What I Learned On My Summer Vacation

Note: I spent entirely too long writing this, and while I am ashamed that it's not nearly as interesting as what else has been going on here, I'll feel like a total loser if I don't post it.

It's been a while, hasn't it? Not as long as the hiatus from my first blog – which I've never resumed – but, what, three months, four? Jesus, I don't even want to look to find out; it's too discouraging.

The details of the dramas happening in the Allen household are numerous and probably interesting only to myself and my immediate family, so I'll skip over that shit in favor of talking about What I Did On My Summer Vacation.

Seriously. Really, it's important. To me, anyway.

This year we took our first full week-long family vacation to Sunset Beach, North Carolina, where my husband grew up and where we got married. We shared a really sweet condo with his sister, her husband, and her two girls, 5 and 4, and discovered early on that the small pond behind our place was inhabited with at least three baby alligators and enough turtles that those fuckers started to creep me out after a while. The alligators didn't – at least not until I saw how fast those bastards could swim – but those turtles were just spine-chilling.

We got busted the first night there for the girls' dress-up shoes stomping across the ceiling of the woman downstairs. The men grumbled, but I thought she was actually pretty nice about it, all things considered. And having the girls relinquish the shoes on the tile for the rest of the week wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

We went to the pool, where Aeryn finally got over most of her nervousness about water. We went to the beach and splashed in bathwater waves. One afternoon when the tide was going out, I dove into a good-sized wave, tumbled around a bit, then surfaced to find myself surrounded by millions of tiny bubbles on the surface of the receding water. They tickled my legs as they disappeared back into the ocean. It felt like I was in the biggest bubble bath ever. With fish.

We – the adults, that is – went out a couple of times. The second night we went to a reunion of sorts at a local bar that was thankfully within walking distance of the condo. There was beer involved. A lot of beer.

I texted Brian's dad Skipper, who was watching the girls (sort of), to see how everyone was doing. His reply: “Sold 1. Fed 1 to gator. Other real quiet.” My favorite Skipper moment ever.

An old friend showed up with a fat joint, and after that I only remember a lot of giggling and a drunken shamble through the golf course to get home. Brian and Jimmy took the lead because Christie and I were incapable of self-navigation at that point. Jimmy pointed out that the fastest way back to the condo was over a ditch and through a small copse of trees.

Brian lost a perfectly good pair of Speedo flip-flops when he found out the ditch was wider than it looked. And I don't think we've yet gotten the mud out of that shirt. Somehow, we made it back with no further incident, although I was told the next day that what I thought was giggling was, to everyone else, raucous cackling. Go figure.

After about a day, I began to understand that only one person was going to make sure I had a good vacation, and that was me. No one else was going to say, “Hey, Andi, why doncha run off and go to the beach for a while?” or “That king-sized bed in there is just screaming to be napped on.”

One crucial point: Allens are notorious for their refusal to plan anything. “Why bother?” Brian says. “Shit's just gonna change anyway.” My argument is that whether or not it changes, I feel more comfortable with a plan, even knowing it's going to change, especially when you're working with three Allens, three girls under seven, a Yankee, and a bipolar.

So I started making my own plans, although I was happy to adjust them as long as I eventually did what I wanted to do. It sort of worked.

And twice, I took what is, for me, a radical step – I said no. Both of which involved social situations where I was going to be stuck with heavy smokers in environments saturated with old cigarette smoke and rotten beer. The first time, it took all of five seconds for me to walk in, look at Brian, and say, “Sorry, sweetie. Love ya. See you later, call me if you need a ride.” And that was that.

It was slightly harder to escape the second time, because it was a larger family gathering at Skipper's place. There was a lot more second-hand and third-hand smoke involved, and I couldn't get away from it, even outside.

Brian checked in with me at one point and, after a brief exchange, said, “You've made an appearance. You're good. Leave the car seat and go on back to the condo.” I must have looked desperate at that point, because he hugged me, and said, “It's OK. Just go.” Between the two of us we managed to blame the heat, humidity, and a fried oyster I'd eaten earlier in the day. Fuck if it mattered; I was outta there.

I went back to the condo as ordered and took a long, hot shower to get the sweat and smoke off, then snuggled into my new Eeyore sleep shirt, put on a mindless DVD, then settled on the couch to enjoy the peace and quiet. Three hours of peace and quiet. Fucking sublime.

The next to last day, it poured buckets. Brian and I found a place about a half an hour away with indoor black light putt-putt, an arcade, and a bar for the parents to escape to occasionally. The families split up on the ride home, and Aeryn, Brian and I got to the condo before Christie and her people. For a few minutes, it was just us.

The rain had stopped, and the temperature had dropped to about 90. I told Brian and Aeryn I was going to the beach one last time, and I asked Aeryn if she wanted to come with me. I fully expected her to say no – but she didn't. She got her stuff together and we trundled over the dilapidated bridge to Sunset Beach, where we watched pelicans feed, made sand... somethings, looked for shells, and let the waves toss us around a bit. She said, “Mom, I am SO glad I came with you! This is the best day ever!”

Yeah. I know – she's six-soon-to-be-seven, and it's often the best day ever for her, but it meant a lot to hear her say it, especially when it was just her and me, on a beach at sunset.

We drove the little blue crock pot back to the mountains, and things got batfuck crazy in the space of twelve short hours.

I lived through Friday – which is about all I can say for it – and when Saturday rolled around, I realized that I had not forgotten the most important thing I'd learned on my summer vacation, which was, essentially, how to go on a vacation. It's pretty simple, really. Figure out what you want to do – not what you have to do, or what you feel like you ought to do – figure out what you want to do, and do it in such a way that you don't neglect your fellow vacationers too much.

So Saturday we got back from wherever we'd gone that morning and I said, “OK, I'll take you to the skating rink. But first I'm taking a nap.” And I did. Eventually I got up and took her, as promised.

Sunday we came home from the most perfect breakfast ever – a huge Greek omelet with sinful cinnamon toast made from the restaurant's homemade sourdough bread and good strong coffee – and I was really, seriously sleepy. Odd, because I'd had enough coffee to give a bear the jitters. I decided I wanted to curl up in the recliner (aka the Mama chair) with my book and a soft throw blanket, and if I felt like going to sleep, I would. So I did. Eventually I got up and took Aeryn to the pool, as promised.

At the beach, I kept thinking, this is the only week of vacation I have taken since I can remember. I have no idea when I'll be able to do this again. So I would not waste one second doing something I sincerely did not want to do.

It worked pretty well, all things considered – as far as I know. And I'm certainly happier and much more patient with la famille when I don't feel cheated out of vacation time. Which shouldn't be restricted to vacation.

I think that's What I Learned On My Summer Vacation.

Oh, and also that ditches are usually bigger than they look in the dark, and that alligators don't like white bread because it gets stuck to the roof of the reptilian mouth.