Laura Vukson

Paradise

“Welcome to Paradise,” Joseph says as he hoists our two-year-old son Dezeh in his tattooed arms and trails the handsome bellboy and our mismatched suitcases down the Spanish colonial hallway. Century-old arches frame the courtyard garden. I push the double stroller stacked with diaper bags, backpacks and our ten-month-old Tibaa. He waves his fist then shoves it into his toothless mouth. A woman wearing an apron walks by and coos at our babies. 

The bellboy unlocks the door and holds it open for us. Cool, conditioned air tingles my skin. A king-size bed floats like an island on the blue tiles, and through the window, the Caribbean winks at us. The resort's amenities promise a babysitting service, a spa and a buffet—an escape from the brutal Canadian winter. I envision sipping wine and writing under majestic palms, the stunning turquoise sea sprawled in front of me, our little ones having a blast with other kids, well out of earshot. 

Before becoming a mother, if I knew I would be home for more than a few months, I’d plan a trip—Cambodia, Vietnam, China, Ghana, Australia, France, Italy, and the list goes on. I’ve always been a wanderer, but knowing that doesn’t stop me from picturing my mom shaking her head and telling me not to travel anywhere with two babies. How did she stay put for all those years as a young mother, so far away from her own family? The kind of motherhood that meant sitting by the home fires with us kids seemed to come naturally to her. 

 When I first had Dezeh, and then fourteen months later, Tibaa, I promised and then promised myself again that I’d never be one of those parents: the ones who root like plants and never venture anywhere. A dull life filled with hours of routine? My worst nightmare.

Our first evening in Paradise, Tibaa wails uncontrollably. His forehead is hot and clammy. When I take his temperature, the thermometer reads 103 degrees Fahrenheit. I strip him down to his diaper. By 5 am, he's yanking at his ear and screaming in the rickety crib the bellboy set up in the narrow space between our bed and the cement wall. 

Joseph and I dress quickly and head out the compound gates to a twenty-four-hour clinic. I push the stroller with Tibaa strapped in; Dezeh babbles away in his papa's arms. In the waiting room, Joseph lowers him down to wander, and immediately Dezeh grabs his brother’s stroller and slams it into an expired Christmas tree. 

“Six more days in Paradise,” Joseph mutters. 

I sigh and pick up Dezeh and push out the door. The sky is a blaze of pink and red, promising another beautiful hot day. I'm so exhausted that I feel hungover but without the party. I walk my son up and down the cracked cobblestones and watch a crowded bus of hotel employees drive by. Dezeh waves. No one waves back. 

Back at the clinic, a nurse pins Tibaa on the examining bed and shoves a pill up his rectum. Tylenol. Then, she injects a needle filled with Gravol into his thigh to settle his stomach. My poor baby looks grey and frail. 

I chew my nails, tearing at the cuticles as I watch. Travelling with one child was so easy. I’ve racked up nearly 100,000 miles of travel since my firstborn was ten days old. But then my second son came along—sweet, tiny, colicky Tibaa. The birth alone was traumatic—no epidural—then the colic erupted. Screaming. Hard belly. Long, thin arms and legs shaking with pain. Life got even harder. 

"Your son must go to the hospital if he becomes dehydrated." The doctor’s words snap me back to the present. "Children on vacation get colds because of the back and forth from outdoors to cold air-conditioned rooms. And ear infections because of the wind blowing on the beach. The wind holds everything." He shrugs.

I try to decide if the physician is super chill or just can't stand tourists. The nurse hands Joseph a prescription. I pick up Tibaa, my heart pounding. I kiss his cheek and strap him back into the stroller. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes. We head back to the resort through the blushing sunrise, all of us ready for bed.

The fantasy of a massage, pedicure and manicure is fading fast. I catch myself dreaming about my old life. Missing it. Obsessing about what I would do if I had some free time. I'm too anxious to be far from my babies, so I settle for reading a book at the beach bar, the stroller parked beside me. 

A gaggle of girls—ten years younger than me with shiny hair, flowing white cover-ups, and flat bellies—sip pink cocktails and munch on tacos at the nearby table. Their perfectly manicured nails catch my eye. I tuck my ragged fingernails into my palms. 

A few years ago, when I lived in New York, my girlfriends flew from Toronto to visit me. A yellow taxi delivered them to my cramped apartment in Harlem, near Manhattan’s upper east side. We spent the day lounging, ordering Chinese food and painting our nails. 

Later that night, we linked arms as we left an Italian restaurant on 52nd street—laughing and singing—our bellies full of ravioli and dessert wine. Wobbling on the cobblestone in our heels, we scoured Soho for Prohibition-era speakeasies behind hidden doors. I can still hear the loud thumping of house music that led to the sea of dancing bodies greeting us on the other side of a restaurant's freezer door. Sweat glistened on our skin, our neon nails glowing under the blacklight as we fell into a trance and danced till the sky brightened. 

Tibaa coos and snaps me from my daydream. One of the beach girls adjusts her cover-up, her eyes wandering before settling on my baby and me. She flashes her teeth in a smile. I pretend that I don't see her and busy myself swatting at imaginary mosquitoes around Tibaa. I don't recognize myself anymore. I'm officially stuck between mourning my old life and being a mother.

Days later, I push Tibaa in the stroller past couples lounging on the fake grass facing the pool. American music blares from the deejay booth. Young people are knocking back drinks at the pool bar, their skin rosy under the scorching sun. A mother with bags under her eyes walks by with a screaming toddler in her arms. I smile in solidarity, secretly comforted.  

"Three more days left in Paradise," Joseph whispers as he hobbles to the bathroom. The day before, he tore a ligament while carrying the stroller, weighed down with wet towels, up the resort's slippery stairs. The air conditioner shudders and stops. I pour red wine into a plastic cup and push the stroller back and forth with my toes. The babies nod off. 

Barefoot and dressed in a silky floral robe, I walk to my private nook—a coat rack and the crib dragged into a corner and draped with a bedsheet. Perched on a wooden stump, I open my laptop. After a few minutes, I close it. My mind is blank. I can’t seem to get out of low gear. I'm flailing in the murky waters of baby-brain.

I hear the shower running. When Joseph emerges, he pokes his head over my makeshift tent. I get up and wrap my arms around his neck. Glancing at our sleeping boys, we erupt in giggles and fall backward on the bed. Our lovemaking is planned down to the minute. Hours later, the four of us head to the beach, and I snap photos of my loves—Instagram will see a picture-perfect family vacation, dammit. 

The following day, I lie in bed, wrapped in blankets and shivering. Chills and aches run through my bones. Diarrhea. Fever. A terrible hack. I moan and close my eyes. Dezeh erupts in a tantrum, and Tibaa bangs his rattle on the floor. In my delirium, I dream of Tibaa's sturdy crib back home, its white, wooden lines and clean, soft blankets. We've planned three work trips between now and summer. What the hell were we thinking?

I drag myself out of bed an hour later and pop a Tylenol. There are no sick days for mothers. By 10 am, I'm drenched in sweat and chasing Dezeh around the resort while Tibaa naps in his stroller. No babysitting service exists. Joseph sits and writes at the outdoor bar, his bulging knee propped up on a wicker chair. After an hour, I signal him to take over. He hobbles over with his laptop tucked under his arm. 

Joseph flashes his fingers in a V. “Two more days in Paradise.” 

The next day, my flu is gone, returned mysteriously from where it came. We climb into an ancient horse-drawn carriage, Tibaa in his car seat and Joseph holding Dezeh. The driver, Victor, is loud and boisterous. A field of tall grasses and flamboyant trees blossoming red flowers stretches to the blue horizon; the noble white Spanish horse clips at a fast trot. The wind is a relief from the sweltering heat and mosquitoes. 

Within minutes, the cheery clack of the gelding's hooves and the chirping birds have us smiling and waving at cabs, tourists strolling, and even a wandering dog. In my life before children, I would have read up on this place, learning what I could about the culture, the geography, the history. I look around me and realize I know nothing about Paradise.

The gelding's ears prick forward. Another carriage flies past, its horse small and sure-footed on the cobblestones. Dezeh squeals and sticks his hands out of the carriage. 

“How much?” a heavyset tourist with a Midwestern accent hollers from the curbside as we slow for a stop sign. He rubs the tip of his fingers. 

“I'll give you a deal,” Victor shouts.

“No, I said how much.” 

“I'll give you a deal,” Victor repeats.

The tourist's face goes red. He throws his hands up in the air, muttering something about not getting ripped off as he stomps away. Joseph rolls his eyes and asks Victor about his day. I look away, wheezing. In my zest to be a fun mom, I forgot I have a severe allergy to horses. I’m gasping for air. I pretend as long as I can before I finally beg to turn around.

Back at the resort, Joseph bargains with Victor. Five feet away, a tourist bus pumps out hot exhaust. 

“We got a deal,” Joseph says, walking up. We wave goodbye to Victor. The gelding's tail swishes as he takes off down the cobbles. 

“What did you pay?” I sneeze. 

“Fity American dollars,” Joseph says.

I nod.

“It wasn’t much of a deal,” Joseph says. 

“One more day in Paradise,” I wheeze.

My anxiety spikes. Hives appear on my neck and chest. Tibaa is perched on my hip. Joseph and Dezeh are downstairs, arranging a ride back to the airport. I stuff the last spoonful of chicken and carrot baby purée into Tibaa. He coos, then projectiles creamy vomit onto my hair, neck, tropical green dress, and the floor. I turn and sprint, baby outstretched in my arms, past the balled-up bedsheets on the mattress and into the bathroom, where the low ceiling threatens to collapse under the weight of dampness. I climb into the tub, wrap my arm around Tibaa's middle and peel off our clothes. I swallow hard. He's much thinner than when we arrived in Paradise a week ago. 

On the way to the airport, I stare out the cab window and stroke Dezeh's hair as he nurses. Grey concrete houses spread out along one side of the road. Red, pink and blue curtains hang in open windows. The car winds around a bend, and a rugged rainforest envelops us. Finally, a glimpse of the real country. 

At the airport, Joseph fills out custom forms. Dezeh tugs at my leg. "Momma," he says quietly. Chunks of vomit drip over his iPad, t-shirt and stroller seat. Hardly thinking, I whip out a clean pair of clothes, unstrap and change him amongst the other travelers. No one notices. All eyes are on the customs officials. 

Ten bins later, we pass through security with wailing babies. Joseph points to my yoga pants. They are inside out, the tag flapping. I want to cry. Who have I become? Where are the days of strolling through airports, shopping for perfume and enjoying a glass of Sauvignon blanc at a cozy bar?

Joseph and I order soggy sandwiches and cheap wine in plastic cups at the cafeteria—one last taste of Paradise. Sneaking over to a play area, we sit on a purple blow-up cushion and stare at The Wiggles on the iPad, the stroller parked beside us. 

My thoughts are racing. If I feed Tibaa, will he throw up again? How do I time the take-off and give them their bottles so their ears won't hurt? I share my worries with Joseph, who shakes his head.

“You know, flying with babies is as twisted as a Jack Reacher plot,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “But without the cocktails and sex.”

Transatlantic Airlines has set up a mile-high nursery—eight rows filled with tired, blurry-eyed adults with children two years old and under. The plane sits on the tarmac for two hours, waiting for who-knows-what. The temperature inside the cabin rises along with the frustration. At least Dezeh slips into his scheduled nap. Tibaa is feverish again, crying nonstop. Finally, we're rolling down the runway and into the air. 

“I got our plane tickets for France lined up,” Joseph says as he holds a wiggly Tibaa to his chest. I can’t bear the thought of traveling until the boys are older—much older. But the words stick in my throat. What if I'm left behind? Forgotten?

I stand and reach for a wide-eyed Tibaa, then head to the plane's rear. He spits out his pacifier. It rolls a few feet away, and I bend for the thousandth time to pick it up. I tuck the plastic nipple in my pocket. 

As we hurtle through space on this plane that returns us from Paradise, it strikes me that I cling to travel because it's the only part of the mothering me I recognize. I've worried my fingernails down to nubs, wondering if I'll be able to stay put with two babies. Become that other type of parent. A homebody. Complacent in my sons’ little world. 

Am I the victim of my self-myth: the belief that I used to travel to understand myself and the world around me better? I was sick with worry this whole trip, riddled with guilt that something terrible might happen to Tibaa, just so I could get away from home. Is it relief I'm feeling that by tonight we'll be nestling back into our bed, into our staid existence? 

I rock Tibaa by the galley. Without question, travelling no longer works with two babies. Nor does it agree with Tibaa's frail body. I remember how my mom made me and my siblings feel when we were growing up. Safe and calm. Despite an adulthood spent fighting routine, my childhood was the epitome of it. A daily walk to the library opened up new worlds. Being tucked into the same bed every night was reassuring. I might not think I want routine, but I know now that my babies need it. 

“Tibaa, we're going to get you home.” I move out of the way of a man heading to the lavatory. “Don't worry. I'll break it to Poppa. We won't go anywhere for a very, very long time. I promise.” Only when the words tumble out of my mouth do I feel my anxiety ease. I put my arms more firmly around Tibaa, fully embracing staying home with my babies. I kiss his sweet forehead. He snuggles closer to my chest but still refuses to sleep.

Laura Vukson is an Indigenous mother and writer. Her nonfiction work has been published in The Globe and Mail, The Malahat Review, The Quarantine Review, and shortlisted for Prism International NFC. She lives in Ontario, Canada. Laura is working on her first novel as well as a collection of essays.