So.

We survived.

Our first family vacation. Four flights, two layovers and countless numbers of goldfish crackers and cheerios later, we’re all in one piece. I’m pretty sure, anyway.

My son behaved for the most part on the flight, save for ten minutes on the way there and about fifteen on the way home where he morphed into changeling baby and shrieked as though unforseen hands were trying to rip out his organs. Other than that little blip, things were fine. But yes, I did notice the burning stares of death from the surrounding passengers when we walked on the plane for the first time. You could just see their thoughts: “Please don’t let them sit here. Oh God, please. I just know that kid will throw a tantrum and spill his sippy cup all over my People magazine. Keep moving…keep walking…oh, crap.”

Thankfully though, on each flight, there was a child so bratty and obnoxious that our kid could’ve run up and down the aisle naked and pissed on everyone and he still wouldn’t have gotten the title of Child Most Likely To Be Thrown Off The Plane Without A Flotation Device.

It’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t know if this is anyone else’s experience, but when I’m in a public place with my kid, especially one where I really, really want him to behave, my husband and I smile gleefully at each other when someone else’s precious baybee starts throwing shit around and having a Mach Five Meltdown. Because, of course, at least my kid won’t be the only brat at the restaurant, in the grocery store, whatever. And my kid is also at the stage where other children are the most interesting, fascinating thing. Especially when they’re flipping out.

So, any of you who have bratty kids and live in the Chicago area, please feel free to email me your upcoming weekend itineraries! I’d love to be assured of a “brat cushion” for the next time we go out in public.

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Today, while on my lunch break from work, I got into my car and drove to a tattoo parlor. I laid down forty bucks, bared my stomach to a man with so many piercings I wondered how long it would take him to get through airport security (and who was also quite possibly extremely stoned), and got my belly-button re-pierced.

I first got it pierced over ten years ago, when I was at the tender young age of 17. I kept it in all through the years, until I got pregnant. I planned to keep it in the entire time, but the ultrasound tech worried it would scratch up the wand thingy during my ultrasound, and at the time I was all, “Fine. Whatever. Just tell me the sex of my precious child!”, so I took it out.

When I tried to put it back in after I had my son, I found it had closed. At the time, I shrugged and didn’t care because, really? Did I really want to display a piece of jewelry amidst post-partum blobby skin? Not to mention my belly-button looks sort of collapsed-in and weird now.

Fast forward to a year later, when I’ve finally (FINALLY) lost the baby weight and gotten into shape. With my beach vacation looming next week, I decided to take one last grasp at my youth and do something ridiculous, stupid and totally vain.

And I love it.

I will never be the same I was before I had my son–physicially, mentally, emotionally. Nor do I want to be. But damn it, when I’m up with him all night due to razor-sharp molars coming in, wiping baby puke off my formerly nice work suit and cleaning off the vaseline he’s smeared all over the bedroom wall, at least my belly button will look cute.

Bring on the margaritas and the bathing suit!

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A few weeks ago, my husband, son and I all went on a long-weekend vacation together. Something we had looked forward to for months, we anticipated a lovely weekend of napping, swimming in the lake, eating out in Wisconsin’s finest dining establishments, drinking some great beer and watching movies. Or at least some small combination of all of the above.

What we got? Was puking. Lots and lots of puking.

As our car pulled into town on the bright and shining Friday morning, our son looked at me and projectile vomited all over himself. Seriously, it was like something out of The Exorcist. We called the doctor, who said it might just be a fluke and to continue on with weekend, but to keep a close eye on him. So, we cautiously continued our fantasies about a weekend filled with watersports and beer.

And, he was fine until we went to dinner Saturday night, when he leaned over the table and vomited directly into my purse as I ate my cod dinner. This was five minutes after he knocked my glass of red wine onto the floor. Oh, and fifteen minutes after an old man tripped over my son’s diaper bag. Needless to say, we were “those people” at the restaurant.

We cut our losses and left early. As for our son, he was fine the moment we pulled into the driveway. As for us? Still scarred and bruised.

They say your life changes when you have a baby. And it does. But I hadn’t “gotten” quite how much until that weekend. Sure, we never sleep in anymore, we don’t eat at nice restaurants and my paycheck is signed directly over to the nanny, but, when life beckons, we’ve always been able to scoop our son up and take him along without too much protest.

I sense this is a valuable lesson for the future i.e. when he learns to start talking. Especially when he learns the words: “No” and “I hate that place” and “Why do we always have to go to Target?”

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Our family just returned from a 53.5 hour long family vacation. We stayed at my in laws’ house at the river. Why was it only 53.5 hours long? Well, it’s a long story so I’ll paraphrase. Day one was great. We swam, barbequed and played games with the kids. Life was good. Day two was less than great. In fact, it was down right miserable. The kids grew tired of the heat, the water, their raw little piggies and being in a strange house. They reacted to this discomfort by fighting and whining. After threatening them with severe consequences trying to resolve their obvious displeasure with the situation, we decided to cut the trip short and head home.

Family vacations are not for the faint of heart, nor the blessed of quivers. My mother in law called, this morning, to inquire about our early departure from their house. I explained the difficulties of our vacation, as she laughed in understanding. She then recounted the three times in forty five years, that her own large family took vacations. She was always pregnant. She always had a baby. They never had money. Taking thirteen kids on a road trip sounds down right hellish to me. I cannot imagine living that nightmare. I listened intently, as she described their trip to Oregon. The boys decided to play, “never leave your ribs open.” When that got boring, they switched to “never leave your jaw open.” She recalled how terribly long the journey in the van was. I’m sure she wished for ear plugs and a valium at times. My mother in law is a very patient and self sacrificing woman. Those trips must have been purely labors of love. One time, she even put off telling her husband that she was pregnant again, just so that he would enjoy the trip. Did I say she was patient and self sacrificing? I take that back, she’s a freakin’ saint.

I feel almost silly to complain to her, about my own stress and lack of patience to endure seven kids’ whining. Yet, she never makes me feel silly. She echoes my sentiments of wanting to give our kids great memories of family vacations, then ending up wanting to pull every last hair out of my head by the time we get back home. I know that she loves her children and enjoys motherhood, for the most part. It makes me fully appreciate her honesty about the fact that motherhood is not always roses and family vacations are far from perfect. She assures me that, someday, I will look back and laugh at our misadventures in the 15 passenger van. I asked her why and she she said that I’d start to forget some of the not so great stuff. “For now,” she advised, “plan a trip with just you and your husband and I’ll help watch the kids.” I asked her if she ever left the kids for a romantic weekend. “Yes,” she chuckled, “but that’s another story…”

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