Gimme a Break

My daughters returned to school after spring break, a six school day break from them, ten long, grueling days of intense family overload for me. Not that I don’t like my family; I like them just fine. But after a full week, sandwiched with two weekends, followed by an additional Monday, and since when is the Monday after Easter a holiday, I had enough. I was full of them. Thanksgiving full. And you know what a miserable feeling that is. No doubt, their first day back at school involved writing in their journals about what they did for their week off from school. Well, if they get to tell their side of the story, why not me, I ask you?

Let’s start with what I didn’t do. Relax? Nope. Rest? Seriously? De-stress? Are you for real? It’s been so many years since R and R was part of a vacation, I don’t even know how to do it. Besides, my family has certain expectations from our trips, and resting is not one of them. Instead, I spend my time away from the chores of home as Julie McCoy from the Love Boat, only without the crisp white nautical uniform and smartly stacked page-boy haircut. All entertainment, accommodations, and meals fall under my responsibilities, in addition to the packing and car ride entertainment planning. And don’t forget the post vacation responsibilities, the unpacking and laundry, laundry, and more laundry. Don’t think for a second that I relax when I get back home.

We originally planned to go to Washington, DC for spring break, but after researching hotel rates up there for the first week of cherry blossom season, I concluded that it was more cost-effective to either book a week of private rooms at a hospital or stay in-state. So that’s what we chose to do. My daughters are always happy to go to Charleston for a few days, and Myrtle Beach is a standard thanks to my in-laws’ beachfront condo, but I wanted to explore something different.

We decided to go for a couple of nights to Hilton Head. My husband has not been there since he was a lad, and the rest of us have never been, so I naively thought it would be fun to try something new. Clearly, I forgot with whom I was traveling. We are not spontaneous, go with the flow types. I generally do lots of planning and research about our destinations to take away some of the fear of the unknown, but frankly, I just didn’t have the energy for it this time. So we had to wing it.

We started off the week with a boring drive down to Hilton Head Island, the southernmost touristy spot in South Carolina. We had a two night stay planned in a time share (thanks, R family!), but we didn’t really spend much, or any, time in figuring out what to do while there. It’s early spring, so it’s not really beach weather yet, and none of us plays golf or tennis. My kids are still scared of their bikes, so we couldn’t even ride the many miles of bike trails. That left shopping at overpriced boutique island tourist traps, or eating. Some people might think, what about relaxing and doing nothing? Nothing with my family is the same as bickering and over-snacking. We do much better with scheduled activities.

We began our two night stay by exploring Harbortown at Sea Pines. There is a cute little playground there and a small lighthouse to explore, as well as many shops selling crap for too much money. We looked around the shops and played on the swings for a while before deciding on the lighthouse, which I had heard from a few friends was kind of fun for kids. I don’t know what their kids like to do for fun, but clearly they don’t enjoy the same kinds of things as my kids. E, my older daughter, brought her fear of heights with her, while S, my younger daughter, took one look at all the steps and pulled out her laziness. Each floor of the lighthouse had displays of historical, geographical, or ecological interest on it, which were all immediately classified by both children as boring.

We got to the top of the lighthouse, walked outside on the windy lookout, enjoyed the view, and then ducked back inside so that the two of them could race down the steps. “Well,” I said to my husband when we caught up with them at the bottom of the lighthouse, “that was a half an hour and twenty bucks wasted. Now what?”

Next came the great dinner debate. That’s when you name at least five restaurants where you have never been and then have your family reject them all because they don’t know where they are, if they will like them, or if the kid’s menu is adequate. For kids who pretty much eat pizza, macaroni and cheese, or chicken nuggets everywhere they go, you would think they would always be satisfied with a kid’s menu. Not so. They are picky about their pickiness, and I accommodate it because they would be even more unpleasant if they were disgruntled. We found decent seafood with decent kid’s spaghetti and called it a night.

The next day we went to the forest preserve to see an ancient Indian shell mound. A shell mound is one of those things that sounds fascinating, but in reality is boring as crap. An Indian shell mound is the ancient equivalent of a dump, and after a few thousand years, the mounds just turn to, well, mounds. Dirt mounds, with the occasional oyster shell poking out. No broken pottery, no arrowheads, no papoose boards or tepees, and absolutely no dioramas. After an hour of walking into the woods, during which we were traumatized by the occasional flying/stinging insect and enthralled by some deer tracks and an unidentifiable pile of scat, we approached the clearing where the shell mounds were. In the clearing was a pile of humps, in a circular pattern, about the size of a large gazebo or above ground pool. There were a few markers with information on them around the circle that you could read for more information.

“That’s it?” S said, incredulously.

“Well, what did you think it would be?” said my husband. “Indians haven’t lived here for a few hundred years.”

“But this is boring!” she complained.

After we stomped all around on the mounds for a few minutes, which I am sure is against federal law, we trudged back to where we parked the car and drove to the Salty Dog Café.

I am not usually one to go for the tourist traps, but even the kids knew that EVERYONE goes to the Salty Dog at Hilton Head. It’s one of those places that everyone buys a t-shirt from and wears it like it’s a secret club or something, like the Hard Rock Café in the 80’s or the Masons. We did everything a good tourist is supposed to do. We bought t-shirts. We poked around in all the gift shops. We ate lousy food off of paper plates and paid too much for it. Even the eight year old was underwhelmed, and all she had was a stupid grilled cheese sandwich. The t-shirts ought to read “I survived the Salty Dog, and all I got was indigestion and this lousy t-shirt.”

After the long winter, the girls were dying to go swimming, and since the pool at the condo building was heated, my husband and I agreed. At the condo, we all used the bathroom, changed into our swimsuits, and wrapped up in our complimentary towels before walking over to the pool. The minute we got there, it began to sprinkle. The girls hopped into the pool anyway. My husband and I huddled under a big umbrella on lounge chairs, like all the other moms and dads, watching the pool full of kids. Not a single adult was in that crab pot of children splashing around. It rained harder and harder still, the air growing chillier with every raindrop. The girls were oblivious to the drop in temperature or the heavy rain, as were the rest of the children, until a loud thunder clap cleared the pool.

We killed the rest of the afternoon back at the condo, bickering and watching television, things we definitely could have done if we stayed at home. After a repeat performance of the great dinner debate, and a pretty tasty meal with a substandard kids menu, we drove back through the rain to our condo and went to sleep.

And the next day we drove to Charleston, where we have been many times, we love, and we feel much more comfortable with. Because we know what to expect, what to do, and where to eat.

While walking around the market, I said to my husband, “There is no way we can ever go to Europe.”

“Why not?” he asked me, sounding surprised.

“Because we can’t even handle two days in Hilton Head, and that is almost speaking the same language,” I answered. “We don’t even understand the metric system. How are we going to figure out money or how to order find the bathroom? We won’t be able to even order macaroni and cheese.”

“Cheese is fromage in French, Mommy,” S said helpfully.

“Great, at least you will be able to eat,” I replied.

So that was what I did on my spring break. As the Jews say, next year in Jerusalem. Or, more likely, Charleston.