Destination: Paradise

As we rode in the back of the Aerostar Minivan/taxicab, I felt the driver ripping through the empty streets of the Dallas suburb as if working to qualify for pole position. This formula one racer turned family truckster turned on-the-spot cabby could have been the next big up and comer on the NASCAR circuit. At least that’s what the two cups of coffee in my otherwise empty stomach in her backseat at 4 a.m. was telling me. But I just held on tight and thought to myself, “Stay calm. A few more miles and you’ll be on a plane headed for the islands. Destination: Paradise.”

But as we unloaded at the airport, I had no idea how many others would be en route to their own versions of paradise, until I saw the line stacked in triplicate all the way from baggage check-in to the doors leading to the street. Not to worry. I had e-tickets. And that little kiosk was calling my name.

I stepped to the automated check-in machine, an ATM for boarding passes, and put in all the required information, from our birthdates to our shoe size to the color of our underwear, and awaited my two tickets to paradise. Instead, the red, flashing police light that sits above the machine came on, and my do-this-the-easy-way check-in screen read: “You must see an agent.” This can’t be good.

“Don’t panic,” I told myself. In a few short hours I’ll be lying on the beach of the beautiful St. Thomas island-my sea sick hubby on one side and the crashing of the waves on the other-kids safely at home with grandparents. I can handle this airport agent. At which time I was promptly directed to the aforementioned baggage check-in line to my left.

It seems traveling at 6 a.m. on a Friday morning doesn’t do much to reduce the traffic at DFW. In addition to our two measly economy seats were seats for six generations of Lucy and Ricky, an irritable fellow with the demeanor of Ralph Kramden and Archie Bunker combined (and who had evidently been in the airport since 8a.m. the day before), and an entire high school soccer team, just to name a few. We were definitely not lacking for entertainment. Especially after the airline agent began spreading the word to the dozens of awaiting passengers that we would more than likely miss our flight.

As we finally reached the front of the line, a gentleman called us to his counter and asked for identification. He began typing on the keyboard in front of him, asking a few random questions along the way. I assumed things were good, until he called over a supervisor. The supervisor began typing on the keypad, and the two men were talking softly over one another’s shoulders. After what seemed like an excessive amount of typing from both men, I mustered my courage. “Is something wrong?” And like a scene out of a Ben Stiller movie, the guy just kept typing.

Finally, without even looking up from his screen, he said, “The problem is, the two of you are on the ‘No Fly’ list. Without even thinking, I cackled, “You’re kidding, right?” Lesson #1: Airport agents do not “kid”. Especially concerning characters as threatening to our national security as a high school baseball coach and a stay at home mom.

After a few more uncomfortable moments and what seemed like enough typing to pass half the state of Texas through baggage check, the agent informed us that we needed to be at terminal C26 now if we were going to make our flight. “And oh yes, by the way, it is too late to get your luggage on board.” And I thought raising kids was stressful.

As it turned out, we did make our flight, our luggage was in St. Thomas waiting on us, and our week of rest and relaxation was finally underway. The beauty and serenity of the water and the island were almost enough to make me feel guilty for leaving the boys at home. But I’m a firm believer that a battery will only last so long on a single charge, and it had been a long time since this drum-beating bunny had been given a rest.

While I refused to let myself think too long and hard about what the boys might be doing at home, it’s probably no coincidence that we got home with an insane number of photos of iguanas and pelicans and 747’s.

It comes as no surprise either, that after riding shot gun behind my daredevil of a husband on a jet ski going 60 mph in the over-sized waves of the windy Caribbean, I was forced to think at length about the future and welfare of my children (as my entire life flashed before my eyes).

It’s no joke that by the fourth or fifth day, we were both talking about how much this one would have loved the waterfall and how that one would have gone crazy over free vanilla ice cream any hour of the day.

It felt quite normal that almost every conversation we had with other couples along the way was about “my eight year old Tyler” or “my 25 year old in grad school” or “our three and four year old boys”.

No doubt, beaches are beautiful and vacations are vital, but our children are the real joy of our lives. It’s true that no matter where we travel or how far the journey, a piece of us remains a parent. It’s an inescapable role in which we revel and relish, even when we’re determined to retreat.

In the end, after seven relaxing days of sailing, snorkeling, sun baking and dining at sea, I know what I really knew all along: no matter how wonderful or well-deserved or exotic the location, coming home to our boys is my favorite destination.

And that’s All in a day’s work!