Sin City

Having just returned from a family trip to Las Vegas, I think it’s safe to conclude we will be staying in the tri-county area for the next ten years or so. It seems as if going on vacation causes me to lose things. Little things, like time and money. Oh, and kids.

It wasn’t my fault (exactly). I really do look after my kids (mostly). The goal has always been to keep my children safe and fed and relatively well groomed. Sure it’s a lofty goal, but most of the time I succeed. However! There is something about vacationing with children that turns me into a frenzied, absentminded nit-wit, despite my excessive planning and deep breathing techniques.

On the second night of our trip, I found it difficult to sleep. Perhaps it was because our hotel was under the flight path of a very busy airport, or maybe it was due to the Mary J. Blige song performing incessantly—live and in concert!—in my head. Whatever the reason, my eyes stung and my head ached and still I couldn’t sleep. I suppose it didn’t help that I snuck out of bed all naughty-like and stumbled down the shabby hallway into the casino to locate the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop I had spied earlier. I felt I would finally be able to relax after yielding to my craving. Instead, I just felt a little chubbier.

Later, as I maneuvered my way back into bed between three snoring bodies of various shapes and sizes, I wondered why I had ever agreed to this trip. Carly was so annoyingly active these days. I mean seriously, it bordered on rudeness. She was impossible to keep track of in a small, padded room, let alone in a city of over 500,000 smoking-drinking-doughnut-eating people. It had taken all of our energy to just get here. As soon as we boarded the plane she had begun acting like a crazed caged orangutan hunting for small bugs and I realized, with great hostility, that I could kiss my vacation (and I use the term “vacation” in the loosest possible way) goodbye.

On the other hand, Paige was a traveler’s dream. She’s my little pleaser. Sweet as a lollipop, that Paige. Always aiming for perfection. As Kenny and I wrestled with Carly in the airport terminal and in the hotel room and in the casino lobby and in the bathroom stall and in the buffet line, Paige was always happy to help. She retrieved fallen binkies and thrown sippy-cups, she held doors and elevators, she followed instructions without question as we frantically bellowed them out.

So imagine my shock, dear readers, on the morning of day number three when I opened the door of our hotel room to find Paige staring back at me from the hallway with a disturbingly blank look. I was groggy from my sleepless night and I gaped at her, motionless, for a long while. I thought I was dreaming, and I noticed that her polka-dot nightgown blended nicely with the gaudy wallpaper. She looked like a lost baby bird. Next to Paige stood a woman who I took to be an infinitely more accomplished mother. She was dripping with scorn and contempt. “Is this your little girl?” she asked. (It was really more of a demand than a question.) “She’s been knocking on your door for a REALLY … LONG … TIME.”