Like most people I know, we fall into that “I never win anything” category. The only 50/50 jackpot I hit was at a high school basketball game for $30 and I contributed $15 because I felt sorry for the kids who were collecting. Our luck changed for one brief instant when my husband won the grand prize of a vacation for two to virtually anywhere. I was in complete shock and briefly saw us jet-setting to an elusive tropical destination, but what flew out of my mouth was: “you know I can’t leave the kids.” And while this story does not center on my inability to do so, which should be covered on a therapist’s couch anyway, it did lead us to our “unusual for us” destination. Throughout most of our travel history as a family of six, we typically rent fully equipped houses with fairly private ocean beach access and on a generous year, one with a pool. The hubs and I are not gamblers in the traditional sense but this practice I assume can be like playing slots; it’s pretty fun and addicting as long as you win which I think we mostly do. We all have a long running list of amenities that describe each place and in our reminiscing we don’t recall particular locales but the physical structure, such as: Sue (the manager with whom we had frequent contact) house where Mom crashed the bicycle on the way to the beach (ouch); favorite house with small but cool pool where Dad forgot the entry code and blamed us; best outdoor shower ever house; circular staircase the boys almost pulled out the ceiling house, subpar house with no beach chairs but semi okay pool; flooded driveway house where dad lost the bottom part of the van, and on and on. To this day our favorite description is the one when we pulled up and our youngest, still in a car seat, saltily quipped “Geesh, Daddy, this place is a dump.” Anyway, the company from whom the hubs won the prize was fine with us converting the winnings for two to winnings for a family, within reason. After much debate, we settled on a picturesque haven in the Florida Keys that also provided family bungalows; I glanced over the diagram of the living quarters and it looked fine, but now I realize I did not give the blueprints the attention they deserved. Nonetheless, it appeared otherworldly with much more gusto than we were accustomed to and way out of our normal price range. Although we never considered ourselves resort people, it seemed quite lovely and could satisfy each member of the family. After booking, the pandemic juggernaut of 2020 arrived like the ghastly beast it was and we lived, as much of the world did, cooped up together in suffocating isolation and apprehension of the future. As time slowly waned and summer neared, it was questionable whether the spot would open and if it did, would we go? Because Florida does what Florida does, and we thought what harm could come from taking refuge in the Keys, we loaded our minivan and set out for the twenty-four-hour sojourn to the archipelago of America. 

Admittedly, when we arrived, we were a bit awestruck as the opulent Gatsby-like mansion came into view and rose from the ground in a seemingly natural rock formation. Diamond shine glistened on the milky exterior which made the immense structure look dewy, and even soft to the touch. Darkened windows that resembled heavily hooded eyes loomed ostensibly across the front of the building, signaling exclusivity to all who entered. Every space surrounding the property was resplendent with plant life, so the grounds resembled a sultry forest. Sequoia-like palm trees guarded their brethren ground coverings with their steely presence. Living towers of greenery scattered across the property in sporadic fashion while bougainvillea so red they dripped and bled ruby splotches beneath them. Garden crotons whose leaves ran wildly with thick yellow veins mingled easily with dainty orchid-like flowers. Top heavy ferns rested their necks indifferently on the ground while iguanas larger than dachshunds hung from trees and roamed freely and wildly, reminiscent of a pre-historic age. The bush opened to a vast aquatic complex where fulgent turquoise water rippled serenely in various connected patterns ranging in size and depth. Rattan chairs filled with milky white cotton pillows scattered themselves in methodical happenstance around the pools and cabanas with linen curtains that mesmerizingly swayed like midnight moon dancers set about to provide respite from the often-unyielding sun. When guests required a bit more nature, the creatively sculpted path led to the expansive beach area also populated with dreamy lounge furnishings clearly made for Daisy Buchanan. A craggy cove with jutted seating capped one end of the beach and at the other was a pier that pushed out into the bay as a steady engineering marvel. My children were absolutely entranced by genteel waitstaff who weaved effortlessly through the area offering an expansive array of decadent pleasures- smoothies rimmed with exotic fruits, crispy cheese sticks begging to be consumed, chocolate pie with mounds of silky frosting calling for attention. I quickly and sternly informed the brood to not look in their eyes- doing so would produce a Medusa-like hypnotic state and they would succumb to any and all wishes of the snack bar, for a cost. Under no circumstances were they to order goods, it was not all-inclusive and they were to return to the bungalow which was the only station where provisions were free to them. (You do know the definition of all inclusive. And no, I am not stingy and no, I do not care that the snacks made the long trek from Illinois and no they did not go stale on the road trip). A curved lazy terracotta drive stamped in ric rac ribbon formation tightly hugged the resort and the Ferraris, Mercedes, BMWs, and Bentleys purred like contented kittens as they casually glided to the entrance. And that’s really when I had to wonder if this stay would be a bit different.

Even though we stopped halfway through the trip so the hubs could rest, (he refuses to let others drive yet, I am the one with issues) six people in one hotel room, a twelve hour car ride complete with restroom breaks at suspicious locations, and a great deal of testosterone in one vehicle, makes for some harried travelers. Upon arrival, we poured out of our durable dapple-gray minivan who’d lost her shine in Southern Illinois as black-tied personnel swarmed us, quickly talking and moving octopus-like arms to disassemble our precariously packed luggage, but stood dumbstruck when faced with the duct-taped car topper. Knocking trash back into the van as in a carnival whack-a-mole game, and gently guiding hands away from the ingeniously secured cargo, I profusely thanked them but politely declined any help as I pointed to the four children- “they’re all strong, they can do it. If you could simply direct us to our place, we can manage on our own.” The urbane concierge briefly floundered in astonishment, but he recovered and led us to a wide cemented path that reminded me of Oz’s twisting yellow brick road, and as he raised his arm in direction, a wretched pitch-black serpent whose thick body stretched the expanse of the walkway took its time slithering into the foliage. I felt the air go out of my lungs and murmured “omen” under my breath. My husband made a not so soft comment about stupid superstitions as he barged past, nearly knocking me off the track. I made a quick move to grab both young boys from taking off after the snake while I woozily whispered to the gang to cautiously move forward, fearing what may await us on the horizon. 

However, as our home for the week came into view, I was immediately transported into Hansel and Gretel’s fairy tale and understood how they must have felt when they came upon the candy cottage. My heart melted at the most adorable pink structure, like the dollhouse I’d always imagined I should live. Lollipops seemed to mimic light poles; a rainbow of gutter gumdrops edged the graham cracker roof like shingles. Twisted green roped licorice outlined the heavy shutters that waited patiently to protect their delicate windows at the slightest hint of a bright sun too bright or a rain too harsh. Shades of light rose dressed the top of the villa which then trailed into the darker stucco that wrapped around the bottom; it was as if the house itself blushed from its own comeliness. As I gazed at our chalet for the week, I thought perhaps I could forget about the anxiety of the last months, and I pushed the foreboding dread away that the serpent arose. With that, we opened the quaint door and the two youngest immediately dropped everything to race into the house to claim proprietary space. I did a quick survey and thought the entry was a bit cramped but before I had time for a complete look about, the urchins returned, both madly speaking above each other in high spirited voices. I could not comprehend their language as my head filled with buzzing, I felt held underwater but I slowly understood “where are the bedrooms? There’s only one.” In slow motion, I turned to my husband, and my mind went to the apocalyptic message of The Heart of Darkness or as more may know Apocalypse Now “the horror, the horror.” But instead, I mouthed, “WTF? What?” And he shrugged his shoulders in the typical “I DON’T KNOW. I’M GETTING BEER.”

With this the color drained from our daughter’s countenance; I feared she would faint helplessly in the archway, but it was so narrow, she was forced to stay upright. Then like Violet Beauregarde after Wonka’s chewing gum, but instead of turning blue, Reagan began to turn frightening shades of crimson. I watched in alarm as our darling girl turned into a fiery creature who roared with fury as she sprang on all fours up the staircase and quickly began to wail “WHERE’S MY ROOOOOOOOM.” I cautiously followed her frenzied trail and peered over a short ledge to in fact see one room with a king size bed, and a miniature sitting area with a loveseat that was surely made for small children, not normal sized adults. Unfortunately, the remaining three brutes laughed balefully at their sister’s expense which made the strained situation even worse. In complete pandemonium, they drubbed “where’s my room?” congruously while their sister screamed “shut up you assholes,” and to no one in general phrases that bounced around like a stuck pinball machine “trapped with you all for four fucking months” and “didn’t want to come on this stupid vacation.” While I was extremely dismayed at this event, I could relate. I too wanted Reagan to have her own room; the lockdown was stifling for all. The first few days, maybe even the first week, seemed a novelty, but as the week turned into months the uncertainty and resentment compounded, and life seemed to hang in motionless suspension. The seniors of 2020, like Reagan, felt particularly distraught and robbed of memories they would never make; they would never look back with nostalgia on their senior prom, walking out of high school for the last day, savoring the last sport played on their team, traditional graduation ceremonies, and on and on. No one seemed exempt from Covid’s bastion and despite our best efforts, the fear and anger that permeated the world stalked our lives; we had our health, but it was hard to not mourn the ebb and flow of our customary days that were now absent. She needed her space. We all did. Nonetheless, none of us would have it and her untoward phrases ricocheted off the walls, from the one room upstairs to the one room downstairs. The young boys, though, remained unfazed, they were too busy spreading the forbidden to travel X-Box materials all over the room while staking claim to the one couch, and the one remaining chair that had no arms but folded into a miniature futon. I felt the harbinger of doom. . . but brightly began “we are in the enchanting Keys, and in a bougie and quite frankly utopian resort, we clearly aren’t supposed to stay inside.” I was drowned out by a clap of thunder and torrential rainstorm.

To advertise that our home away from home slept six adults still puzzles me. I wondered if people who were not related ended up in this seemingly perfect bungalow and then stared questionably at the sleeping quarters. One king size bed for presumably two people so of course the hubs (and I) claimed it, the hide-a-bed sofa not ten feet from our bed to which Reagan threw herself down upon and thrashed haphazardly, still bemoaning her fate. This left one couch in the living area, claimed by the X-Box and the young boys, which somewhat created a double bed that nearly consumed all walking space. This left Reese, #1, who furtively spent the first part of the week simply trying to find a place for his weary body. For years, this was the child we called “The General” because he ruled his siblings with unflinching authority during their formative ages. First Reesielocks stood by the sofa bed in the loft area, but Reagan’s eyes gleamed scarlet and her “get out” was enough to make Reese back away, very very carefully. It was only a few short steps to our berth, to which I replied, “hmm I don’t think so.” Initially, he took the two pieces from the sofa and camped next to us. Briefly, my eyes welled as I saw him as a wee boy curled in that exact same spot when he could not sleep. He tried his best to get comfortable, even as the cushions parted like a fault line under his weight and he folded and creased himself in every way imaginable. Soon Reese was led to believe that downstairs with his younger brothers would provide both camaraderie and respite, but he quickly found himself in the throes of all night gaming which he simply could not muster the strength to power through. For rest, he was provided with the chair that had no sides but did expand; however, only his head and torso fit on it which left his arms and legs hanging from their sockets like some sort of medieval torture apparatus. From sheer exhaustion he would finally drift off dreamily, lulled by the quiet hum of the gaming console, and the soft chatter of his little brothers. On that trial run of togetherness, I was awakened by a scream at 3am that made my veins run cold and rocket out of bed. I was met with irrational mania, howling laughter, and snippets of “his nose on my butt,” and “his nose touched my butt,” and “GD ASS in my face. YOU F’ING LITTLE SHITS.”  Reese seethed. His hair stood on end, his eyes hinged with fury, and he scrubbed his face with the closest thing he could find, a moldy dishrag. All the while he haphazardly pursued his much more agile brothers as they shrieked with frenetic delight at their victorious and adroit scheme. It felt like Sunday evening’s Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that featured gorillas who are generally peaceful but run around thumping their chests after a wrestling match gone awry. Eventually, and because they could not contain their pride, I was able to discern the event was all a part of the covert operation concocted by either #3 or #4, I was not sure which concocted the clever subterfuge. Regardless, the plan was set in motion and perfectly executed: they sat and discreetly gamed until Reese dozed heavily. The unfolded low to the ground furniture allowed for creative positioning so one brother pulled down his boxers and balanced precariously over the sleeping giant’s face. The other made a sudden loud noise so that Reese’s eyes flew open while he simultaneously bolted upright. Consequently, let’s just say he was met with a very unpleasant situation, and I had to turn my back to laugh at their meticulous ingenuity. For three long nights Reese stumbled around the house, seeking a reposeful night but was only met with cushions that did not fit his stature and brothers who lured him back with promises of goodwill but had no intention whatsoever of fulfilling that deal. As he crept down to the beach like Quasimodo himself, where he could finally recline in somewhat peace, it dawned on me that perhaps I could request a rollaway bed. After two clicks on the website, Reagan came to the seaside and reported a bed had been delivered, but it was in the diminutive kitchen. We did manage to maneuver it to the living room which made for an obstacle course as even less floor space remained, yet, Reese finally experienced some tranquility (and we threatened the younger two like we really meant it).  

The best arrangements were indeed the beach and the pool, and we were in the closest proximity to both that we had ever been. The resort teemed with more guests than our previous adventures and I noticed again that the way we operated together was not the norm in this venue. In our typical beach escapades, we slopped to our oceanside area with paraphernalia that rivaled Panama Jack’s store including a cooler that took two people to carry. Bags of snacks usually end up with more sand than chips in them and at the end of the day we look like a molting pack of wild birds with errant patches of sunburn exploding catastrophically over our bodies. In short, we pack like we do not intend to return, nor do we return to base in the near future. Patrons at Playa Largo seemed to need nothing by their chairs, including sunscreen as they languidly lounged with already tanned skin glistening under a fine mist of banana coconut oil. They did not seem affected by the swimmer’s itch, which left half of our family speckled with a poxy affliction. Hands encrusted in gold cupped various sundry drinks served in Cocktail style by a Tom Cruise look-alike, and desecrated charcuterie boards lay mournfully in waste. And it was hot, so hot that the warm bath-like waters of the gulf often proved unrefreshing, and inwardly I pined for the burst of frigidity we found in the oceanside (We did cross the island for one trip to the Atlantic but that is beside the point). I supposed we were not “playas,” at Playa Largo after all, which, of all things, drew us closer as a familial unit. This was the most evident in two people who we came to call “Honey Boo-boo.”

During the week, we tended to scatter a bit throughout the lodgings, each of us seeking refuge in silent anonymity, and truthfully the togetherness was taxing at times for all involved. One night at dinner, I mentioned to the family that while lying in the sun, I witnessed quite a spectacle from a couple near me, then bit by bit every member revealed a similar encounter. We began to take note of their arrival, just because it was so startling, and it pulled us together in a way that normalized our own nutty behaviors. It was apparent that the twosome was on their honeymoon, and while we did not hear their names, we did hear the woman coo in syrupy falsetto “Boo-boo” which gave way to our “Honey Boo-Boo” in reference to the “horror story posing as reality television” starring the awfully behaved child and her mother. Our own Honey Boo-boo was a glimpse into a mock live reality piece. Honey’s diaphanous clothing always revealed next to nothing underneath, and the surgical manipulations were as obvious as were the ones that were not. Because her stilettos sunk with every step deep into the sand, she continuously groped Boo-boo, and he made a show half holding half- me Tarzan – you Jane dragging her to various spots for photos. Boo-boo thought himself carefully sculpted but was actually quite mushy, like an overly ripe banana. Every action they performed was filmed and photographed for posterity, and at one point I wondered if Covid had robbed them of their nuptial celebration which caused this tasteless show. However, I came to know we witnessed in real time the dawn of a social media monster- the influencer. Tawdry poses, bacchanal antics, and garish gestures unfolded in premeditated rhythms, but it was much more melodramatic than our own midwestern lives and we simply could not tear ourselves away from their antics; we kept watching. As the week progressed, more people arrived beachside at the same time as Honey Boo-boo which led us to believe that other patrons were as repulsed and fascinated by these mores as were we. However, Honey Boo-boo did make their appearance nightly for the popular “Eventide;” an event that brought the entire community together at Playa Largo. There are definitive scientific explanations as to why the sunsets in the Keys are exceptionally vivid; I’ve read them, and I understand them, but these cannot prepare you for the truly majestic and divine occurrence of the daily disappearing star. Eventide celebrated this celestial phenomenon, and everyone present held a collective breath as the sun made her slow burning descent into the Florida Bay and became one with the water while the sky exploded in too many colors to name. As reggae sounds drifted into the air from the trio of musicians, a scantily clad young man in a makeshift loin cloth paddled a kayak while another person held a fire breathing tiki torch. Perhaps fifty yards out in the saltwater was a firepit and the goal was to light the fire just as the sun vanished, signifying a type of pagan ritual where the fire represents the vanishing sun’s continued existence, therefore life’s continued existence. Throughout the week, there were guest lighters and though in reality it was just a person paddling out to light a fire, and the sun would set just like it had every day, it really did take on an ethereal and sacred aura. Except for when Honey Boo-boo came to the party. To the naked eye, it may have looked like happenstance as to who kayaked out for the occasion, but it was entirely apparent that anyone could, for the right price. I am not sure how much it was, but we felt like we should have been paid to watch Honey Boo-boo. As they strutted to the shore all the while waving to the crowd (no one returned the favor), groping one another, flipping hair, and gruesomely smiling like Pennywise, I looked at my family and it felt like we had a shared revelation, that we kinetically meshed and silently agreed this was not something to admire. Watching them was hinged with schadenfreude as their inability to set the kindling ablaze was more pleasant than I could imagine. As they clumsily struggled with the activity, it was like the gods themselves had enough of the show, after all, we all know what happened when Icarus flew too close to the sun. Then #3 child put it into words: “At least we’re not like that, Mom” and I thought there we have it. They do have standards after all.

 Perhaps the only downside to the actual resort aside from Honey Boo-boo was the divided highway that ran in front north and south -south to continue to the most southern tip of America and north to take us straight back to Illinois. Cars raced on this relatively tiny road at breakneck speeds and if I am sticking to Tom Cruise movies think Days of Thunder speed. Would be vacationers may lounge as if time does not exist on the beach but not while traveling on this route. I don’t know if I have ever seen more middle fingers in my life as I did trying to join traffic in either direction. It was very disheartening. Apparently waiting patiently for your turn would never happen so to enter the highway the driver just had to channel those inner Mario skills, gun it, and hope for the best. I am ashamed to admit that my husband and I were often too tipsy to drive on our evening dinner excursions from La Playa so that left the next in line to drive, a very young twenty-year-old Reese. As we all walked to our van, beads of sweat sprung up on Reese and began their tortuous slide down his worried face as he begrudgingly marched to the impending rite of passage that would send fear through the hearts even the bravest: trying to cross a busy boulevard with five people telling you how to do it, and two of them drunk. Our travels across the parkway took a great deal out of us and looking back, I think if we survived trying to cross that road, we could survive anything, including all the Keys had offered up. The entire scenario was straight out of the immensely popular 80’s Atari video game Frogger. Happy little hopping sounds filled my mind until suddenly- that deadening squashing splat. Our van inched haltingly, with Reese pumping the brakes exponentially which caused the seatbelts to simultaneously lock, vehicles swerved, blared their awful horns, amidst a cacophony of “fucking GO Reese, what are you 80? Floor it. Geezus.” From the farthest back seat, all I saw was my first miracle in his little red coupe scooting around the patio, his tiny feet whirring for all their might, his plump hands gripping the steering wheel, and tears burst forth from my eyes and I tried to holler above the other trilling passengers “leave him alone you animals! Just do the best you can Angel!” Finally, as if divine intervention occurred again, the actual hand of god seemed to swoop down and we were delivered onto the road. A hush descended upon the vehicle, and we cruised in silence for a short time. In the spirit of camaraderie, I asked the others to thank Reese for safely delivering us onto Hell’s expressway but he did not get very much in return.

I, however, got a lot in return that week at Playa Largo, but we were all ready for the comfort and spaciousness of our home. We just had the twenty-four-hour return car trip standing in our way, and a secret $500 bar bill that the hubs reticently hemmed and hawed around about then claimed the children drove it up but we all knew he folded like a card table in the presence of someone to wait on him, Medusa or not. Some of our friends have long chastised us for not flying to our destinations, for not getting multiple hotel rooms for a one-night stay, for not doing more than just lying on the beach for a week. My immediate reaction is cost, a big family is very expensive, but my truest reaction is that despite the trials of our standard retreats, I absolutely cling to those times with our family. Even cramped in that far back seat to where I am now relegated, I get several hours of just being in the presence of these humans we created, and I drink it all in. One of the babes will rest a head on my shoulder, throw a heavy leg over mine, drape an arm across my lap, or nestle against me, and I am filled with immeasurable joy because for these moments they are all mine again. They don’t belong to a sport, or to a friend, or to a job, or to adulthood; they are all mine, just as they once were as tiny beings. My husband has long said I don’t share well and I guess that is something I would reveal to the phantom therapist that I am never seeing. Because to myself, I begrudgingly admit he is right; I admit that sharing my children with the unkind world was very hard for me and for one week I don’t have to. And I will ride in a car across the country, I will forgo a trip for two, I will stay in one room in a hotel, or a too small bungalow, just to have that feeling again. 

We arrived home on the hub’s birthday and before I wearily set out for the local market to pick up something for dinner, I asked the family for menu suggestions. Each child murmured something about prior engagements as one by one they backed away slowly in alarmed panic and flew out the door. The hubs then lamented “I can’t believe they left, and even on my birthday.”  And that, more than anything that week, left me bemused, but I replied, “It’s okay Boo-boo, Honey’s here.”