Don’t gasp, it’s not what you think. I did not have another
child. First of all, there’s no time to make another child. Second of all, there’s
no time to take care of another child. And third of all, seven in the city just
doesn’t have a good ring.
But we did take a good friend’s child with us on the plane
to Florida this year. We were simply his flying companions, responsible for transporting
him safely to his camp friend’s family in Miami, and then returning him safely
to New York. As if we didn’t get enough looks last year with our six, this
year, with an 11-year-old boy in our crew, you can imagine the flood of
questions. “Are these all yours?” everyone asked me at the check-in counter,
the gate, on the plane, anywhere we went. “No of course not,” I would say and
they would smile with relief. Then I’d say, “Only six are mine,” as if seven
would be crazy but six is totally normal. And they would nod in what appeared
to be a combination of shock and disbelief, clearly wondering if their seats
were near ours on the plane.
I am getting used to these looks now and in some ways I kind
of enjoy it. It gives me a new identity. I am “the one with the six kids.” Rob
and I went out for dinner one night in Miami—my inlaws took the older four to a
movie and we hired a babysitter to stay with the twins while they slept—and at
the restaurant an older man started staring at me. He got up from his table and
came over and said, “you look very familiar.” He did not look familiar to me,
and my husband looked a bit suspicious until he said, “wait a minute, you’re
the one from the plane. The one with all those kids.”
This trip was harder than last year. Yes, we did have our
special “oversized family” easy access through security. We were the ones that
as soon as they saw our herd approaching, they immediately opened an additional
line for us and for the wheelchair assisted senior travelers. And yes, our
double stroller was too big to collapse and fit on the security conveyor belt,
so I was permitted to simply walk it through—which is a parents’ dream when
traveling with young children, but that’s where the perks ended.
For starters, holding two 18-month-olds on your lap for a
flight is not as easy as you might think. As you know, they don’t exactly like
to just sit still at this age. We did a lot of walking up and down the aisles.
Unfortunately, though, on the flight home, due to stormy conditions they never turned
off the fasten seatbelt sign. That was fun. Luckily though we had ipads with
every known episode of Yo Gabba Gabba on it. But unluckily we had a stewardess
who declared that two babies cannot sit on laps within a row of three seats.
Obviously she never had twins and never knew anyone with twins. So Barry and
Eliana could not watch a show together, but instead we had to alternate and
give the ipad to whomever was screaming louder.
Which, unfortunately for those sitting near us, was often a very tough
call. But that’s the good thing about Florida. It’s close.
The other good thing about Florida is that medical care is
easily available. The twins were healthy for a full 24 hours and then Barry came
down with some pretty high fever, and a bad cold and cough. As all of us
parents know, there are two ways to address sick children. We can run to the
doctor immediately. Or we can ignore them and wait it out. I am normally
someone who goes to the doctor pretty quickly, since my children have a
tendency to get strep and so I always want to start the antibiotic asap—so I
can send them back to school asap. But in Florida I decided to give it a few
days. And yes, ignore it a little. I did that thing where I pretended maybe he
was just hot from the temperature in the room not from any ailment. Or that he
was teething (the oldest excuse in the book). Besides, Barry had a very wet cold
and cough, and so I figured, at the most it’s a virus. And since he was sick he
was very fatigued, taking long naps and waking up in the 7’s for the first time
in his life--which for us was a good thing.
By day five though I decided it was time to sober up from my
poolside “Ginger Mints,” (the hotel’s more alcoholic take on a mojito) and
Absolute Pear with an itzy bitzy splash of seltzer and come to terms with the
fact that I had a legitimately sick child who should probably be seen by a
doctor.
I texted one of my old Harvard friends—whom I was planning
on getting together with anyway, since we reconnected on what else?
Facebook--who is a practicing rheumatologist in Miami and asked her if she had
a pediatrician she recommended I try. She told me her next door neighbor is a
pediatric dermatologist and that she’d be happy to take a look at Barry. At her
house. During winter break. With her whole family home. On her own free time. No,
I certainly was not in New York.
Rob likes to tease me about the loser school I went to for
college—the Michigan of the East as he likes to call it, U of M being his alma
mater—but none of his Michigan friends seemed to be practicing medicine in the
area, while my old roommate Elana picked me and my twins up at our hotel at 7:30
am (after she was done making rounds) and drove me half an hour away for a
quick sick visit, then a drop off back at the hotel. “Don’t sweat it,” she said
as if gestures like these were the most normal in the world. “This is how we
roll here.”
It turned out Barry
had a double ear infection and some developing bronchitis. So much for my
maternal instincts. Eliana, the doctor said, whom I brought along for the ride
because she had woken up with fever that morning too—yes, shockingly, sharing
sippy cups apparently DOES transfer germs--looked a day or two behind him.
The hardest part of this trip though was not the physical
condition of my twins, but their emotional condition. Unfortunately, they got
very comfortable spending time with me. I
spent more one on two time with them that week than I probably have since they
were born, and so they have been a little clingy since we’ve been back. Who do
they think I am? They seem to have forgotten they’re numbers 5 and 6. It hasn’t
been so easy to leave them with our babysitter as it was before I left, but
don’t worry, I will set things straight. I plan to spend very little time with them in
the coming weeks.
Besides, as we did last year, Rob and I realized that the
only way to recover from a vacation with kids is a vacation without kids. We
immediately booked my parents to come in two weeks so we can escape for a long
weekend together without any minors. My older girls get a little offended when
they see how excited I am to go away. But I try to turn it around on them and
say something rhetorical like “I know you all need a break from me.” Or “it’s
so special to spend alone time with your grandparents.” Or my favorite, “You
guys are going to have so much fun without us, you won’t even want us to come
back.” Have any young children ever not wanted their parents to come back?
They’ll be ok, I know. I just need to recharge—sleep late,
read some adult literature, eat relaxing meals with someone whom I don’t have
to take to the bathroom. A few days of this is all I need.
Wisely, though, my parents just asked that before we leave
we show them our return ticket.