Sedona: you're gorgeous. Let's meet again not real soon.

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Writing here from gorgeous, spell-binding Sedona, Arizona.  But, I should not be here.  This is a cautionary tale, a tale in defiance of the Facebook photos of babies napping under beach umbrellas, families standing proudly in front of the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, and bright smiles from car seats.  I don’t doubt that there are kids so flexible and easy-going that traveling with them is (relatively) enjoyable.  But I do know that I don’t have them.  And that, nevertheless, I, too, could manufacture a very happy picture of it all with careful editing.

So, husband-of-mine has been traveling a lot since starting his job about a year and a half ago.  And 2013 was to start off with a flurry of trips – five in four months? Something like that.  In an effort to appease the Irritated Wife Goddess, he convinced me that we should all go to Sedona.  I don’t mean to place blame on him.  I’d never have suggested joining him because I make roughly $10 a month (more, but not much more), and we are getting by without getting ahead right now, so I may mope about money occasionally but it is not my wont to spearhead any efforts to lay out large amounts of cash.  But when he brought it up, I was cautious but excited.  And as he pressed, I got more excited and was soon on board.  Could we afford it?!  Um, kind of!  (Thank you, Christmas money!)  Plus most of the cost would be shouldered by his work, since they paid for his travel and lodging.  We’d shell out for an upgraded room and plane tickets for us lay folk.  

We should’ve taken a hint from the beginning.  I looked at the website and drooled.  Breathtaking place, inside and out.  Top notch spa.  Yoga classes, led meditation.  A juice bar!  I said to myself “This looks amazing!” And I said it so loud that I didn’t here the little reasonable voice that said “Dear, this is not for you.”  The first message came with the price quotes on an upgraded room.  One of the biggest burdens of traveling with partially-formed humans is that they go to bed early.  Like, 7 or 8 pm early.  And – though I have been told this is not always the case – mine don’t just not got to bed at their time with out much fire, brimstone, and gnashing of teeth.  And – again, Facebook photos tell me this is not a rule – but mine do not, ever, ever, just “pass out.”  Those pictures you may post of little Suzie “all tuckered out from her big day!” head-first onto her high chair, or face-planted into a couch amid a raucous party?  I don’t dislike you for posting them, dear friends.  Truly.  Live and be well.  Life’s not about evening scores, and I am sure you have your challenges that may far exceed my own.  But, I must admit these images make me weep just a little.  No, mine scream and holler, possibly vomit, definitely kick, and generally go freaking bananas until there is a dark room, white noise machine, clean jammies, and often my boob.  I know not the joys of “aww, Honey, look at Johnny! He’s asleep over there in his Big Wheel!”  If Little Johnny were mine own, I would put him and his Big Wheel in the car and drive straight the ER because something must have gone terribly wrong.

But I digress.  Room cost.  Yes. To avoid the whole having to remain motionless and silent for several hours so that the children can sleep when they must, we decided to get a room with bedrooms.  A “casita,” as it were.  Casita – Spanish for little house.  How lovely sounding is that?  The quote for an upgrade to a 2 bedroom casita was one bajillion dollars.  But a one bedroom was only half a bajillion.  We swallowed hard, and I said that I cold not in good conscience allow us to spend the full bajillion.  I’d make the one bedroom work.  All four of us, one of whom does not nearly sleep through the night and another who suffers from voice immodulation, in one room.  My hair must have been standing on end when I committed to this, but I ignored it and pressed on.

Then we had to look at the physical travel aspect.  3.5 hour flight.  2.5 hour drive.  Not fun, but we can do it!  Forgot about that whole 1.5 hours before the flight.  And the hour to get the rental car.  And surprisingly bad head winds.  Not to mention potty breaks for toddler-sized bladders. All told, we ended up at a travel time of nine hours.  I don’t think we ever did the math, though we could’ve.  Willful ignorance.  Remember that fire, brimstone and gnashing of teeth? There was a goodly amount of it in that 9 hours, and during and in between such times, there was an all-hands-on-deck level of effort to keep the wee ones managably fed, kempt, and amused.

 Edie feeding Baby Jane on PHX airport bus.  Legit cute.  Nearing the age of travel-readiness.

 Pretty much the only pic I got of Eli because he spent the trip screaming, 

fussing, not sleeping, or sleeping at inconvenient hours. 

We arrived, saw the grounds and got into our quarters, and everything was stunning! Stunning!  Not to mention thoughtful details.  For example, there is a fireplace in our room that you can turn on with a light switch located only 2 ½ feet above the ground!  Perfect for a curious three-year old.  And an indoor pool.  That you can go in if you are over 16.  Trails galore that are inaccessible by stroller.  I have no problem with any of these on principle.  I am well aware that my three year-old is not conducive to the Zen-like experience that patrons of this resort are paying, literally, bajillions of dollars to enjoy. My issue is with my own inability to get it through my own thick skull that vacations with little kids are now “vacations.”  Or maybe “ “vacations” ”.  

Now, it does not help that I got sick on day one, sicker on day two, ending up feverish, exhausted and rather snippy, and currently settled into a hacking cough and an inability to be further than three feet from a box of Kleenex.  But germ-mongers that children are, me getting sick is not exactly shocking.  And I basically begged for an incapacitating illness when I spastically highlighted the resort’s activity schedule like an over-enthusiastic and over-grown summer camper. 

Oh, you and your bright eyes, Monday-Rachael.

Two of the best things about this place?  We have a kitchenette and there is a gratis laundry room only steps from our front door.  It took me a day to realize that what I was most excited about would also be what resulted in me doing dishes and laundry, without access to a dishwasher or my extra-jumbo-sized front loading washer or dryer. 

The three year old is on the verge of being at the age of enjoying this.  But she’s not quite there.  Upon gazing out at the majestic red rocks that fill up the panoramic view out our window, I said with awe “Edie, look at that!”  She looks up, and then asks for the second time “But who BRINGED these orange juices?!?!”, unable to let go of the mystery of how tiny bottles of OJ ended up on our porch this morning.  “The orange juice people.  I don’t know! What do you think of the rocks?”  *Smacks lips after taking another sip of glorious magic juice and walks away*  But she is generally easy to travel with, as long as you pay loads of attention to her, and – here’s the big one – she may not be flexible about sleeping on the go, but once you’ve got it right, the child sleeps through the night.

Static electricity and bananas.

Compare: the seven month old.  Who generally wakes twice a night, but here in sunny Arizona, wakes up when he hears a bed sheet move.  A bed sheet!  I do not exaggerate! I have been in bed here now three nights, holding back scratching an itch or rolling to a position where my arm is not being deprived of blood because at that moment there is nary a sound coming from that pack’n’play. And when I give into my pitiful, mortal urge, WAAAH!! Instantly! And we’ve got a serious white noise machine going on full blast.  It’s a frightening talent.  But, he makes up for it during the day.  Wait! Nope! He just cries. And cries.  And it’s exhausting.  He just wants to be home. And so do I.

I am glad to be here. It truly is a wonder.  But I’ve got to remember to be a little more patient with it all.  As fondly as I’ll remember the highlights, this has taken it out of me like what.  And I’m a-day dreaming of my bed, of a napping schedule, of being able to roll over or blow my nose without fear of reprisal.  These little baby days are short, and there are many good things about this time.  But few of these good things are apparent in a hotel or road trip setting.  It’s telling that I’m excited to have a kitchen and a place to wash my clothes.  There’s a lot of beauty in routine and comfort.  No question it’s what kids need and crave.  Time for our wild outings to be to the zoo instead of across the country, I think.  Next time I want to impress my kids, I’ll just sneak around the house, deposit a couple of Odwalla’s on the porch, and ding’n’ditch.  They’ll be dazzled and I won’t be clucking my tongue at a resort’s choice not to offer scent-free detergent.

The "my family vacations are always peaceful and joyful" shot. Pretty cool one.  I did have to straight beg her to pose for it, however.

To all of you who love traveling with your littles: God bless.  For those whose own anal retentiveness and children make stay-cations seem a lot more appealing, lets all meet up at a spa in 2016.  A thirty and over spa.  I’ll pack the highlighters.