Next Time I’ll Go To Kokomo…ALONE

When my son was 14 months old I was forced to take him on a torturous family vacation in Aruba. There are so many things I could tell you about the trip. Starting with my shock and horror when I found out that my son did not have a seat on the plane. Even though the plane tickets were our Christmas/birthday gifts for the year.

I had to hold a squirming, screaming toddler on my lap during the entire 7 hour flight to Aruba. My husband is 6 ft 4 and the lady sitting next to us (in the aisle seat) weighed about 400 lbs. And I’m claustrophobic. Anypanic, when we arrived in Aruba my FIL’s wife (We must never, never call her step-mother.) insisted that our rental vehicle should be a compact car. Because everyone knows that car seats don’t take up much room in the back seat of a Geo Metro.

Checking in to the condo, the FIL’s wife was most disgruntled to discover that the room with twin beds was too small for the circa 1972 rickety wooden crib that was provided for us. So we got the bigger room with the ocean view. She and the FIL were stuck with twin beds facing the corridor. I’ve blocked most of this out due to trauma but there was whispering about nymphomania and some heavy petting over the clothes. (From the in-laws NOT me.)

Nevertheless, they pushed their beds together and put on brave faces to soldier through the vacay. You would think that the worst thing about the trip would have been the fact that my boobs popped out of my swimsuit and right in my FIL’s face. You would be wrong.

Note to all mothers of young children: Your spawn will not cease climbing you like monkeys on a banana hunt just because you are on vacation. If you’re going to the beach get a suit with strong straps. My husband, The Blog Fodder That Keeps On Giving, provided the biggest FAIL this time. In an effort to smooth over my resentment at being treated like a maid, the in-laws offered to watch the baby one night while Hubs and I went to dinner. Mind you we were not allowed to leave until he had been fed, bathed, and put to sleep. However, time away from bossy nymphomaniacs is precious so we took the deal.

After an uneventful dinner, The TO decided he wanted to check out a casino. Now I had already lost him for 13 hours during a prior trip to Vegas so I was hesitant to say the least. One game of Blackjack quickly turned into 2 hours and I didn’t have a book in my purse was bored. Like an idiot, I left him there and went back to the condo. The TO stumbled in at 4 am drunker than I’ve ever seen him. (He’s German and I knew him in college so that’s saying something.)

It wasn’t the puking all over the bed or the explosive diarrhea that angered me off the most. It wasn’t the fact that I literally had to force Hubs in the shower as he was wallowing in his own excrement and vomit on MY BED. Nor was it the fact that I had to get in there with him (and the hazardous waste) in order to scrub him, his clothes, and the shower as he was unable to follow simple commands or stand unassisted.