Family Vacation
Spring break rolled around and I thought it would be nice to take my 14-year old daughter on a short vacation, something we’d never done. We’ve traveled together to NYC, London, Los Angeles and Ohio, but those have all been music-related trips, as she frequently makes a point of telling me. It was either go somewhere, just for fun, or spend a week dispensing Cokes and quesadillas as she watched her entire collection of Simpsons tapes. I planned a few nights in Grayton Beach, Florida, feeling optimistic and full of motherly goodwill.
The car journey south was enjoyable as we sang along to “Chicago,” laughed and marveled at “The Joys Of Yiddish” on tape and made carefree conversation. She was excited at her first glimpse of the Florida landscape, even if it was from a Burger King parking lot, and practically went nuts with enthusiasm as we rode bikes to the beach at dusk.
The euphoria quickly subsided as we ate Freedom Fries in a beachside restaurant and watched Bush announce that the US was attacking Iraq. She complained about the preppiness of our fellow diners and hated how I barked at her to get back from the highway as we returned to the bed & breakfast after dark. In the room, she made a big point of telling me that she found the retro Florida furnishings annoyingly cutesy. Would she have preferred the bland anonymity of, say, a Motel 6? I asked. The answer was a resounding “Yes!”
The next morning we had a nice time on the beach and in the water; even though she refused to let me read a magazine, insisting that I join her constantly in the ominously brown-foamed surf. As we rode our bikes to the next town for lunch, irritation began to set in and soon blossomed into full-blown pouting when it became apparent she was the only 14-year old at the beach with her mother. “What were we thinking?” we asked each other repeatedly. “It seemed like a good idea! Why didn’t we think this thing through?” We retreated to our room with the realization that we now had moderate to heavy sunburns. These were newfangled, SPF-related burns that are somehow scarier than the old-fashioned overall burn. Here, pasty sections of “protected” flesh alternate with carelessly neglected purplish-red areas, often accentuated by contrasting finger marks. Not surprisingly, I was held responsible for her suffering.
She lay on the bed to take a nap and I went out for a walk, silently eulogizing the end of an innocent era of mother/daughter togetherness. I’d thought we would always be buddies & pals, but how could I ignore her constant criticisms and the longing glances she’d cast in the direction of marauding groups of teenagers? I told myself this was the way things were supposed to go.
When I returned to the room, she was missing. I panicked for a minute, then saw a note she’d left for me: “WENT TO RIDE BIKE.” Instead of being happy at her independence and initiative, I pictured her careening crazily along a busy street, falling off the bicycle and into the path of an SUV with Alabama plates. I jumped on my bike and rode up and down the sandy streets looking for her. A small cluster of people on one corner increased my paranoia – it was apparent they were standing in the wake of a recently departed ambulance that was now carrying my injured daughter to a backwater infirmary. I turned around to see her walking confidently along the beach, oblivious. In my imagination I was already at her funeral, where a preacher intoned about a young life cut short in its prime and the selfish behavior of a well-meaning but clueless mother.
I couldn’t convince her to accompany me to another restaurant that night for dinner, and went out by myself. As a frequent solo traveler I have no problem eating alone but there are some places it’s just not a good idea: any family restaurant on Mother’s Day, any nice restaurant on Valentine’s Day, and any beach restaurant ever. I got my seafood to go and brought it back to the room in time for the American Idol finals. As I sat down to eat, Hazel remarked that the room now smelled “fishy,” and it was only my respect for vintage Fiestaware that kept me from flinging the plate across the room.
The next morning she really did have an accident, and came limping back with a kneeful of gravel and tear-streaked face. Her injury was relatively minor, but the thought of her unable to do anything but limp around sunburned, bandaged and complaining prompted me to cut our trip short. We went home, where I spent the rest of the week melting cheese and opening Cokes while she watched all 13 seasons of The Simpsons. Of course, she kept reminding me that she was likely to be scarred for life because I’d waited too long to take her to the doctor for stitches. In turn, I occasionally had visions of how tragic yet chic I might look in a black veil, but I swear I put them out of my mind.
