Trepidation Vacation

I don’t know why, but I am not a good traveler. It helps when my trips come up suddenly–doesn’t give me much time to freak out. 

For the past year my parents, who live in Virginia, have been in and out of doctor’s offices quite a bit. There is nothing seriously wrong with them, just lots of niggling ailments that need attention. Physically, mentally and emotionally it has been a difficult year. 

“It’s tough getting old,” my father has been telling me since the early 1980s. I think now he really means it. 

A couple of nights ago I hung up the phone after a long talk with my parents mostly about various health issues. I looked sideways at my husband and said, kind of rhetorically, “I should go down and visit them.” 

“You should go,” was his immediate response. He is a high school teacher and Spring Break is next week. It has been a crazy winter and we had been looking forward to some quiet family time. But he says he’ll be okay with the kids for a few days. Brian is a good egg. 

So I made reservations and I’m leaving on the night train the day after tomorrow. 

And now, of course, I’m all freaked out. On paper, it sounds like no big deal: three days away. When the kids were babies I used to dream of getting away for three days by myself. But that was impossible back then and I knew it, which made the little fantasy all the more tantalizing.

But right now, today, I do not relish the idea. It’s separation anxiety. I’ll miss Brian and the kids. This happens every time I go away, even for just a day. Up until the moment I leave I feel like I’m staring into a black hole. And then I hit the road and I’m fine. 

I am looking forward to a few uninterrupted days with my parents and to getting a sneak peek at spring. But mostly I’m in the black hole phase. 

It helps that I’m not flying. No way. The last time I flew (perhaps the very last time) I was coming back from a visit to my parents. I was six months pregnant with Ben. I had Simon with me, who was eighteen months old and prone to wandering. After waiting (and constantly corralling Simon back into line) for half an hour in the security queue, we were tapped and pulled aside for an extra special, full-body scan. 

Pregnant lady with fidgety toddler in tow blows up a plane? 

I had to hold Simon tight to my big belly to keep him from running. The security checker looked me right in the eye and said, “You’ll have to give me that baby.” 

I shook my head. It was a reflex I suppose. You simply do not hand your baby over to a strange man, no matter what sort of uniform he’s wearing. Simon, completely strung out and confused, started to cry. 

“If you don’t hand him over he’s going to have to be checked too. And you don’t want that,” the guy said, the exasperation full in his voice. 

Oh, how I wanted to run away. I have never felt more frustrated and powerless. But where would I go? This was my ride home. So I handed Simon over, we barely made our flight, and we both cried all the way home. 

So this time I’m taking the train. I get on late at night in Mystic and jump off the next morning in Williamsburg. I’ll read and sleep all night. Sounds kind of nice.

Doesn’t it?