Okay, pour the wine, because I have to tell you about this vacation.

We finally went on vacation. I say finally because it was basically our only real trip this year, and just getting out the door took the kind of planning usually reserved for military operations and hostage negotiations.

Work had been kicking my ass. Our usual summer vacation never happened. Life just kept life-ing. Every time I thought I’d caught up, a property needed something, a kid needed something, an animal was doing something suspicious, or somebody somewhere decided I looked a little too peaceful and mailed me a fresh problem.

So by the time we boarded Symphony of the Seas, I had exactly one goal. Relax.

Adorable. I know.

I had apparently forgotten who I travel with, because here’s what I learned on this trip: not one person in my family has a functioning survival instinct. Not one. We’re terrified of harmless things and thrilled by things that could launch us into the next zip code. We befriend strangers. We growl at strangers. We climb seventeen decks looking for rubber ducks. We wade into water full of creatures that have been perfecting murder since before humans had knees.

And then we come home and almost get taken out by the dog.

Let me back up.

First, There’s Lynnlee

Lynnlee gets carsick. And I don’t mean regular carsick. This child can sense when Kris has been driving for more than forty minutes. She’ll be happily coloring in the back seat, and then she goes pale like a Victorian child with consumption. “Mommy, my tummy hurts.” I look at the clock.

Forty-one minutes. Every. Damn. Time.

Her inner ear has terms and conditions.

So naturally, this is also the child who rode the Iron Rattler. If you’ve never seen it, it’s a perfectly reasonable amusement park ride built for people who look at gravity and think, I don’t care for your attitude.

She loved it. Of course she did.

Put her in a Tahoe doing 72 on a straight Texas highway and we need Dramamine, water, airflow, and possibly a priest. Strap her into a machine designed to rearrange her organs? AGAIN!

So you’d think the motion-sick kid would approach a moving boat with a little caution.

You would think that.

She went down the Ultimate Abyss, the tallest dry slide at sea. Ten stories. TEN. I won’t carry laundry down one flight of stairs without holding the railing, and my child cheerfully crawled into the mouth of a giant anglerfish and shot herself down ten decks. Then she rode the waterslides hanging several stories over the ocean. Then she asked for more.

That’s when it clicked. Lynnlee isn’t motion sick. She’s boring-motion sick. Kris driving through Texas? Unacceptable. Being fired through a tube over international waters? Finally, transportation worthy of her.

Then There’s Harper, Mayor of the Ship

Harper is social. Painfully social. You could drop that child in a foreign country with twelve dollars and a granola bar, and three hours later she’d come back with a best friend, a business opportunity, and somebody’s grandmother’s phone number.

There was a ship photographer who saw her so often he started calling her his friend. And I don’t mean in a cute, figurative way. This man would be in the middle of working, see us walk by, and stop everything. “Hey, friend!” Fist bump. And Harper would just keep strolling, like a tiny celebrity acknowledging the paparazzi.

This child knows no strangers. Unless those strangers work at Adventure Ocean.

If you’ve never sailed Royal Caribbean, Adventure Ocean is the kids’ program. Toys, games, activities, and trained adults whose entire job is entertaining children. Harper took one look at that setup and basically said, I don’t know these people, and frankly I’m concerned that you do. Didn’t want to stay. Not interested. Absolutely not.

Now, Lynnlee. Lynnlee sometimes growls when people talk to her. I wish that were a metaphor. It is not always a metaphor. A perfectly kind human will say something deeply offensive like “Hi!” and her whole body goes, We have been approached.

But Adventure Ocean? She LOVES Adventure Ocean. Always has. Drop her off and my suspicious little woodland creature has suddenly discovered civilization. Meanwhile Harper, who has already collected acquaintances on every deck, is clinging to my leg.

So, to recap. Harper loves everyone individually but distrusts them as an institution. Lynnlee distrusts the general public but strongly supports organized childcare.

Perfect. No notes.

Then Honduras Tried to Kill Me

I need to talk about a serious gap in my education.

Somebody, at some point, made sure I learned the Cupid Shuffle. I know every step. Right, left, kick, all of it. Put me at any wedding reception in America and I’m ready.

Do you know what would’ve been way more useful? THE STINGRAY SHUFFLE. Nobody taught me that one.

Turns out when you walk through shallow tropical water, you’re supposed to shuffle your feet so the stingrays get a chance to scoot away, instead of you stepping right next to one and starting an argument with an animal carrying a venomous steak knife. I learned this approximately one marine assault too late.

Because one got my foot. Probably a juvenile stingray. Caribbean Division. Small but committed.

And sweet baby Jesus, it hurt. Not “ouch.” Not “huh, something bit me.” Not even “this is concerning.” This was instant, breath-stealing, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK JUST STABBED ME pain. Within about a minute, my foot had swelled up like Will Smith in Hitch, except the whole reaction had relocated below my ankle.

The girls were right there. Our new friends were right there. Everybody was having a gorgeous tropical day, and I was not about to become the screaming American woman dragged out of the Caribbean while children watched from their sandcastles. So I calmly got out of the water. Calmly got my medication. Calmly treated myself. Calmly told everyone, “Oh, I’m okay.”

Inside my head: I am absolutely not okay. This is how I die. Of course this is how I die. I finally get a vacation and I die in Honduras.

And then, because I love the Caribbean more than any reasonable person should, one more thought floated up: Well. At least it’s pretty here.

Honestly? I’m proud of myself for that one. That shit hurt, and I didn’t scare my kids, I didn’t scare our friends, I had what I needed, and I handled it, all while silently drafting my own obituary.

Eventually, I was fine. Did it teach me to stay out of Caribbean water?

Please. Have you met me?

The Caribbean Wasn’t Finished

Honduras only got one shot. Cozumel wanted a turn.

Dolphins. Sargassum. And another mystery sting, this time on my arm, that burned and blistered. At this point the Caribbean and I are clearly in a toxic relationship. I love her. She keeps physically attacking me. I keep going back because she’s beautiful.

And she really is. There were stingrays and dolphins, and flying fish skimming across the water like somebody crossed a dragonfly with a tiny dolphin. Somewhere between Cozumel and Galveston, I looked over the balcony and saw a jellyfish roughly the size of an end table. Three feet across, give or take, this gorgeous translucent blue umbrella just drifting along.

Everyone else: “Wow!”

Me, a two-time victim of marine violence: “Don’t make eye contact.”

Oh, and My Jewelry Disappeared

Because clearly we didn’t have enough plot.

Before the dolphin excursion, I took off my jewelry, because dolphins don’t need diamonds, and I put it in my bag, in a locker, like a responsible adult.

Hahahahahahaha.

By that afternoon I had one earring. One. No ring. No bracelet. Just one lonely earring. Thousands of dollars in jewelry had entered witness protection somewhere in Cozumel. So now I’ve got marine injuries, missing jewelry, excursion chaos, and me retracing my steps like a sunburned Caribbean detective.

Still vacationing, though. We waited all damn year for this.

Which Brings Me to the Ducks

If you’ve never cruised, people hide little rubber ducks all over the ship for other passengers to find. It’s adorable. The kids love it. And I, apparently, cannot participate casually in anything.

Symphony of the Seas is basically a floating city. It has neighborhoods. Restaurants, theaters, pools, slides, shops. And staircases. So. Many. Fucking. Staircases.

Early in the trip, I made the very healthy decision to mostly skip the elevators. Great idea. Wonderful. Except we were also duck hunting. For hours.

You have not known madness until you’ve climbed flight after flight on one of the biggest cruise ships in the world because somebody whispered, “I think I saw a duck.”

MOVE.

Suddenly we’re a tactical unit. Which deck? What color? Was it hidden? Did another kid already get it? GO GO GO.

I walked miles. I climbed an obscene number of stairs. I saw nearly every corner of that floating city. For fitness? No. Sightseeing? Not really. Cultural enrichment? Please. I was hunting a three-inch rubber duck for my children.

Motherhood is beautiful. Motherhood is sacred. Motherhood is also climbing your eleventh flight of stairs in a row muttering, “That better be a fucking duck.”

Somehow, We Survived

And that’s the part that kills me. Let’s review.

We survived the giant roller coaster, the ten-story slide, and waterslides dangling over the ocean. We survived Honduras and the Juvenile Stingray, Caribbean Division. We survived Cozumel’s mystery sting, the dolphins, the flying fish, and jellyfish the size of patio furniture. We survived the great jewelry heist. We survived so many stairs that my Apple Watch probably thinks I joined the fire department. Six days on a floating city with two children whose survival instincts were installed backward.

And we made it home. Back to Texas. Back to our house. Back to safety.

And then Amelia almost took me out.

Amelia is our German Shepherd. The animal who lives here. The animal I know. The animal who, unlike Caribbean marine life, has never once ambushed me from the ocean floor. Turns out I’m ridiculously allergic to my own damn dog.

So after surviving international waters, mystery venom, roller coasters, giant slides, aquatic wildlife, and whatever criminal enterprise is currently wearing my jewelry, I came home and nearly got taken down by German Shepherd dander.

That’s my life, y’all.

Lynnlee can’t survive forty minutes in a car unless the car is actively trying to kill her. Harper will befriend every single person on a ship except the people paid to entertain her. Lynnlee will growl at a stranger and then vanish into Adventure Ocean for hours. I’ll walk the equivalent of a small pilgrimage for a rubber duck. And the ocean can sting me as many times as it wants without hurting our relationship.

I wanted rest. I wanted relaxation. I wanted a break from the absolute circus that is our everyday life.

Instead, we took the circus international.

And I’d do it again. Although next time, I’m learning the Stingray Shuffle before we leave, because the Cupid Shuffle has done absolutely fuck-all for me.