Chicken of the Sea

Spring break in Curacao and Aruba—turquoise water, white sand beaches… and a reminder that I’m half terrified of the ocean.

Eleven-year-old Huckle and nine-year-old Sally take after Husband:  they strap on their snorkel gear and are soon paddling along the farthest edges of the cove, only identifiable by an occasional flip of a flipper. When the snorkel excitement wears off, the three of them jump off a high cliff wall and plunge into the sea. 

I stand among the sharp bits of coral washed up on shore. I am the family lifeguard watching for signs of snorkel distress. I'm the family photographer capturing their free fall in “sports mode.”

They swim back to shore and eagerly tell tales of cuttlefish and parrotfish. We celebrate their brave escapades, then they hand me the dripping snorkel gear. It’s my turn for fun! So... I pick up my book and head for the shade.

It’s not that I dislike snorkeling. It’s an amazing experience to float over the reef like a nosy cloud and spy on a busy, colorful, surreal world beneath the waves. The corals and creatures have such  fantastical shapes and colors that they seem artificial. I almost expect to see aquarium tchotchkes wedged in the sand, maybe a plastic treasure chest with aerator bubbles opening and closing the lid. 

But after fifteen minutes of glorious snorkeling, the fear kicks up. I think about jellyfish and sharks and man-o-wars and dark crevices full of moray eels that pop out with their cave-blind eyes and gaping, snaggle-tooth mouths. I think about swimming out too far and growing too tired to reach shore. Or not remembering where shore is. I think about “the bends,” whatever that is.  I only know scuba divers fear it. So I do too.

And suddenly, snorkeling doesn’t seem like a relaxing pastime. It seems terrifying.

I don’t share my thoughts with Huckle and Sally—I’d hate to plant my fears in their imaginations. I’d rather their fearlessness rub off on me. But it doesn’t. 

Sometimes I wish I were That Kind of Mom:  Adventure Mom! Exciting Mom! Brave Mom! Mom who dives off cliffs into the sea and skis the black diamond trails and wants to try sky diving! Or even just the kind of mom who doesn't come racing in from snorkeling because she's imagining moray eels chomping at her heels.

But I’m not that kind of mom. And I keep reminding myself what kind of mom I am. 

Sally's big leap!

First of all, I'm Encouraging Mom! Every kid could use a parent on the sidelines cheering. They’ve got Husband to lead their adventures and me to admire them. I saw Sally glow with pride when I complimented her for overcoming her fear of heights on that sea cliff. It's an important job, giving my kids encouragement and security to help them reach new heights.

Second, I'm a certain type of Adventure Mom. A subset but doesn't include jumping off cliffs.
See, every parent has their own set of interests worth passing on to their children. Not every parent loves extreme sports or group sports or crafts or board games or art museums or music or baking. You don’t have to do it all —just find your thing and share it with your kids (unless it’s illegal; then consider finding a new passion. Like macrame. Or nail art.). That makes it a joy for you and for your kids. 

I don’t like tossing a football or swimming in the ocean or playing those strategy board games that go on for hours—so these activities take a lot of effort on my part. But the activities I love are effortless to share.

I love trying new foods. I’ll eat just about anything (except caraway seeds; and I hate the chewy texture of squid), and I’m the only person in the family who eats canned tuna—I EAT chicken of the sea. I’m Courageous Eating Mom! I take my kids on eating adventures!

I also love living creatures. I’m not freaked out by most rodents or snakes or insects or other animals (well, except sea creatures; and those millipedes with hairy legs). I’m Pet Adventure Mom! I carry pet mice in my pockets while the cage gets cleaned! I approve the raising of tadpoles and the bringing home and displaying shed snake skins!

As for playing with Huckle and Sally, I don’t need to feel guilty about not tossing around the football—we love to toss around words! Palindromes! Puns! Onomatopoeia! We share books, critique books, write books. I always have time to hear Huckle’s and Sally’s elaborate stories, even the ones that make no sense or go on and on and on. And on.

We plunge into the deep parts of Tuck Everlasting or Tom Sawyer or The Complete Sherlock Holmes and snorkel through the text, pointing out the exotic words, the most colorful ones, the most interesting ones. We resurface miles away and laugh fearlessly. It’s effortless because I love it. And they love it right alongside me.

My contributions might not be thrilling to Risk-Taking Huckle and Not-To-Be-Outdone Sally. But I hope someday they’ll appreciate Mom who stood on the ocean shore and cheered them on as they jumped off cliffs. And who was brave and adventurous in her own quiet ways.

Vacation Destinations, Part 1

We've taken Huckle and Sally on some incredible trips in recent years. On many of these trips, our family stayed in fancy hotels, thanks to the "frequent stay" points Husband amasses on business trips. In fact, Husband patronizes a certain chain of hotels so frequently that the staff at any outpost makes a point of greeting him by name and dispatching a special Guest Services employee to guide us to our suite. By nightfall, they've lavished us with wine and chocolate-covered strawberries. Another knock at the door, and they're handing in milk and warm cookies for the kids.

It's a bit overwhelming for a non-fancy person like me. I catch a glimpse of my style-free hair in the hotel mirror or see Sally's orange-shirt-with-pink-sweatpants combo and wonder if the staff is a tad disappointed in us. Maybe they expect more glitz and glamor from their "special" guests.

View from our balcony. Oh my!

Sally and Huckle don't notice. They've caught a glimpse of the pool or beach from our balcony, and soon they're tearing through our luggage in search of swimsuits and snorkel gear. They speedwalk through the gold-toned lobby in their flip-flops, unfazed by the crystal chandeliers and attentive staff nodding indulgently. I trail behind, goggling at the opulence and wishing I had thought to pack lipstick. 

I don't take these vacations for granted. I grew up in a large family for which every trip was a camping trip, often cross-country and always accompanied by a streak of unseasonably wet weather. My dad was the driving force behind these trips, driving us out West with few plans or expectations beyond week after week surrounded by his beloved Great Outdoors. Mom was the long-suffering one. We only stayed in motels when she reached her breaking point, which corresponded with everything we owned -- tent, sleeping bags, clothing, skin -- being damp and starting to smell of mildew from day after day of rain. Our tiny room in some cheap roadside motel would be draped with tents and sleeping bags and take on "that smell" as our belongings dried. We kids were excited but not about dry clothes and hot showers. We were excited because motels meant dinner couldn't be cooked over the Coleman stove. And THAT meant the pinnacle of vacation splurges:  McDonald's for dinner!

Sometimes I think about how different my children's concept of vacation is from my childhood experience. I wonder if, when they're on their own as young adults, no accommodations within their means will match their high expectations for hot tubs on hotel balconies and pools with water slides and hidden grottoes.

But then I remind myself that our vacations are more than fancy beach hotels. We still camp at least once each summer, thanks to Husband and I both feeling nostalgic about our childhood trips. Huckle and Sally love playing with fire ("building campfires") and stuffing themselves with s'mores ("cooking"). They spend their days exploring a stream behind our campsite or scrambling up gigantic boulders. These are happy times with happy (and dirty) kids.

Huckle on a recent camping trip

I also remind myself that Huckle and Sally aren't impressed by opulence of our fancy destination hotels any more than I as a girl was cowed by the another dark cloud rolling over our damp tent. For kids, it's often the little things that make a trip memorable.

What do I remember most of childhood camping trips? Fitting a family of seven in our canoe (two of us were towed behind on inflatable rafts); falling asleep to the gurgle of a stream outside our tent; the enormous banana slugs in Olympic National Park; Dad betting us one dollar we couldn't dunk underwater in Lake Superior; campfire stories and Jiffy Pop popcorn; and of course McDonald's. I don't recall feeling damp or dirty. (Car sick, yes; dirty, no)

Sally in Ephesus

Last year, we spent a week in late November exploring Istanbul and its surroundings. (Yes, Turkey for Thanksgiving. It's too splendid a pun to let pass without comment.) This was one of Sally's all-time favorite vacations. Why? Not because she finally got to see the Hagia Sophia and the ruins of Ephesus. Those were Husband's and my dream-come-true destinations. Sally loved Istanbul, because it's crawling with friendly stray cats who are fed and petted by the locals. While Husband and I strained our necks looking up at the elaborate domes and mosaics of the mosques, Sally was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking down with adoring eyes at the kitten purring on her lap.

This fall, we took a trip-of-a-lifetime to Africa. Our itinerary included a safari in Tanzania (that ruined us for zoos for the rest of our lives) and camel rides beside the pyramids in Egypt (that ruined us for antiquity museums in the U.S.). It was truly incredible.

Before we had recovered from jet lag, Husband asks over dinner, "Where shall we go next?"

He and I laugh. After all, we just returned from the Mother of All Vacations. Nothing could top it, so why even bother trying?

Huckle looks up from his plate. "I know! We should go camping!"

"Yeah!" says Sally. "We haven't been camping in ages. Can we go soon? Pleeeeease?"

I think they're going to be okay.