Illustrations by Christopher Corr
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The Gang’s All Here
By Amy Bloom, March-April 2003
Want a stress-free family vacation? Wait till the kids are grown
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Family vacations with young children aren't really vacations; your chances of relaxing in a hammock without interruption, knocking back a couple of mai tais without feeling guilty, or sleeping late are close to zero. Vacations with adolescents are so fraught with tension that a day without bloodshed over the use of headphones or arguments over attitude will stand out in memory as brightly as a perfect sunset. But a vacation with your grown children offers the exquisite possibility of you and your big kids toasting each other over dinner, reading quietly around the pool, or snorkeling en famille. One of them might even make you a sandwich. I know this because I did it.
As with other big things—marriage, conception—you shouldn't attempt this kind of vacation without knowing your own heart. If you don't like being with your grown children, don't do it. I don't mean you don't love your kids, sure you do, but if you have discovered that since they've left your house, Tom talks about nothing but mutual funds and Mary has developed a tendency to whine—forget it. There will be lots of time spent together and if that's not fun, it will sour the whole holiday.
If your kids say yes, even before you've passed out the brochures, great. If you have to arm-twist, find out why, and if you can't easily persuade them, I suggest withdrawing the invitation, in a nice way. ("Maybe another time….") This almost guarantees that they will come.
I'm a planner. My children fall into planner and adamant non-planner categories. My daughter and her husband live in Seattle and long for the sun. Consequently, when I first floated the idea of a vacation in Jamaica, every photo and Web link was met with great enthusiasm. My son refused to discuss anything until a month before we left (when he began e-mailing me questions, daily, and expecting prompt, detailed responses), and my younger daughter—still busy with college—deigned to look at pictures only two weeks before we took off.
Do not shrug and assume that the money aspect will sort itself out; don't let your kids do that, either. Talk about it. Are you springing for the whole show? If you can, that's wonderful. If not, be clear about what is expected of everyone: airfare or accommodations or just having everyone kick in on the final bill? If you have one successful dot-com kid and one who just got fired, you can do the Marxist thing and take from each according to his ability, or you can do the easy thing and set one low figure that everyone has to come up with—preferably ahead of time ("Give me $100, and you're home free"). Pay for what you can, and show them exactly where the line is.
You should also figure out how domestic life will operate. You didn't raise these people and see them off into the world just so you could wait on them hand and foot while "on vacation," did you? I suggest taking the route we did (see Consider These Family Destinations) and renting a place with a cook and a housekeeper. If you are the kind of person who tidied up and served your family mac-and-cheese-and-something-green for 20 or 30 years, you don't need me to tell you why a nice lady who (for a reasonable price) comes in at four, makes the beds and sorts damp bathing suits, then makes dinner, cleans up the kitchen, and leaves with dinner warming in the oven and the table nicely set is not just a good idea, but a divine inspiration. Everyone feels taken care of; no one's mess can ruin anyone else's good times.
Talk about social life, too. Are we all doing everything together? Is everyone expected to take the tour of the oldest fortress in the West? If you're footing the bill, you are allowed to express your preferences; if anyone objects to your dearly held plans (we will all pose for photos in front of every pretty sight), encourage them to speak up before you leave.
I found the Silver Sands Villas by chance, through an ad in a professional newsletter. Everything was pretty much the way my family wanted it—airy and quiet, nice for serious readers and the unsociable, of whom we have many.
We did a lot of nothing: reading, making remarks, playing cards—all of our favorite activities. We split and bonded, forming and re-forming our groups. My girls flung themselves onto my bed as I read; just as when they were toddlers, their presence meant reading time was over. We talked about life and bikini waxes and Edith Wharton, and then they left, having borrowed what they needed to go horseback riding. My son and I grabbed the two comfortable reading chairs and read side by side, happily silent, while my son-in-law sketched outside and my partner and the girls sat on the porch, having a beer and enjoying the sunset.
It wasn't perfect—what is? But it was a certain kind of bliss. To see those two big beautiful girls doing handstands in the postcard-blue Jamaican water almost broke my heart with happiness. To sit with my girlfriend, my son-in-law, and my son, applauding wildly at midnight, while those same two girls sang their favorite song from Camp Bushy Hill ("Peanut Butter and Jelly"), forgetting not a single line or ridiculous hand gesture, was even more fun 15 years after the original performance. For the pure pleasure of the water and the sun and each other's company—that's why you take your grown children on vacation.
Amy Bloom's recent book, Normal, is a collection of essays on gender and identity.
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