Everyone talks about staycations.
I’ve always secretly thought they sounded like the participation trophy of vacations.
Why stay home when there are passports, tiny shampoo bottles and overpriced airport sandwiches?
But then I realized I live in Southern California, where “staying close to home” still means beaches, harbors, mountains and one of the best climates in the country.
Bonus points: I can still use my Ralphs rewards number to pick up some sunscreen.
So maybe I’ve been doing staycations wrong.
And there was one place I’d never really explored.
San Diego.
I’ve been there dozens of times for dance competitions, where my entire experience consisted of parking garages, convention centers, and wondering why every teenage dancer requires three Stanley cups and seventeen costume bags.
So, my sweetheart and I decided to do something different.
We booked a few nights at an older hotel on Shelter Island in the San Diego Bay.
Not fancy.
Just fun.
The kind of place with lush tropical landscaping, a pool bar, plenty of retirees, families tossing beach balls, and enough Hawaiian décor to convince you Don Ho might still be checking people in. On Friday night the Creedence Clearwater band was playing in the concert venue on property, which meant the average age dropped from seventy-two to sixty-eight.
Vacation had officially begun.
Until…
Three days earlier, my daughter had managed to lose a fight with the Pacific Ocean.
The waves at Doheny have been huge lately. As she was bringing her surfboard in, one knocked her straight onto the rocks. Her leg looked like she’d auditioned for a zombie movie. Her foot was the worst of it.
Unfortunately, she’s a dancer.
And unfortunately, it was her turning foot.
We had planned an entire day at the Safari Park.
Then beach time.
Then pool time.
Instead, we had a sixteen-year-old with half the skin missing from one leg who wasn’t allowed in the water.
Time for Plan B.
We rented her an electric scooter for the Safari Park.
The horror.
She begged us for a regular wheelchair instead.
“Please just push me.”
Absolutely not.
That park is basically a mountain disguised as a zoo. We ended up walking over seven miles. There wasn’t enough ibuprofen in Southern California for that plan.
So there we were.
A perfectly healthy-looking sixteen-year-old cruising around in a mobility scooter usually reserved for retirees recovering from hip surgery.
The side-eyes were immediate.
Little kids stared.
Parents looked confused.
You could almost hear them whispering.
“Seriously?”
But here’s the funny thing about amusement parks.
Everyone starts the day as their best self.
Then it gets hot.
The lines get longer.
The toddlers melt down.
The YMCA camp kids become surprisingly aggressive around the platypus exhibit.
People who began the morning saying, “After you,” are now using elbows to secure better giraffe viewing positions.
By about 3:45 that afternoon, something magical happened.
The judgment disappeared.
People weren’t looking at Kolby anymore.
They were looking at her scooter.
With envy.
She was gliding effortlessly from exhibit to exhibit while the rest of humanity dragged themselves uphill, sweating through sunscreen and questioning every life choice that had led them there.
She started the day embarrassed.
She ended it feeling like royalty.
Funny how quickly perspective changes.
The next day was slower.
Kolby stretched out beside the pool while the sunshine worked its magic on her scraped-up leg. My sweet man and I floated around, played football in the water, and somehow did what people used to do before phones.
We talked to strangers.
We met a recently retired doctor and his friendly wife.
Another couple about our age.
Within an hour, we were laughing like old friends.
Somewhere between floating aimlessly and discussing whose kids were the most awesome, the conversation turned toward this season of life.
Between my boyfriend and I, we have seven kids.
Most are grown.
Mine are almost there.
And one of them said something I’ll probably remember for a long time.
“Welcome to the Fun Zone.”
I loved that.
Because for the first time in twenty-seven years…
…I can actually see it.
Kolby drives herself now.
Just writing that sentence feels strange.
For years, I spent hours every day in the car. Football, Cheer, Soccer, Dance. School. Friends. More dance. Somehow my vehicle became both an Uber and a therapy office.
Now?
The driveway stays quiet.
Two of my kids are fully launched. Careers. Families. Their own lives.
My youngest is almost there.
She’s still my baby. She still needs me. But less every month.
I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.
They were loud.
Expensive.
Chaotic.
Exhausting.
Beautiful.
But somewhere along the way, motherhood quietly did what it was always supposed to do.
It worked.
It raised independent adults. And while I’m a devoted Mimi to my grandbabies, I definitely have more downtime than I used to.
As I watched Kolby’s leg slowly heal over the weekend, I realized maybe I’m healing too.
Not from scraped knees.
From letting go.
Slowly.
One tiny piece at a time.
In two years, my last chick will fly off to college.
I’ve dreaded that sentence for years.
Now…
Maybe I’m starting to get curious about what comes next.
Maybe there’s another chapter waiting that isn’t smaller.
Just different.
Apparently, they call it the Fun Zone.
And for the first time, I think I’m ready to find out what all the hype is about.
–Samantha
Five years later…
I know. I know. Someone stop me from bragging. I have diarrhea of the pompous mouth when it comes to my munchkins. But, I’m guessing most parents feel thisway. They love their kids so, so, so much, they simply can’t help themselves.
