Last fall, on a family Zoom call with my adult children, my twenty-five year old daughter said,

“Let’s do Christmas differently this year. Let’s not spend money on presents or decorations or on our big Christmas party. Let’s have an experience! Just us.”

My twenty-one year old son said, “I agree. We have enough stuff. Let’s go somewhere and have an adventure!” And then he added, “Just us.”

It seemed like there was a bit more to it from both of them. A hint of: while it’s still just ‘us.’

I’ve never pressured them to get married nor to have children, but they have said repeatedly, unsolicited, since they were little, that they want to one day be married and have children. And in that moment looking into their cyberly translated faces, I realized that if this was to be true, the window for “just us” time might very well be closing in. Who knew how life would unfold for any of us, but it was true that twenty-year olds can go from being “under your wing” to fully fledged fast, and with that full-fledging comes responsibilities. New people in their lives, new commitments, new places, new roles, new traditions. New identity. New iterations of “us.”

I, of course, want that for them, if it’s indeed what they want. I have never been a grabby, helicopter-ish mother. But the more I considered their “just us” point on that Zoom call, the more I felt something like desperation…tinged with a bit of panic. I’d held our “just us” so dear for the last decade. Perhaps it owed to the fact that when a family with two parents in it becomes a family with one parent taking on new, foreign roles…and pulls it off against the odds…there’s a bit of a victory dance in order. A deep bow.

Maybe that was part of their plea? Or part of why I heartily and happily and quickly shed my traditional holiday contortions and said, “I’m totally open to that! Where do you want to go? What adventure would you like to have this Christmas and New Year? I have a special fund that I’ve been saving for something like this.” Maybe that “rainy day” was here.

With gaining emotion, I couldn’t resist catering to the pressing shelf-life of this “just us.” In fact, the more we discussed it, this trip/adventure felt like a necessity. One, lovely, memory-building, and even lavish, “last” adventure. It stopped me flat: This really could be the last time that we have a rich family adventure without anyone else but us. In our weird humor and propensity to laugh at only things we feel comfortable laughing at, just us.

After two years of a global pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns and travel restrictions, it even seemed dire. Afterall, the Delta variant was calming down. It seemed like the exact time to make this bold move into trusting the wider world again, and ourselves in it. Who knew what was around the corner, Covid-wise, on top of the next chapter of our individual lives? And we are travel people. I raised them this way. They took the baton. Now who were we out there in the world?

That pitter-patter of an ensuing trip upped my heartbeat. So I put something on the table. “How about someplace warm? Like Costa Rica? The Bahamas? The Maldives?”

Silence. Their eyes looked away from their screens.

“Or wherever,” I added. Card promptly taken off the table. I’d learned from practice that it’s best not to project, expect, and over-plan vacations when it comes to working with young people. A mother’s heart can get so utterly smashed by teenagers and even college-aged kids.

I thought about how to present or frame this “just us adventure” and came up blank. Not because I didn’t have countless ideas. But because I wasn’t sure I knew their definition of adventure anymore. When they were little, yes. But who were these young people now in the realm of their independence? What was the best meeting point with them? It dawned on me that I didn’t really know how to co-create with them at this stage of their lives, especially when it came to the holidays. We weren’t cutting out snowflakes for the living room windows. Or deep in the woods looking for the perfect Christmas tree. Or canning homegrown tomatoes for Christmas presents. Those mothering years were likely in the rear-view-mirror.

Who were we now? This “just us.”

It seemed like questions were the way to find out. Not controlling overtures, persuasive arguments, calls to action, or matriarchal mandate like early motherhood can require. So I put it out there: “What experience do you want to have? What’s your definition of a holiday adventure?”

I saw their eyes engage again, their minds cranking.

If we were going to have a successful adventure, I needed to go slowly. Let them have a say. Listen to their thoughts. Invite them to help plan. Let go of mothering patterns from the past. This was a time for “just us” to merge our minds and dreams and create a new bond for the future. And likely even a new way to each other.

It felt wonderful and scary. Don’t overthink it, Laura. Yeah, well, that’s a very nice thought in theory, but there was a lot at stake. A lot more than how full the Christmas tree is and how thoughtful the stocking contents and how good the nog. Those were controllables. Well, except the year the tree fell down in the middle of the living room and broke most of the ornaments, a lot of them beloved family heirlooms. That went from crushing to hilarious. It’s still hilarious. Makes us all belly-laugh.

I decided that more than anything, we needed belly-laughing. Life had become so serious. Ensuing college graduation and ensuing job hunt, Covid-challenged learning and athletic events, job lay-offs, paused business moves, cancelled book tour, and on and on.

A bit of motherly history: I’ve been planning itineraries for family travel since my children were babies. I’ve always been committed to the “be” mentality vs. the “do” mentality. Especially when they’re young. I wanted them to love travel. To be happy and curious and playful in a museum. A park. A restaurant. A city street (Montana spawn), a subway car, an airplane cabin, all of it. So I made sure that there were windows to just…be in those places. To go to a cheese shop and a bakery and everyone pick out one special nibbly bit, spread out a blanket in a park, have a picnic, and people watch. To go to the Art Institute of Chicago (my stomping ground) and choose a theme. “Let’s see how many birds we can find in paintings. We’ll keep a tally and whoever spies the most gets a special treat from the gift shop.” I wasn’t much for bribery, but they both knew I couldn’t resist a museum gift shop anyway, so it was a fun-forward game rather than a greed-based one. Usually they forgot about the bribe part anyway. We got lost in the fun. Mission accomplished.

But how to plan a vacation with adult children, one still in college, in a global pandemic? With restrictions changing on a dime, country by country? Would we be able to interact with locals at all, in their neighborhoods and free-flowing vernacular, or would it only be hotel employees, on their best professional behavior? We wanted the real deal. We were hoping for small B&B’s where we could really connect with other travelers and families, swapping stories in an intimate setting. We weren’t interested in big hotels, which seemed to be the only option given all the closures.

They were on the same page. My daughter said, “Let’s go somewhere easy. We always choose challenging places. I mean, I want to climb mountains in Nepal. But how about we leave that for later. I just need a break. Somewhere happy.”

My son perked up. “I can’t imagine spending Christmas somewhere warm. We should go for cozy.”

“What about Ireland?” my daughter said. “That’s cozy. Singing in pubs and sipping hot whiskey…”

“Christmas in Killarney!” all three of us said and laughed. “With aaaaaaaal of the folks at home!”

Smiles x3. More please!

Over the next few weeks, we each added our dream druthers to our group text feed. I had to hold back on naming the feed Just Us. I mean…I want them to like me.

The opinions started to roll in, warning us against international travel with this new Omicron variant. We wondered: should we wait until life was back to “normal?” It’s a big trip from Montana, after all. Lots of airplanes and layovers, and large expenditures. We took heart in the mask mandates and proof of double jabs at all pubs, restaurants, hotels, and some shops, and that the country was much lower on Covid than many others. Still…

Maybe it was because of the unsolicited opinion roll-out that we started to act tribally, the three of us. The world can’t stop because of a virus. There’s no good reason not to go. Even if we get Covid, despite our vaccinations and boosters, and have to quarantine over there, we’ll turn it into an adventure.

Here was how our text feed went: (no attributions, but you can probably figure out who wrote what)

I’ve heard that the golf courses are pretty sweet over there.

I’ve heard that the Dingle Peninsula is a must.

I’m in it for the jigs and reels and sea shanties.

Guinness.

A city hit in Dublin for sure. I miss the city.

No language barrier. I miss really connecting with people in different cultures.

Distillery Tour.

James Joyce land. John O’Donohue land. Yeats land…

Irish Whiskey tasting.

I want to ride a Connemara horse on the beach!

Pubs.

100% pubs.

Pubs for sure.

Well, we agreed on that. Pubs. In different iterations.

Mine: I was in it for the full-blown, wind-blown pub scene. Gatherings with locals, in spirted, heart-swept, impromptu singing. A tin whistle. Fiddles. A bodhran drum. An accordion. Maybe after a long hike in the countryside, or a long coastal drive. I could just see us wandering into a roadside pub, lanterns lit in an otherwise moody, grey landscape, Irish eyes smiling and asking us if we’d like something good to eat and drink. Lamb pie. Black pudding. Kindred wanderers and locals all bellying up for the same reason. Have a chat. Have a song. Have a pint. Know that they’re not alone, at least in that communal moment that the Irish are known to do so well. Maybe even get some inspiration and write the beginnings of a novel on a Guinness coaster. Go home full. New. A revived confidence in human connection. Really, my very favorite things on earth. Especially after so much isolation these last two years.

That’s what I was in it for, anyway. And I was pretty sure that these young adults’ vision wouldn’t be far away from my own. We are extroverts. Who love live, impromptu music and singing. Who love to connect with strangers. And who aren’t shy around beer. Yes, we would go for the people and the jolly public house culture—the perfect way to get to know my young adults in an informal and fun way. Plus, the belly-laughing. I pictured us belly-laughing in pubs across Ireland after long days of sightseeing.

So I booked it.

Five days prior to our departure I called a family Zoom meeting: “Well, I have some good news, and some bad news. Hint: Guinness.”

That got their attention.

“Good news! Our holiday trip to Ireland is still on!”  I paused a moment, not sure how to break the rest of the news to them. “The bad news is…the Irish government just mandated that the pubs and restaurants close at 8:00. Sooo…”

Them: Silence. Perhaps some muttered expletives.

“That’s okay, right? We’ll still explore the countryside and coast. We’ll still meet people. We’ll still have fun. We’ll still be just us.”

“But will there be fun music before 8:00?” one said.

The other: “I kinda doubt it.”

“We’ll have a blast no matter what! We all need a major change of scenery.”

They agreed. I have highly flexible and adaptive children. Of that I am sure.

So on December 22nd we boarded a plane to Dublin, double-masked, double-jabbed, boosted, and with all the papers to prove it.

As I awoke to the green patchwork of the Irish countryside, I looked out my airplane window, thinking: What if the ‘just us’ that we find is really just a manifestation of the past and not a vibrant present, much less future? What if we really don’t know how to be together at all? Not having the pub scene as our playing ground will have us really present with one another. I hope that’s a good thing. Jet-lag messes with me. I shook it out of my mind and put on my best “just us” face.

What I didn’t quite bargain for, was the large amount of driving I’d signed up for.

On the other side of the road. The steering wheel on the right. And while both of my children are great drivers, the rental car agency wouldn’t approve them, given their age. So it was all me. And that was okay. I’m a confident and good and adaptive driver. I mean, I drive Montana roads all winter. I can do anything, right? I thought, as I nearly backed into a post leaving the parking garage. I was hellbent on not being your typical clueless American driver. I’d get this other side of the road thing figured out in seconds flat. Just you watch me. I stared into the first Dublin round-about with steely reserve. And then the next. And the next.

I’ll paint you the picture; spare you the details:

It was roundabout after roundabout and all in the “opposite direction.” So it wasn’t just linear learning. It was a life-threatening matter of clock-wise vs. counter-clockwise. I’ve never been good with clocks. I didn’t realize that I am also, most definitely, directionally challenged. And given the time of year, each day our return drive was in the total dark, often with very little street light, giving the optical illusion that you are about to get in a head-on every time you pass a car. Stone walls on either side. No shoulder. And for some crazy reason, at the suggested speed of 80 kph? That’s around 50 mph. There is honestly no way you could drive those windy, dark roads at 80 kph. Not even if you know them like the back of your hand. Again, I’m an excellent driver and I’m here to say: People who are used to driving on the right side of the road should be required to take a course for driving on the left. And vice the verse. Serious.

On a lighter note, because remember, that’s what our little trio was going for:

Think: Mr. Magoo, circa 1970s Saturday morning cartoons.

Nary a scrape, but a couple serious close calls.

“MOM! You almost hit that SHEEP!”

“MOM! You almost hit that ROCK WALL!”

“MOM! YOU ALMOST HIT THAT MAN!”

“MOM! THIS IS THE WRONG LANE!”

“MOM! MERGE! NOW! NO! NOT IN THAT DIRECTION! GO THE OTHER DIRECTION!”

“MOM! GO LEFT! I MEAN RIGHT! I MEAN SH**! THAT WAY!” Pointing with both hands in opposite directions like the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. Apparently it wasn’t just me that was directionally challenged.

It’s one thing to be told where to go. But I’ve never been good at being yelled at. Even though they were correct to do so! I mean it was dangerous!

But to yell at someone who is trying like the dickens to keep herself calm…doesn’t work for me. At all. I started to retaliate. Plus, I didn’t need the stress! What about this “just us” thing? Frankly, this felt like a blood-sport version of their teenaged years. But the truth was, and we all knew it, that there was no possible way I could have done it without them. Which started to churn and bubble in me. I’m an independent, highly competent woman. Did this mean that I wouldn’t be able to pull off a driving trip in Ireland solo? Or the UK? Or Australia? And if that was true, what about more challenging places in which to drive. With a language barrier. Completely different customs. Like…Beirut. Should I check Beirut off the list? I really want to go to Beirut. Would I have to stick to New England for fall foliage or Napa for wine-tasting crawls? Was I going to be an old lady on a bus tour???

“MOM! Are you seriously considering parallel parking right now?”

“I’m an EXCELLENT parallel parker! Watch me!” Failed attempt. Directional brain explosion. “Just kidding! This is like Groundhog Day Opposite Day!” That got a laugh.

At one point my son, wearing his airplane neck pillow, dozing in and out like he was in a video game, said, pointing to his sister playing navigator in the “passenger seat” front left:  “Well as far as I can see, no one’s driving the car at all. So there’s that.” And went back to sleep.

“MOM! Stop ducking and gasping every time you pass a truck! It’s freaking us out!”

“FINE! I’LL SING DANNY BOY then! Operatically! If that would make you FEEL BETTER! This driving on the left side of the road thing ain’t fer sissies!!!”

Silence. They really don’t see me on full freak out mode very often. Because I don’t go on full freak out mode very often.

Then, from my son: “What even is Danny Boy?”

“It’s an Irish song. If the pubs were open past 8:00, you’d know it well. Grrrr…”

My son chimed in again. “How do I know that song?”

“I don’t know. But every Irish grandfather sings it at weddings and cries.” And then a massive semi careened by, and I held the wheel and sang in my best Pavarotti, Oh, Danny Boy…the pipes the pipes…”

“MOM! Stop singing and DRIVE!”

Son again, just before dropping off to sleep. Again: “Oh I know! It’s the song that Jay sings on Modern Family.”

I wanted to be back at the hotel with a nice Irishman delivering me a pot of nice Irish tea. In front of a nice peat moss fire. The nice Irish chauffeur at the ready for tomorrow’s driving adventure.

Ha. Ha.

But there was one moment which was the confluence of it all.

And it secured our future in just the pitch perfect way, sans fiddle, tin whistles, bodhran, accordion. And with me at the steering wheel.

It was broad daylight. We were driving the Dingle Peninsula. We were wind-blown-away by the beauty. The ancient beehive huts. The ocean foam. The cliffs, all accompanied by the sea shanties we’d cued up on our playlists, pub music or no pub music. We were happy. We’d gotten over the original stress of the driving and navigational challenges and had settled into a family of three “just us” rhythm. But nature calls…and sometimes suddenly.

In tandem. “I have to pee!” They could have been five years old.

“Why didn’t you go when we got gas?”

“We didn’t have to pee then!”

“That was only like fifteen minutes ago!” Grrrrrrrr…

Of course there was no gas station in sight. We were in the middle of a windswept coast with sheep and endless loose stack rock walls.

“Can’t you wait?”

“NO! I’m going to pee in my pants if we don’t stop. Just stop!”

Grrrrrr…

I looked for a place to pull over, Montana style.

Picture a tiny car on tiny roads. Golf cart sized roads. Surely this wasn’t a public thoroughfare. So I made a varsity move and pulled into a small, muddy gulley, hoping we wouldn’t get stuck or offend a sheep herder. Surely nature’s call was universal, but leave it to the Americans to sully the otherwise unsullied landscape.

“How about here?” I said.

“Fine!” they both yelled.

They leapt out of the car and suddenly it all became hilarious. I’ll spare the TMI details, but suffice it to say that all of the stress of the driving, all the bottling it up inside of me, all of the victim thoughts of why do I have to be the only responsible adult, and likely years of unprocessed junk…combusted. I went stand-up. Full-on crazy woman. Screaming at her children on the side of the road, mocking them, flinging shotgun expletives their way, letting it all rip so over-the-top red-faced and loose-lipped that sheep were staring at me. Luckily not herders. All this from the driver’s seat.

The kids got back into the car. They thought it was hilarious. Mommy has come un-done. Their laughter put me over the edge.

As I rounded the last lap of my not-so-tongue-in-cheek rant, something to the tune of: “So if I’m not driving exactly perfectly, then you can SUCK IT because I’m pretty sure that I’m pulling off one freaking INCREDIBLE trip of a lifetime vacation JUST US! So you can go…”

And then I stopped short. Because in that moment, in the side mirror, I saw a woman walking down the lane, holding a small child’s hand, behind her, a man, with a baby in a front papoose. Where on earth did they even come from? No houses or towns for miles??? They both instinctively shielded their children from the insane woman parked in the gulley, not at all understanding that it was all a big loud ugly American Mommy joke.

So I screamed out, (because surely that would help the situation), “I SWEAR I’M NOT CRAZY! I’M JUST YELLING AT MY ADULT CHILDREN! IT’S A JOKE. WE’RE ON HOLIDAY AND WE’RE JUST BEING SILLY! I PROMISE!”

They squinted at me like I was landing an alien spaceship on their otherwise bucolic landscape.

I tried to come up with something that would make them understand but came up empty. Only this, and pointing at them with ferocity:

“JUST…YOU…WAIT!”

That was the first belly-laugh. All the stress turned into explosions of nervous laughter. That “just us” belly-laugh bloomed one after the next all the way through our holiday, and back. We shared our belly-laugh stories with our friends upon return. They got smiles. Not belly-laughs. Guess you had to be there.

And so, it was a bit sad this morning to see this news, not because I wasn’t overjoyed for pub owners and employees and all who frequent them, but because we had so much fun, so much singing, so many Irish smiling eyes, and so many family laughs…well…before eight o’clock. Pubs and restaurants are back to normal in Ireland, for now.

And despite it all, we had our own “normal.” Just us. Who knows what comes next… We’ll be there to ensure belly-laughing!

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2022

• March 23 – 27 (one spot left)
• May 4 – 8 (one spot left)
• June 8 – 12 (filling fast)
• June 15 – 19 (filling fast)
• September 14 – 18 (now booking)
• September 28 – October 2 (now booking)
• October 26 – 30 (now booking)