Au Revoir Les Enfants

My husband and I just got back from a 5-day vacation without our kids.  This was not the first time we left them. Otherwise we’d be dead by now. We try to do it as often as we can. Or as often as any couple with six kids can try to find a few free days to just slip away—no major work conflicts, no important school or extracurricular events we would miss, and of course the availability of grandparents to come and see what our insane life is really like.

The stars didn’t line up perfectly this time. Work was hectic for my husband. We missed our daughter’s ice skating performance. I know, bad, but it was only 45 seconds, and my mother videoed it, and I’d spent almost every Wednesday this year taking her to Wolman Rink which as every New Yorker knows is the worst, since no form of transportation can actually bring you anywhere near the entrance. I know, excuses, excuses. Our neglected Caroline was so nice about it too, but I’m no fool, she has my genes, grudges last, and the next time she gets angry at us we are sure to hear “and you didn’t even come to my ice skating show. You never would have missed something like that for Gabby.” I’ll be ready with the appropriate don’t be mad at me gift.

The babysitting situation wasn’t perfect either. We are blessed with two sets of parents willing and able to relieve us once or twice a year—and we do not take that for granted. And they don’t take it for granted that we will leave them in the hands of several wonderful round the clock babysitters to help them. But my father was away for a few days for a friend’s birthday trip. He threatened to cancel his trip if we canceled ours, and my mother was adamant that he really didn’t help her so much anyway—sorry dad—and that we should still go. So we did.

I remember the first time we left just one child. Gabby, my oldest, was eight months old and we had a friend’s wedding in a midtown hotel. We gave Gabby to my inlaws for the weekend and stayed in the hotel to turn the wedding into a pseudo minication. The weekend went by so slowly, I was literally counting the minutes until I would see my precious little Gabby again. I will never forget that Sunday morning waiting for her to be returned her to us. The excitement I felt, my heart pounding, we were literally standing on the street waiting for the car to pull up so we could grab her out of the car seat and squeeze her into our arms.

Oh how the times have changed. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when. But at some point I went from taking a sedative on the plane to ease my separation anxiety and needing to call home to check on the kids several times a day, to someone who now spends the time away praying for a major snowstorm to hit NYC the day before my return (it actually happened to us once, and it was amazing), and downing a few bloody mary’s on the way home to ease my togetherness anxiety. On this latest trip, I also found myself hoping that my older girls’ phones might somehow fall into a toilet and the iphone 7 would sadly not be available anywhere for another week.  I know, a little sick, but the fact is there was no need for me to call home, home called me, and texted me multiple times a day with what didn’t quite feel like time sensitive material.

“Mom, I’m tired.”

“My eyes hurt”

“Can we discuss my birthday?”

“Do I have to go to dance today?”

“I’m going to fail math.”

“I think I have a cold”

 “The test was fine”

“Can I leave school early today?”

“I’m in the mood for a juice generation smoothie.”

Going away used to mean a break from diapers and bath time and tantrums and early wakeups. It’s different now as my kids get older.  

But then there are the twins. I’m still not sure whether our son Barry even noticed we were away. Is this how men become so clueless? He was too busy on his sister’s iPad. seeing himself as part superhero television critic part AV guy, alternating Justice League viewings with constant charging of his handheld. He was measuring battery life, not our days of absence, as opposed to his twin sister Eliana who was monitoring our every move by the minute. She took control of my mother’s phone constantly asking how much longer we’d be away, where we were, what we were doing, and most importantly how many presents had we bought for her so far.

The only thing worse than the presents we have to bring back when we are away, are the presents we must send to sleep away camp when they are away. Normally my husband and I argue over the coming home gifts. He might indulge on where we are staying, and what kind of wine we are drinking, but the idea of purchasing our kids something from the hotel gift shop gives him heart trouble. He also does not want to spend any of our vacation time shopping for gifts. He is constantly telling me to wait, we’ll find something in the airport. I’ve listened to him in the past, each year finding ourselves scrambling around some airport choosing between shot glasses, coffee mugs, baseball hats and t-shirts that say “Ya’ Man” or “we be jammin.” or “grouper therapy.” Needless to say, these were never big hits.

This year, we decided to kick it up a notch. We went to St. Barths and the older girls had requested “Free in St. Barths” apparel, which, as we discovered, are anything but free. We even splurged on some cute bikinis and coverups for Eliana and a fancy French bathing suit for Barry, a matching one for him and his dad. All the Schwartz girls were thrilled. We made sure to bring home every hotel giveaway for Eliana since she was literally counting her gifts—she was puzzled by the sewing kit and shower cap, but we told her it was just for her. Unfortunately, four-year-old Barry took a look at his skimpy French bathing suit—which as a well-fed Jewish boy we had to size up to a 10—and threw it on the ground screaming his present is “so bad.” We scrambled to come up with something quick and told him we also got him something extra special, handing him our unopened Pop Corners they had given out on our Jet blue flight. He was elated, starting jumping up and down screaming “Wahoo” and ran back to his iPad. He was happy.

As for the rest of the gang, by the end of the night, I think we got tears from nearly every adolescent daughter—no, not tears of joy. Tears of payback. Tears that say, you went away, and now we’re all going to unload every bit of stress we’ve accumulated over these days without you and spare you none of it.  We are going to catch you up on all the dramas, meltdowns and irrational arguments you missed so that by the end of the night the peaceful sound of the waves, the taste of the rose wine, those double digit hours of sleep, and those beautiful novels you read will be a very distant memory.

As they say, there’s no place like home.