My sons landed a plane the other day.
What happened was this: we were offered a move to Australia, I said no, we moved anyway, we met our people. One of them told me that every year, her husband would gift her with a solo overnight stay in a local hotel. I looked at The Husband with stars in my eyes. I got a few years of these stays in before a worldwide pandemic hit. I took two years off.
This year, I went back.
We use points, not cold hard cash (credit) for these visits, so our options are limited to the hotel brand that takes those points. The place I usually stay is being used as a quarantine station, so I picked a new place, in a slightly different location, a place that has a history and multiple renovations within that history and that, I feared, could be haunted. Between my fear of ghosts and my typical anxiety, I entertained the idea of scuttling this tradition altogether. Surely it would be enough to just head upstairs a bit early on my own and watch Netflix from our own bed?
Then I thought of a room service cheeseburger. And I said, No. I need this. Homeschooling was enough to make me need this. So I went. But not before I told the boys that everyone deserves some time alone, and that it’s healthy, and that they should never be afraid to ask for their own space. Because, as a former (home) teacher, I believe in teaching moments.
Then I waved off the Hyundai and headed up to my private room.
Spoiler alert: the hotel wasn’t haunted. Or, if it was, none of the ghosts bothered me, which was polite of them. Instead of paranormal activity, I limited myself to a trip up to the rooftop pool and a glass of Prosecco. Then I had my room service, some rosé from home, and a viewing of The Sound of Music. The next morning I went back to the pool for a short and chilled rainy swim while a couple made out nearby.
The whole thing felt equal parts awkward, hesitant, and wonderful which I figure is the most any of us can ask for these days.
That next morning, the Hyundai collected me and the four of us headed to meet friends at a nearby museum. We raced through it, looking at microcars and eucalyptus trees and fashion and planets. Then the boys queued up for a turn at an aircraft landing simulator. I watched as The Kid handled the controls and found his way, landing the plane seamlessly. Then I took him to the bathroom and came back to find that Little Brother had done the same thing.
It seems that a big part of what defines the second half of life, from a certain common vantage point anyway, is its lack of surprises. The big deals are done and it’s more of a settling-in phase. But this morning, I drove away from my planned trip to the indoor pool and toward the slate-grey skies over the beach, and kept going–past the first few steps into the water that left me rage-filled and freezing and into the strokes that left me warmed-up and calm. Nearly five years ago, no became fine which became home, and now some government official is processing our Australian passports. A second ago, the boys were two and five and now they’re landing planes. Grace is still full of surprises.