Freedom by Betsy Bohrer

People get jealous when I tell them my in-laws live in Hawaii. But flying for hours with two small boys and meeting your mother-in-law on the other side is not the same as honeymooning. Still, we've done it many times and know a few tricks: First, clean or straighten up the house before you go so you don't come home to a mess. Second, limit the amount of hummus you feed your kids before a long flight. And finally, wear overalls at the airport -- extra pockets for crayons, tissues and confiscated items; plus hammer-loop handles on the legs, so the kids can hold on when your hands are full.

I prepare carefully for these trips, each time believing it can be stress-free with proper planning. The only lingering choices -- which book to pack in my carry-on and which to save for the beach: "Virgil" or the Special Draft edition of "Pro Football Weekly" ? And should I look like a dork boarding in summer clothes or a dork deplaning in cold-weather clothes? I make my decisions and believe I'm now fully in control of the outcome of this trip.

I look around the plane at the screaming babies and the kids throwing tantrums, and of course I've had those trips before, but this time my children are quietly reading and drawing. I sit tall in my seat, feeling smug.

I deplane quickly (yes, I look like a dork in thermal shirt and overalls) and I run past my mother-in-law, Nini, because my youngest has to hurry to the bathroom. The extra bags of trail mix have created the hummus effect. I then hurry out of the stalls with my overalls undone because Dylan has flown solo through the airport and I am looking for him in a sea of people and luggage, sure that one of these strangers intends to steal my youngest son and fly him out of the country.

Dylan, whose sense of direction and plain luck are better than mine, stands next to Nini and my older son, waving, while my husband watches the luggage-go-round. Dylan's not fazed in the slightest and I, intent on controlling the outcome of this trip with my pleasant attitude, let it drop. Nini hands me an Altoids® breath mint and offers the empty tin to Trevor, who collects such things. Yes, I have, it seems, controlled this trip with advanced planning and an easygoing attitude, and soon I am ignoring and pleasantly smiling through all kinds of comments about my choice of dress and the kids' behavior in the car, and how we brought too many suitcases, and is this my new haircut because it looks messy?

I find, with my good attitude, that we can have fun in Hawaii like people have often guessed we should. And with my camera out, I catch the boys swinging on the vines that hang from the banyan trees, building a grand sand wall on the beach, and looking at giant tree snails. I enjoy eating out without having to pay. The spring holiday kept improving as far as the boys were concerned: Trevor found a dead gecko and got to keep it in the empty Altoids® tin, provided he air it out on the balcony first -- it needed to be dried out and not so smelly before we packed it. Then Dylan got his own empty Altoids® tin to store his cool findings in (" I'm going to put snots in mine," he said).

But reality has a way of asserting itself and our trip took its customary dip. The bubblegum-flavored toothpaste we bought for the trip lost its appeal, a bird ate Trevor's dead gecko, and Dylan spiked a fever. Heading to the pediatrician, the car Nini loaned us broke down, so we borrowed her new Jaguar. While waiting for Dylan's prescription, we stopped at the beach, where we wondered which was worse: The new scratch on the front fender or the sand and cookie crumbs in the back of the Jag? I leaned out of the car as David inspected the scratch. " Isn't tomorrow tax day?" I asked. He'd forgotten entirely. These weren't insurmountable things, just tiring. Things that round the corners off your patience and good manners. And I no longer felt like smiling pleasantly through Nini's comments and rules.

It was right about then that I began to depart. I sat on the beach wearing 60SPF sun block and wondered if our trees at home had blossomed. Or if my dog missed me. Or if the man laying one towel over knew he was starting to burn. And was he ticklish? Just as I started missing crazy things -- like the dog scratching to go out, loading the dishwasher my way, and my latest round of magazine rejection letters flopping through the mail slot -- the vacation ended. On the plane during our last few minutes in Hawaii, I laughed dutifully at jokes and said wise, motherly things like " Stinky-feet who?" and " Don't kick your brother in the head."

Pressed against his dad as we took off, Dylan held his stuffed puppy and sucked his thumb. I looked at their hair, still thick with salt water and standing up silly. Trevor leaned against me across the aisle. I combed my fingers through his hair until it felt greasy and he said, " Quit it, Mommy."

I weighed more than on the last flight, and my pointer finger had a little white stripe where I wore my husband's ring during his swim in the ocean. I sunk back in my chair, not really caring that I left wet laundry in the washing machine at home. Nor did I worry about all the people who would tease me for going to Hawaii and coming home so pale.

The pictures would tell their own story: extended family smiling at giant tree snails, happy children swinging on the vines of a banyan tree, making a great sand sea wall on the beach, going on a muddy hike in the rainforest. Those things were true enough.

Susan Henderson

But the truest thing was the difference on the inside -- no longer having to screen my words, or brace myself for an insult, or smile when I didn't want to. I was tired (didn't have to pretend I wasn't), comfortable and didn't have to control a thing.

Now that was paradise.

Bio:
Susan Henderson is an Associate Editor of the Massachusetts-based print magazine, Night Train. Her work has appeared in Oakland Review's 25th Anniversary Anthology, Zoetrope: All-Story Extra (December 2000 and September 2001), Today's Parent, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Eyeshot, Alsop Review, Happy, Opium, Carve Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Hobart, The MacGuffin, Zacatecas: A Review of Contemporary Word, Word Riot, Pig Iron Malt, Mid-South Review, Eleven Bulls, and Ink Pot, as well as in a number of pamphlets and training manuals used at Pittsburgh Action Against Rape. She is a recipient of an Academy of American Poets award and won an Honorable Mention in the Green Hills Literary Lantern 2003 Fiction Contest as judged by DeWitt Henry.