Hot Takes Part I! Orlando 2018

"Und I am goink to seet in this leetle German seat," and so American Airlines flight attendant known to his charges only as “Hans” prepared himself for a smooth takeoff from Philadelphia İnternational Airport on a typically cloudy spring morning. How, you may wonder, did my path intersect with that of Hans, he in the last leg of his career and I...Going to join my soon-to-be ex-husband and our two children on our first post-separation family trip. WHOOOOOO! Spring break 2018.

Hans and I each eased into our respective seats, his indeed “leetle” but with ample leg room and mine considerably wider but incredibly cramped. I counted my shallow breaths to counteract my anxieties whilst Hans silently counted the days remaining until he could collect his generous pension. I found Hans’ demeanor towards me, when I asked him meekly for a Diet Coke, to be chilly. Perhaps his pension is not as robust as it once was.

Within five minutes of being embraced by my kids at the airport, my daughter Ayla breathlessly regaled me with a colorful story about a bachelorette party they had witnessed a few nights earlier in Tampa. "Mama, all the girls were carrying inflatable mini penises and the girl getting married had a bigger inflatable penis with a picture of her fiancé's face on it!" Ayla was quite happy to have witnessed this elegant party that was exiting an equally classy establishment known as Bleu Martini.

While trying to conceal inward horror, my fingers groped blindly at my exposed neck, reaching for an oversized pearl necklace. I was further horrified upon discovering that I do not actually own any pearls. "Oh, that's very interesting," I murmured, my stock reaction to morally questionable acts that my children gleefully recount as they assess my reaction.

I shot a sharp look at their father. My principal job during the first year of their precious lives was to keep them alive and to make fart noises on their tummies. After that, his was to shield them from inflatable genitalia. Me, 1; Tim, 0. Also, what the deuce is going on in Florida? If it is indeed the Happiest Place on Earth, why and how must it be so?

In Orlando, you compete with your fellow stressed-out travelers for the same inferior resources.

ME: (with kids bickering in backseat of rental car) Gosh, I’m so hungry. Let’s stop for lunch.

EX: (with hint of irritation) I’m trying here, but every place is packed!

ME: What about Smoochies (not a real restaurant, I hope)? There’s like a million of them, one has got to have seating…?

EX: (sighing) I guess so.  I could go for some deep-fried cat turds.

ME: How many carbs do they have, per serving?

EX: Fifteen grams, maybe. (abruptly turning steering wheel) I’m pulling into this one.

ME: (brightly) Oh that’s not so bad! And the kids can have the mini-turds from the children’s menu. They’ll eat anything fried.

EX: The lot is full.

ME: @#$%*&@$#!!!

A KID: Mama, you owe like, a million dollars to the Swear Jar.

There are simply too many people visiting Orlando during spring break. Too many people hoping to pretend to enjoy their (semi-dysfunctional) vacation with their children. Yet, embracing flexibility reaps few rewards. Back in Philadelphia, we would not even think of munching on deep-fried cat turds, but one must go with the proverbial flow when trying to convey domestic normalcy to one’s understandably anxious children.

I have previously documented my ex’s tendency to channel Robert Duvall’s character from The Great Santini. I get it: If you pay over $100 per person for the privilege of buying $50 Harry Potter “magic wands,” thou shalt not sit, rest, lean, or lie in repose for a single minute. Exhausted, I collapsed in a heap by the side of the “road” of whatever God-forsaken fake English town J.K. Rowling conjured up and Warner Brothers re-created.

Bored tweens had taken up most of the available floor space in Grimsby-on-the-Thames, but I claimed my corner to stretch my weary legs. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get up unassisted within a few minutes of my aging musculoskeletal system sinking into the ground, but no matter. I would savor the sweet, fleeting minutes it would take for the kids to decide between Americone Dream and The Tonight Dough at Ye Olde Ben and Jerry’s.

The daily death march continued as we trekked under the blazing Florida sun on heavy, flip-flop clad feet. At the end of each day, I humbly extended my empty dinner plate to our kind waitress for my second helping of deep-fried cat turds, my head bowed in grateful supplication. After she left our table, I snarled at Tim.

“Why can’t we have a shorter day? I’m not young anymore, I can’t keep up with this, my knees, my feet, you always do this!” And so on. His retort: This vacation is for the kids. A point well taken, with which I could not argue. I agreed to join them in Florida for what might be our last vacation as a semi-intact family for the kids. My happiness and comfort were immaterial. But boy was I exhausted.

By the end of the four-day trip, I realized that this would indeed be our last trip as a mom-dad-two kids family. In the future, their dad will whisk them away to exotic destinations where luxury and intrigue await, and for my vacation time with them, I will reserve a large suite at the Holiday Inn Express in downtown Philadelphia where we can consume large quantities of Doritos and Junior Mints out of a small cardboard box fashioned to resemble a pretend mini-bar.

I kid, I kid! Everything will be fine. For the remainder of this bittersweet journey, my spirits were buoyed by the antics of my intelligent, intense, delightful children. My hotel room became THE place to be. The king bed accommodated David and Ayla easily (almost 8 and 10, respectively). After one week of having their father’s undivided attention, it was mama time. Mama’s room also inexplicably had a 5-lb bag of M&Ms, several bags of open Cheetos, and other revolting comestibles.

One night after a quick dip in the hotel pool, I found myself supervising their after-swim showers. Why does the post-bathing period induce temporary mania in dogs and small children? We may never know. I bleated my familiar pleadings for calm as the two of them hopped around the tiny bathroom like fleas on meth. Then, a nude and still damp David wrapped his white towel around his head like a makeshift hijab as he loudly proclaimed to the entire sixth floor, “I’m a MUSLIM, I’m a SEXY LITTLE MUSLIM!!”