Spring Break?

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It’s the last day of spring break and I’m sitting in a library alone. Read that sentence again - but slowly. Kinda sad. Just me and my computer - sitting in the library. This is new for me. 

Spring break as a kid used to mean bustling airports or long road trips squabbling with my older, more cunning siblings. Maybe the occasional water park, or overcrowded ski hill. A combination of wrinkly pink tan lines or wrinkled maps, yes maps, spread across car seats like picnic blankets, waiting to serve up adventure. In my twenties, there were still sunburns but more punishing were the hangovers that thumped behind my oversized sunglasses. My underdeveloped brain led me to foolish recovery strategies; a little hair of the dog. Alcohol to treat the symptoms of too much alcohol was an absurdity I had to figure out for myself. As a parent, spring break was all about packing and unpacking, then treating someone else’s sunburn. Thick creams cooled the skin while simultaneously making children as slippery as buttered bowling balls and thus impossible to catch as they bounced dangerously on hotel beds. 

Today, instead of the smell of coconut lotions or a view of rugged snow capped mountains, I smell old paperbacks and look out at faded carpet beneath aluminum bookshelves - alone. I am struggling to understand the latest evolution of spring break for me. Almost makes me miss the hangovers. Almost.

Spring break has always been so sensory - experienced in the sights, smells and excitement of breaking free of tiresome winter routines. Getting off a plane and feeling a warm breeze on your face after departing a wind and snow swept airport back home can recharge a human battery in an instant; like stepping into another world after a quick trip on a commercial TARDIS. How can two places that are so different exist in the same moment in time? Why did my family remain in Canada when beaches and buffets were an option? How is it the same sun? Same planet? The wonders of spring break travel blew my mind as a kid, and inspired me as an adult. So dramatic, I know. I began to see the winter sun at home as simply a light, meant to illuminate the ground for a few hours a day so people didn’t bump into each other. It produced no pineapple, or warm water. No fun at all.

My son - living his best life on one of our holidays. Tee Hee.

One spring break in Acapulco, I remember my parents allowed me to walk the beach on my own. A teenage girl walking the beach unaccompanied in Mexico? Let’s just say it was a different time. And It was thrilling! I was in another country, barely clothed, completely anonymous. I could project whatever image I wanted. I strolled along, casually holding my sandals at my side, ignoring the searing temperature of the sand. My boyish hips swayed a little unnaturally; all part of the Mexico-me. I kicked the waves as they lapped across my painted toes, exhaling at the relief of the cool water. I did my best not to look up when cute boys walked past. I kept my head down, only moving my eyeballs to steal a look. I probably should have just looked up. The whites of my eyes as I strained to peek at the boys was likely shocking against my pink skin. It’s possible I looked like a Chucky doll on fire. 

After a trip like that, my sister and I would sit down to pull sheets of peeling skin off each other's backs. We never clued into the fact that our skin type would never tan and sheets of skin coming off is not the sign of a good vacation. We looked boiled, not bronzed. I’ve had several outpatient surgeries since removing the various types of skin cancer acquired from spring breaks and backpacking abroad. Hangovers get you right away, freckles bide their time.

Fast forward to spring breaks as a parent. The luggage - my gawd the luggage! If it can be inflated, it was squished in our bags. If you can snuggle it, it was squished in our bags. If it could wipe up anything that might explode in our bags, it was jammed in our carry-on luggage. If it was labelled pediatric over-the-counter medication, it was tossed in there too, only to be jostled and let loose in transit. Pills and syrups mixed like a daycare art project. 

If it was a well worn super hero cape or jammy set, it was definitely squeezed in. Usually in place of a nice button down shirt, preferred only by parents for the unlikely event of a ‘nice’ dinner past 5 pm. During many a resort dinner, I threw a pitying ‘I’m-sorry-your-kids-don’t-have-the-imagination-of-my-little-darlings’ look to families whose children were dressed in matching sear sucker suits like they just stepped off the set of a Mary Poppins film. I maintain that children who quietly eat restaurant dinners in adult looking clothes are serial killers in the making. Dirty capes dragged through ketchup are the hallmark history of well adjusted adults. I’m firm on that.

 I also remember other people’s children eating adventurous plates of colourful seafood while my own sat pining for an IKEA hot dog then diving under the table to lick up dropped ice cream off the floor. I became very good at pretending to be a free spirited mom without having taken one single improv class - ever. When the eyelids of my wee darlings finally dropped, I sighed and poured one last drink, dreaming of life beyond the chaos.

Mine is the one with the sunburn just below where his ski goggles sat. My bad.

Eventually, my husband and I thought we’d try ski trips with the kids. I was always grateful to leave the ski hill with the same number of children we had arrived with. If I close my eyes now, I can still see my youngest breaking through the caution tape meant to warn of the cliff on the other side. I heard him screaming, seconds after I could no longer see him; a voice in the clouds. My own scream stayed caught in my throat. One of the other dads skiing with us, along with my husband, raced to the edge, popped off their skis and went down. With a black eye, a banged up cheek and a sore arm, and no more sense then when he sailed over the edge, my kiddo emerged, like a happy drunk off a mechanical bull. Really Quebec? Caution tape? How ‘bout a fence?

Spring Break in my twenties was something else entirely. Back in Mexico again, I recall a friend of mine, a wee bit hungover, retching in the lobby of our sketchy hotel as we waited for the shuttle to the beach. With no time to run to the bathroom, she let it go into a plastic bag. She cried in horror at the bugs splashing up in her vomit. Through her tears we managed to calm her down and remind her of the watermelon she’d had at breakfast. Seeds. Just seeds. With the medical emergency averted, we hopped on the bus and listened to all the other spring breakers sing the praises of a little ‘hair-of-the-dog’. What did we know? 

Then there was Jamaica - another cheapo spring break in my twenties. My friends and I were so excited to be in Montego Bay for some sun and surf and no school. We hopped into our cab after landing, eager to see the island on the drive to the hotel. Again, swept away by the warm air and the magic of travel, we squealed as the cab pulled away from the little airport. The sticky hot taxi coasted out the entrance of the terminal, puttered across the street and immediately drove up another driveway; not even enough time or distance for the cab to go more than 20 km/hr. Our home for the next week was a motley coloured airport motel - walking distance from where our plane had landed. We had to take a taxi to the busy public beach where the only entrance was through a pay turnstile off the sidewalk. Still a good time. Still got a sunburn. Still so many spring break stories from my twenties that will remain in the vault …until long after my own children have been through their twenties. 

After tan lines and lift lines, spring break memories are full of games. Ping pong, beer pong, would-you-rather. Uno and crazy eights - on a plane, in a car, on a messy hotel bed. The best way to get kids to help clear dishes is to tell them there will be no board games until the coffee table in the chalet is cleared of all dirty dishes and takeout containers. Boom. Clean table. I’ve played games in the pool, tag on the ski hills, and ‘punch-buggy” in the car. Musical chairs in seedy hotels, resort obstacle courses and cocktail hour dance-offs. Hands reaching out to grab the last card, or high fives after a team win - laughter and comradery. Licking dessert plates and kissing the warm cheeks of exhausted babes. 

But I’m here now. Alone in the library.

I’m not the kid on holiday with my parents. My own kids are on different schedules now that don’t always align with my own. Two are in University and my youngest is busy with soccer, endless training, and his friends. The most I could steal this year was a few days at the cottage with the young one. My husband is a freelancer and worked this year. But I’m a teacher. I will always have spring break, or so I thought. It’s a reflex to buy sunscreen and blow the dust off the luggage in March.  A reflex that still wants to fire.

It’s quiet here - in the library. People are weird and surprising but I can get some writing done. I’m not sure if anyone else here is on spring break. I’m looking for the restless kids rolling around in the picture book aisle begging for McDonalds. I’m listening for the twenty-somethings chugging Gatorade and reminiscing about the night before but I hear nothing. No evidence of spring break here. The books around me are swollen with adventure, comedy and unexpected romance. All I can do is stare at the titles and resist the urge to settle for fiction and someone else's stories. Meanwhile, a snow storm rages outside, denying me a glimpse of spring and a much needed change in weather. I wonder when it will pass. This is just a break. Just another storm. All this will pass and spring will surely arrive soon. I have no sunburn or luggage but it certainly feels like I have much to unpack. 

Carol Sloan

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