The Spring Break Diaries

Please enjoy this guest column, courtesy of a lovely friend and super-talented and sometimes overstretched mom who just spent 14 days with three kids, one husband, and zero room service.  I’m sure many of us can relate. 

Spring break in our area is two weeks long. TWO WEEKS. That’s not a vacation—it’s a hostage situation.

This year, we decided to take our three young children, ages 11, 8 and 2, to Florida for spring break. Tired of cold weather and craving sunshine and sandy beaches, we embraced the sweet delusion that traveling with kids would somehow be relaxing. (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.)

Day One: Off to the airport we went, the kids excited for their upcoming adventure and me happy that I managed to get out of the house wearing something that didn’t have PB & J stains on it somewhere. On the plane, the man of the house, a.k.a. dear hubby, somehow ended up in a peaceful row of his own, stretching out, sipping ginger ale like a man who’s never been touched by an elbow, foot, or juice box explosion. Me?  I’m the parent in the middle seat, with a baby on my lap and a child on either side.

Our first night was in South Beach. We checked into a hotel that apparently thought two adults and three children all staying in one room meant that there were potential fire code violations. Pro tip: if your kids are all sleeping in your bed anyway, you should not be required to pay an “extra occupant” fee unless it comes with a free chiropractor.

Day Two: Our littlest had slept like an angel all night between hubby and me while his siblings were cozy in the second bed. But no surprise to most mothers everywhere, I woke up feeling like I’d been trapped under a golden retriever in a straitjacket. But hey, blue skies and warm weather, baby!

Day Four: We were off to Marco Island, which is basically Club Med for people under four feet tall. The long car ride through the Everglades was shockingly pleasant and the kids were thrilled to see live alligators. I was less enthralled. Nothing says “family fun” like the real possibility of becoming a snack.

Day Five: Finally, a day of relaxation by the pool where, sadly, I skipped lunch. Not out of martyrdom, but protest.  I refused to pay $30 for a turkey sandwich that had the texture of a gym shoe and came with six sad apple slices. The other option - a house salad - had the flair of a gas station snack aisle. So, no, I wasn’t feeling punished, I was protecting my dignity. And my credit card.

Day Seven: We were a week in, and I watched with delight as each child created magical memories. Hubby treated our eldest to a jet ski adventure and a round of golf (where they dodged actual gators) and then both older ones to a day-long snorkel trip. It was heartwarming to watch him spend one-on-one time with them.

Me?  I let myself be buried in sand and avoided the ocean (bless the baby’s aversion to cold water).  I also re-applied sunscreen to anyone who even came close to me like Coppertone had given me a lifetime supply.

Day Eight: Nap time doubled as work time. (Being a small business owner, I don’t exactly get PTO.)  Calls were scheduled and taken in a bathing suit, in a hotel bathroom, with a baby monitor on mute. The clients never had a clue.

Then there was a storm. We’d been in the pool for five minutes before evacuation. The baby was devastated until the thunder rumbled, and he was instantly converted into a mini storm chaser.  Two days later, he excitedly retold the lightning show like it was a Marvel movie premiere.

During the entire trip - to no mother’s surprise - I was still the first one up every morning.  I probably wouldn’t even know what to do with an extra hour of rest but just once I’d like to hear the phrase, “Let’s be quiet so your mom can sleep in.”

Still, the trip had many highlights: My son crushed it on the golf course. My daughter swam with dolphins. The baby learned 1,000 new words (97% snack-related). And, though we didn’t even get one minute alone together, my husband and I didn’t fight. Not once. (Miracles are real.)

Day 13:  Time to go home. The meticulously packed, color-coded, “Mom is a genius” travel bag I started with had become a sad sack of everyone’s dirty laundry. Literally. My things, my daughter’s things, the baby’s everything—all marinating together like a warm gym bag of shame.  At this point, the bag needs therapy and possibly fumigation.

Day 14:  We’re home and it’s back to baseball, football, tennis, golf, Kumon, and activity scheduling spreadsheets worthy of Pentagon logistics. We’re not quite ready for another trip—but give it time. We’ll be back in the sky soon, me with a baby on my lap, someone else’s sock in my purse, and no memory of what my personal space once felt like.

After all, we’re moms. We juggle all the balls. And somehow, we still keep them in the air—with a splash of humor, a gallon of sunscreen, and whatever's left in that bag.

© 2025  Annie Sokoloff