We took the children to Atlantis, a Caribbean children's paradise with miles of swimming pools and umpteen water slides.
As most families do when they relocate, we quickly settled into a routine:
In the mornings, we had a big family buffet breakfast. Every day we coaxed eggs into Quinny with promises of a chocolate munchkin. Emma discovered the joys of chocolate syrup on chocolate chip pancakes, served up with a side of bacon. Henry enjoyed the local homemade yogurt after almost choking on a piece of egg white. I drank a pot of the good, strong coffee and Scott presided over the table with a big smile, waving away offers of more food - "You have it" - just happy to be there with his brood.
After breakfast, Scott took the children swimming in the sea while I put Henry to sleep in a nest I made him, encircling him, once he was safely unconscious, with oversized pillows that I prayed were bed bug-free. He staunchly refused the hotel crib, and I couldn't blame him. It looked like a baby jail cell on wheels with plastic sheets and a bumper that smelled of wet diapers.
While Henry slept, I tidied our room and then sat on our balcony watching Scott with Emma and Quinny. Like a familiar constellation in the night sky, I could always spot them immediately: Three brown heads close together near the shoreline, Scott holding Quinny close, Emma circling them, swimming out a few feet to look at a fish, then quickly coming back.
Scott loves nothing more than having all of us within arm's reach. But I need time alone as much as I need oxygen. I felt claustrophobic with the five of us packed into a single hotel room. The complete lack of privacy set my teeth on edge and made my bones ache, like an arthritic before a storm.
Yet on my perch above the sea, with Henry gently snoring on the other side of the open door, I buzzed with love for all of them. How happy I knew Scott to be in that moment, his shoulder blades turning boiled-lobster-red, Quinny balanced on his knee, Emma bringing shells like small offerings to her beloved Papa.
It was so easy to love them from that distance. Depending on where they were below me, I calculated how long it would take me to reach them if I were to see a dorsal fin or if one brown head suddenly disappeared underwater. My love shone down on them like the sun.
But by noon, Henry would be awake and the children and Scott would be ambling back into the room, shedding wet bathing suits on beds, tracking sand across the carpet.
On the day the maid failed to clean while we were out at lunch and I walked into a hotel room that looked like the scene of a playdate gone wild, I announced that I had to leave. Imemdiately.
"Can I come?" asked Emma hopefully.
"No," I said. "I just need to be alone."
I ran to the adults only swimming pool like an escapee being tracked by dogs and dove in as if to hide my scent. I stayed underwater for a long time, hearing nothing, being nothing. I walked to the beach and into the warm, clear water. I floated on my back.
I must have beeen gone 20 minutes before I urgently wanted to see Emma. The disappointment in her eyes was haunting me. I walked, dripping, back to our room. There was a neat stack of towels in the bathroom and the beds were made, but Scott and the children were gone. A thunderstorm struck suddenly and I sat on the balcony scanning the resort for a sign of them. I was just starting to get frantic - thinking about the metal in Henry's stroller, wondering if the children had drank enough water - when Scott called.
They had gone to the aquarium, then stopped in a lounge for a drink. Scott sounded pleased with himself. They were all dry, and each child had a new stuffed dolphin. I pined for them ... Until they blew back into the room like a tropical storm, needing showers and teeth brushed, rifling through drawers to find the exact outfit they had to wear to dinner, jumping exuberantly on the freshly-made beds.
On the chartered bus back to the airport, Scott let out a sigh. "That was so relaxing," he said. I stared at him, dumbfounded. I hadn't slept more than a few hours each night and my arms were aching from holding Henry and throwing the big kids around in the pool. We were about to take an international flight with three kids and an obscene amount of luggage, made all the heavier because most of the contents were wet. The unpacking! The laundry! My head was spinning while Scott started gently snoring beside me, a small, contented smile on his face.
Back in New York the next day, we took the kids to the playground. I tweaked my wrist taking Henry out of the baby swing. It started throbbing.
"You have to go to the hospital," Scott said. "I think you broke your wrist."
"I don't think so," I said. But it hurt. A lot.
My mother called, her momdar sensing that there was an injury.
"Go to the hospital," she said.
"I can't leave the kids," I answered.
"Of course you can. Scott can handle them."
She was right, of course. I put Henry and Quinny down for a nap. Scott and Emma were embroiled in a tense game of Star Wars Lego Wii.
"I'm going to the E.R.," I called out.
"Good," said Scott. "We're fine."
On the way to the hospital, I got an ice cream cone. I signed myself in and sat in the waiting room, licking my cone. A Jets game was playing in the corner. The only only other person in the room was a homeless man who had procured a cheesburger for himself and was rapaciously eating it.
"Bon Appetit," I said, cheering him with my cone. For the first time in a week, I felt my shoulders drop from where they were hunched next to my ears. I smiled. He smiled. For different reasons, we were both just happy to be there.
