming with dolphins and on a pirate ship and up in the mountains and to the old down town, our children became performers, we got to know the locals. We had too much fun.

But I'll write more about that later.

Creative Financing

"It's called creative financing," I told my husband when he reacted with less than enthusiasm about the fact that I had recently acquired a new (low interest!!) platinum Master Card. I really tried to sell him on the low interest rate, but it didn't seem to matter.
"It's called going into debt," he said with a dour expression on his face. "And creative is bad when it comes to finances. Very bad. 'Creative' and 'Financing' just don't go together."
"Mmm," I said, pausing, as though thinking about it, but really I was thinking about something else, namely the trip to Mexico I was planning on booking ASAP.

"We can't afford to go to Mexico," my husband said for the millionth time on that matter.
Which was true, to a certain extent. There wasn't exactly money in the bank to fund it. But that's where the creative financing comes into play.
"We can't afford not to," I told him.
"What the hell does that mean?"
I wasn't exactly sure, but I had heard Suze Orman say it once, although it sounded much more convincing coming from her. Why I was even watching a crap financial show like that, I can't imagine. She must have been on Oprah or something.
In fact, I think she was.
People in the audience were asking her if they could afford this or that, and she would give her take on it, which was usually no, by the way. According to that lady, from what I could gather, it was all about squirrelling all your money away like chipmunks during- whatever- monsoon season. Whenever they do the bulk their storing. I don't know. I don't know that much about chipmunks and their habits, quite frankly. 
Anyways, in this one instance, a lady asked if she could afford a divorce.
Suze broke down the numbers.
Sadly, she couldn't. They were up to their eye balls in debt, house was being foreclosed on. They had like seven kids, no savings.
But she said yes!
She said "the reason being: there are some things in life that you can't afford not to do."
And I know that sipping tequila in the sun is a divorce not, but- but I quite honestly feel that if I don't get a vacation at some point, I might as well reserve a room in a mental institution sometime soon.
Quite honestly, I feel that I left a piece of myself there last year. A piece that, who knew, wasn't opposed to drinking daiquiris at ten in the morning.

Leaving Mexico last year was tough, to say the least.
We took the kids to the beach, dug our heels into the sand, looked up at the sun.
"Feel the sun on your face," I told the kids. "And try to remember that feeling," I said, knowing that we would return home to a city blanketed in snow, amidst a winter that was dark and oppressive and unrelenting.

Later, as our cab pulled away from the resort, Payton looked up at me, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her chin wobbling.  I squeezed her hand, and she smiled at me through the tears, a sad sort of smile, which made me start crying, which made her start laughing. "Mom! You're crying!"
And then we were both laughing and crying all at the same time.
"We won't say good bye," I told her. "We'll say "see you later!"
And only with that were we able to board the plane, and watch Mexico disappear beneath us.
I feel the need to go back there physically, viscerally.
Hopefully we will get there, somehow.

A while back I had posted about vacationing with the kids, which generated some controversy.
I was planning on, for my next post, writing about the wisdom of travelling with my husband, as a way of lightening things up again and also venting a bit.
But then I thought, No. I've got to stop complaining about my husband so much. Really, I should be more appreciative of him.
Actually, just kidding. I didn't think that. I think I just forgot about it. But now I remembered it.
So. The wisdom of travelling with your husband:
"Do you think we should bring a stroller for Alex, just in case?", I asked Geoff about a month prior to our departure date, thinking of all the hours we would be spending in the airport.
"No," Geoff replied, sounding annoyed and, for some reason, almost insulted. Like as though I had asked him, "do you think we should pack some adult diapers for you, just in case."
"It's just that it might be a lot of walking," I tried to rationalize.
"Alex can walk," he countered, again almost insulted sounding.
"Well, yeah, but not very fast," I said.
"Well we can carry him," he said.
I dropped the matter. It was only just a thought, anyways, but I did remember distinctly when I took Lex to Calgary wishing that I had a stroller with me for the airports. You wouldn't think that carrying a twenty pound baby could get so taxing, but really it can be.

Flash forward to a month later at Pearson airport, me with Alex on my hip and his diaper bag slung over my shoulder, walking back and forth as we try to find out which terminal exactly our shuttle is picking us up at. Supposedly it's A20 or something and we are way over by B5. Geoff, conventiently, is outside smoking.
Things are no better at the Cancun airport. A huge line for security snakes around an a definitively un-air conditioned room. Geoff is wearing a heavy sweat shirt with a pair of Khakis. I tried to convince him to wear something lighter when we left Toronto, but again he seems almost insulted for some reason. "Well, I'll change as soon as we leave the airport."
But leaving the airport is easier said than done. The line moves slowly. The kids are hot, hungry, tired. The heat and humidity are stifling, and carrying Alex along is definitely not helping the situation.
Finally after about an hour we get out of the security line up. We feel relieved.
Until we see another line up for the baggage claim area.
Anyways, I can tell you. The stroller was not a bad idea.

And then, so okay. We're on vacation. Sitting by the pool and having fun, but it's getting to be mid afternoon and Alex is now tired and cranky. It's Geoff's turn to bring him to the room and get him down for his nap. I tell him that's it's time. "Okay, I just have to get a plate of chicken wings," he says. "But Alex is way tired," I urge. "Well, I haven't eaten lunch yet," he says, sauntering over to the snack shack which is, incidentally, crazy lined up.
Alex is crying, clinging onto me, rubbing his eyes.
"Fine," I say. "I'll bring him up and get him settled."
"Okay. I'll meet you up there in a bit."
So I carry Alex to the Elevators, a fair jaunt, by the way, up to the room, change him out of his swim gear. It takes a while to get him settled. By the time Geoff comes up, Alex is already fast asleep. So he takes his beer and book and sits out on the deck.
"There, you can have a break," he says, spelling me off, as though I should be grateful to him, him who's done nothing, NOTHING, except eat a bucket of deep fried chicken wings and, apparently, got a mug of draft from somewhere. Not to even mention the fact that my so called 'break' includes looking after the older two kids as well while he leisurely sits out on the deck and reads a book overlooking the ocean. And then later he puts it like "I gave Alex his nap today so Randine could get a break."
Aargh.
And my stomach problems get more than casually mentioned far too many times. Every time I order a cream drink, or even think about it, or even pause for a moment to consider what kind of drink to order, he cautions me, and everyone else within ear shot that with my stomach being the way it is I'll be "pissing out my ass" if I order anything with cream in it.
Thanks a lot, I say, for putting it so delicately.
"It's pretty much like Ex Lax for her," he tells people. "She had a paralyzer on the way up and she was on the crapper ALL NIGHT."
It's like, have you ever heard of TMI. I'm pretty sure that the nice couple from Tuscon trying to have a relaxing holiday don't need to hear about my irritable bowels.
Anyways, my point is that travelling with your kids is nothing compared to travelling with your husband.

Hooked on a Feeling

Back from vacation and learning to deal.
Being at home is slightly different from being at a resort. For example: Biggest dilemna while you're on vacay: What should I drink next?? Sounds trivial, I know, but this actually takes a lot of time and effort to make a decision on. Often requiring consultation with other resort members. "What's in your drink?" "Oh, no, I don't want that. I'm pineappled out."(probably the only time you'll ever use 'pineapple' as a verb. Unless you're one of those people that likes to tell long drawn out sports stories using verbs no ones ever heard of before. For example: And then the guy pineappled the ball over my head, so I torked my body backwards, shredded my shoulder. It's like: O-K, first of all--I have no idea what you're talking about, I have no idea what pineappling the ball involves per se, nor torking or shredding, and second of all-I really don't care.)
Anyways.

Biggest dilemma at home: whether to pay the power bill or the water bill. Can I live without water? Or light?? Probably going to say light-- I mean, I can always use candles. And then the house will smell like apple as well, so win win. OK so things aren't quite that bad, but still. These are real problems, not like 'well, should go to the beach now, or have breakfast first, or just make smoothies for breakfast and have them at the beach??"

The biggest thrill in Mexico, watching your children play in the surf, shrieking in delight.
The biggest thrill at home: We got a new bounce dryer bar free trial offer.
Bedtime in Mexico: having Alex fall asleep in my arms sitting out on the deck, being lulled gently to sleep by the sound of the ocean in the not too far distance.
Bedtime at home: High pitched screaming, bribery attempts, bloody noses and a pig head on a stick, followed by Percocet for mom and a "Fuck you" to dad as he looks hopefully at me as I crash into bed.
OK that may be an exaggeration as well.
There is actually no pig head on a stick. Its not on a stick. The stick is broken, and like everything else in the house, awaiting repair from my husband. So it's more just perched by the door.
But you get the point.
So the point is that I'm hooked. I have spent nearly all my time since I've been home looking at vacation destinations for next year.
The question that people want to know: would I plan to bring the kids again??
Bringing the kids is either the most wonderful thing I've ever done, or the most idiotic, depending on your take on things. I'm really proud of the fact that my baby has his first stamp on his passport already. Although, certainly, I will admit: it wasn't always easy. Flashbacks of him writhing on my lap on the airplane, every meal I ever abandoned mid meal due to shrieking, whining, throwing of cutlery, or my personal favorite "I have to go to the bathroom"- never, ever when you're in the hotel in close proximity to a toilet does she have to go. It's only when you're finally settled down to a nice dinner and the bathroom is a half mile jaunt away that she suddenly has to go and go real bad.

In fact, the very first thing I said when I sat down in the lounge in our resort was "I'm not very anxious to do that again"-- referring to the two days of travel we had just survived, which encompassed two flights, seven hours of flight time and approximately ten hours in airports, all the while dragging three kids, five pieces of luggage, and three carry ons.

But the first time I took Payton to see the ocean and I stood before it, squeezing her hand and carrying Alex on my hip, it brought tears to my eyes to be able to share with my kids such wonder and beauty. And I knew then and there that I would travel again with them time and time again. To see Paytons cheeks take on a sun kissed glow as the days passed by, to see her giggling in the sun, to watch Alex play in the sand, to see Gage... well, eat cheeseburgers, frankly, was all I ever saw him do, less poetic I guess, but still. Good to see him enjoy himself. Whatever that entails.
Anyways.
Gotta go. The real world is calling me.
And FYI- the Bounce dryer bar is working out really, really well!! At first I wasn't happy about it, because I'm quite accustomed to using Gain because I really like the smell of it. But as it turns out, meausuring it and pouring it out into the chamber dealy was more laborious than I ever realized, because now laundry seems WAY easier without that step!! And it still smells pretty good.
So. That's good.

Feeling hot hot hot

just a quick update from mexico, sorry no capital letters lo, i can't quite figure out all of the symbols on this keyboard. the flight here was good with some ups and downs of course, starting with some downs, in particular, delays due to fog. we arrived at the airport at nine thirty with plenty of time to spare before our eleven fifty flight at nine thirty am, slowly the flight was pushed back to twelve fifteen, twelve thirty, twelve fifty, one ten, etc. we ended up boarding at about two pm with three kids who were already exhausted from spending nearly the whole day in the airport. the flight to toronto went well, alex travelled like a trooper with not a single whimper or fuss, slept great and watched tv. payton had a bit of a hard time with her ears but kept it together. leaving toronto was pretty stressful as we realized at check in that we were short a bag and geoff was left behind to deal with that, we were all quite panicked as we arrived at the airport late as it was and were in a hurry to get through security. i took the kids through security and waited an xiously for geoff to arrive. they were announcing that the plane was ready to board when he finally came to the gate, and honestly i don't think i have ever been so happy to see him in my life.
the flight was a bit harder on alex, a bit of fussing here and there, but not too bad. lots of kids on that flight, and the flight attendant even went through the safety spiel in a modified version which was like dr. seuss style. getting through customs in mexico was rough, the kids were tired, it was hot, we were carrying so much stuff, long line ups, etc.
but it was worth it to arrive here and be greeted at the doors with complimentary champagne, even sparkling cider for the kids. our rooms are beautiful with amazing views. it is twenty nine every day, although it always windy here. the kids are having an amazing time. i am slightly burned but not bad, considering. i played in the ocean with the kids. we've been mini golfing and water sliding and lots more. i took alex to daycare for the first time today but was paged--they give you pagers when you sign your kids in--- shortly after to come and get him, so that didn't work out well. he is adjusting well to the vacation life, waking up at six am demading to go outside. the food is great and i think we will all gain a good ten pounds at least this week.
but i need to be going now, geoff is waiting for me outside.
will see you all soon!!!
love from quantana roo...

Preparing for Take Off

One week til Mexico.
It's like a mantra I keep on repeating. And as D day draws nearer, I grow increasingly excited to go, but now the nervousness that was once a slight seedling is now an invasive and poisonous ivy that is creeping through me, overtaking more and more of me.
It's the flight.
Once we get to Mexico I know it will be great. But getting there is going to be interesting to say the least. Alex, at one and a half, doesn't deal well with confined spaces. He likes to climb things, to be free to explore. He hates being held onto. Whenever I pick him up he writhes his little body to get away from me, like I'm sort of a pedophile, all the while screaming "Nooo" and "DOW!!" alternately, the two words in his vocabulary that comprise approximately 80% of his conversations. I cannot imagine a three to four hour flight, plus all the pre boarding stuff as well.
And that's not even mentioning the other two kids.
So today I came to work intent on searching the web for advice and formulating a plan. Hopefully, I keyed the words "tips for travelling with infant" into Google and waited for something to pop out that hadn't occurred to me before that would magically solve everything.
With dismay, I read the disappointing results.
Tip Number 1: Buy an extra seat for your baby. Too late for that, first of all. Secondly, fine if you have the extra six hundred dollars to do that, but if you don't... well... then what??
Tip Number 2: Make sure your car seat is equipped to fly on the plane... moot point.
Tip Number 3: Book a night flight. Too late for that as well. And I'm not sure about the feasibility about that anyway. So you fly all night long, and then have to be awake all day when you arrive at your destination??
Tip Number 4: Get to the airport early. No kidding. I mean, they might as well just say "Pack a suit case."
And so on and so forth.
Useless information. Bloody useless.
The only thing that I found helpful at all was the final tip that I read, after I had almost given up. The final tip that was added, it almost seemed, as an after thought. Like the author had run out of things to say so added in a peice of advice that seems trite on the surface.
Tip Number 10: Enjoy the ride.
And there it was: the magic words that I needed to hear, or in this case, read: enjoy the ride! As it turns out, I don't need to prepare myself physically- believe me you, I plan on packing so many gold fish crackers and cheese strings that...
that... well there'll be a lot of them, suffice it to say.
I needed to prepare myself psychologically.
I mean, bottom line, this is a milestone in my children's lives, and I shouldn't approach it with trepidation. These are memories in the making, blood, sweat and tears included, although truly, I hope it doesn't come down to blood.

I flashed back to Payton and Alex's first flight, which was to Calgary. Payton was so excited at take off, she was squealing and giggling so loudly. My first instinct was to shush her, hoping that she wasn't being a bother to other passengers. I scanned the passengers furtively, awaiting their disproving glares. But then I noticed that most of them had turned to look at her, their faces not scowling but smiling. A small ripple of laughter went through the cabin as they appreciated her enthusiasm. Many of the people around me where eager to talk to me and the children. Payton made friends with a row of pretty adolescent girls seated across from us who were charmed by her giggly chatter and also her lavish use of accessories. I smiled to myself. This is it, I thought then and I think now, looking back on it. This is what makes my heart happy. Watching your children shake with laughter, seeing the delight and wonder in them, the absolute unrestrained happiness. And the pride that I felt for them at that moment. These were my kids, my beautiful kids. Payton sitting by the window, back lit by the light of the sun.
I think sometimes I underestimate them.
They are children, but they are not a burden.

Back at work, things are going well, at least reasonably so. I regret to say that Cucumber Breath has given her notice and taken up a new job elsewhere. Truthfully, the only regret I felt was when they asked me to contribute to her farewell gift. I was like "well how much is everyone else putting in?" "Five dollars," the receptionist told me.
I put in three.
Partly because it's what I happened to have on me at the time, and partly because I wasn't totally sad to see her go, or even at all sad, in light of the comments she made to me about my lunch which I took offense to (read: Some people have the nerve, July/2009 for background info.)
Anyways, as it turned it most everyone else ended up putting in ten, so I felt pretty stingy by the end of the day.
But I won't lose any sleep over it.