Leave Your Children on an Island (Part One)

On taking a brief vacation from oneself

A few weeks ago, for the first time since our second child was born, my husband and I went away together. We got on a ferry and left the kids with my parents on the small island where they live. The night before we left, these were some things I said:

We cannot do this.

What if something goes wrong and the ferries aren’t running and we can’t get to them.

We are going to be across a body of water from our children. This is against nature.

It’s going to be physically impossible for me to relax.

I have an idea: You go! I’ll catch up to you if the vibe is right!

He’s still breastfeeding every morning so this is essentially a mastitis vacation for me.

My parents can’t negotiate at bedtime. The Goof will be awake all night.

So it’s settled: I’ll not go and you’ll go.

That morning, my mom got a minor injury and, as is custom in our family, was rushed to the medical center by my hysterical father.

“Thank you,” I said to my dad when he called screaming from the car. “This is great news.”

Unfortunately, she was completely fine and sent home more determined than ever to “be there” for her grandchildren.

“But your foot!” I pleaded. “It’s gravely injured!”

“It turns out there’s nothing wrong.”

“But shouldn’t you go to the mainland for an X-Ray?”

“Nope. They did an X-Ray here. There are so many hypochondriac Jews on the island they got an X-Ray machine for the medical center! All’s fine.”

“Damnit. But doesn’t it hurt?!”

"Not really. They gave me something.”

“AH!” I’d won. “They gave you painkillers and I’m supposed to leave you with my CHILDREN!? I’m supposed to hand over my BABY to a woman strung out on HEROIN?!”

“Bess they gave me Tylenol and your father does all the lifting with The Goof anyway. Plus there’s the nanny.”

At this point she reminded me that the lovely, responsible, professional young woman I hired a year ago to take care of my children so I could write was, indeed, here taking care of my children so we could go on this trip.

I was fucked.

The reason we were going was my husband got free tickets to a nearby music festival through his job as a music journalist, and My Favorite Singer of All Time was headlining the second day. She is my Favorite Singer of All Time in that when I listened to her first album at fifteen, it articulated my angst and, as I announced to my high school boyfriend on the back of a mix CD later returned to me, “She narrates the most poignant truths of my soul.” Every album she’s released since has done the same thing and she remains the soundtrack to whatever mood I’m surfing through. I love her voice, I love her wit, I love her melodies, and I love her whole vibe. A few years ago, she posted the cover book she “read in a day” to Instagram and called it “so good.” It was my book. I sadly died.

At the festival, she would be playing songs from throughout her career and I would get to stand there in some sort of VIP Press area and watch her and levitate. I was not going to let an aging mother with a stubbed toe and a breastfeeding baby (He’s eighteen months old! Enough already!) get in the way. Plus, I had used a truly humiliating, honeymoon-level amount of travel points to book us a hotel room.

We got on the ferry. I was silent the entire time staring at the horizon like a sailor’s wife searching for his ship’s safe return. I do not recall the trip to the hotel because my organs were shutting down one by one from sheer panic. Then my husband said something that changed the trajectories of our lives. He said it in a voice like a dog owner trying to perk up his dog’s ears using key words:

“Maybe when we get to the hotel we can order a big room service lunch and eat on the balcony so we’re full in case the VIP Tent doesn’t have enough food?”

“Okay,” I shrugged. I was on fucking vacation.

PART TWO: