At night, my daughter whispers of her friends’ vacations to Portugal, Iceland, Barbados.
“How about…Canada?” I whisper back.
I’m still unemployed.
“How about high tea, a ferry ride, just you and me?”
We plan to head north the Tuesday after second grade ends. The last week of school is a blur of teacher gifts and sadistic spirit week themes. “Just skip it!” I yell as Eliza moans over how to style herself for “cartoon character” day. “We’re going to be late!” Finally she emerges in regular clothes. She plays the first nine notes of Für Elise on the keyboard, over and over, faster and faster. Her sister switches to “bossanova” theme and turns the volume up all the way. The girls shove each other. The dog whines. My husband escapes to the bathroom. I seethe and unload the dishwasher.
Somehow we make it to Tuesday, put on a Harry Potter audiobook and escape. We stop in Olympia for gas and I say yes to Cheetos, yes to Sprite. Fun mom is in charge! We twist through towering evergreens and finally emerge to a view of the wide, grey ocean. A mile from the ferry terminal, a small voice from the backseat says “Mommy, I don’t feel well.” My heart lurches but I am invincible with just one child for the weekend: I toss her a tupperware just in time, she aims well. We dump the vomit behind a bush in a chiropractor’s parking lot. We roll down the windows and screech off, giggling.
The next morning, stretched out on our hotel bed, we hatch a plan to take a bus to the butterfly gardens. We have to buy tickets first, but how hard can that be? The nearby convenience store doesn’t sell them. “Maybe 7-11 downtown?” the clerk suggests, yawning. It’s 20 minutes away. It’s starting to drizzle. I’m wishing I’d just brought our car. But this is our escape: we can’t pretend we’re in Europe if we drive our Highlander with Cheeto crumbs.
Eliza is annoyed, the newness of travel wearing off. She just wants to watch French cartoons. Before I can second guess myself, I tell her I will leave her at the hotel while I get tickets. Her jaw drops: she has been begging me for months for a chance to do something, anything, alone. I do my best to act like this is a normal thing, leaving my child alone in a foreign country. I show her the hotel phone: if you need anything, press zero. “Go, go, go!” she shoos me out the door. We are both racing toward independence yet just yesterday she tripped on the sidewalk and looked deep into my eyes for how to react. I’ve been so vigilant, preventing bad things from happening, and perhaps some good things, too.
I open the door then hear it click behind me. I push the elevator buttons frantically. Why is it taking so long? I’ve hit the up button instead of down. Out on the street, I start jogging and a garbage truck veers right in front of me, honking. I stop, put my hands on my knees. Should I go back? What if Eliza decides to go exploring? I pass a bike rental station and my mind wanders. Years ago, my husband and I came to this island and had a lazy day of biking past lavender farms to a swimming hole, diving deep into the cold, clear water, eating salty sandwiches on a warm rock. I think of my brother driving late at night on a winding Santa Cruz mountain road, his wife and children sleeping at home. It’s in me too, the hunger to escape.
Half an hour later, I arrive back at the hotel, tickets in hand. Eliza is still on the hotel bed. “That was so quick!” she says, looking at me with awe. I don’t know if Fun mom is someone I want to run toward or from. Probably a bit of both.
The adrenaline is still in my body hours later as we walk the muggy paths of the butterfly garden. A flamingo preens in a pond and a blue morpho drinks nectar from low-hanging flowers. Eliza tries to capture the stunning color, but each time it flaps its wings shut, turning brown before her camera can click.
That night, Eliza has her heart set on a fancy Italian meal. I’m not sure this is a good idea after the previous day’s vomit, but fun mom would say yes, right? We walk along the harbor, Eliza mugging for photos beside bronze sculptures. We straighten our shoulders and trip across the cobblestones into the restaurant. Decadence and darkness spill out the doors. There is a two hour wait, “or you could sit outside?” the hostess asks hopefully.
We grin at our good luck. Peach begonias tumble out of crumbling ceramic pots, wisteria vines weave through the rooftop trellis, fairy lights wait ready to twinkle at dusk. We sink into big pillows on benches. There is one other group outside celebrating a family patriarch in his 90s.
Eliza scrutinizes the menu. I scan for her nervous tics: is she fidgeting with silverware, brushing her hair to her mouth? Is the night going to end before it begins? But we are in the spell of Il Terrazzo and she chooses quickly: focaccia with tapenade, pesto meatball pasta, Caesar salad. The waiter bends down to deliver Wiki Sticks with a wink. Eliza leans into me giggling, bending rainbow kitty sculptures. We eat slowly, order hazelnut gelato. The party behind us gets up to leave, and the grey-haired son leans down to compliment me on taking my daughter to a place like this. Someone noticed, I think with a rush. I see us becoming real people, more than just a kid with big feelings and a tired mom. Eliza will whisper ecstatically about this trip for months: how I left her behind, how we escaped together.
*****
Kirsten Merrell Kippen is a Portland-based writer and mother who was raised in Alaska and works in nonprofit technology and marketing. She is working on a memoir about the friction and intersections of work and parenting. How obstacles can be the way. How to be a part of a family and community within chaos. A graduate of the Attic Institute’s Athenaeum program, Kirsten is previously published in Chatter Marks and Buckman Journal.