siliconmum

home

Spring Break

Spring Break By Deborah Gale Our daughters have been on spring break and will return to school later this week. I have decided that break, much like happiness, is a relative term. Back when I was a young (did I really type that?) spring break was historically reserved for that period of time SHORTly before and SHORTly after Easter when virtually every American COLLEGE student begged, borrowed or stole their way to the sun, destined for Florida or southern California. Note deliberate use of short and college above. Having been weaned on films like Beach Blanket Babylon, it was every hot blooded American's goal in life to hit the beach for spring break. A subliminal love affair with Annette Funicello, Frankie Avalon and the Beach Boys must have been at the abnormal root of this right of passage. How could you not want to go to those beach parties, get your heart broken AND figure out how they teased their hair into permanent flips? Of course, those parties and those looks were already way dated by the time I got started, so please ignore that silly back when I was young comment. In my own quest for "hot sun","warm sand" and "can't wait to jump into it surf" in March, a rather tall order if like me you grew up in a Pennsylvania snow belt, I did break for spring in Fort Lauderdale and eventually made it to the promised land west of the Ventura Highway. Yet, in my vast, while somewhat hazy experience, I recall that this sojourn lasted ten, possibly fourteen days-period. You will grow tired of me going on about things like this but, it's different here in England. The English also break, for spring. Well named, this period spans what someone cynical might call an entire spring in England. Consider the fact that our girls will have been out of school for twenty six days. At the very most, this is only five days shy of one entire lunar cycle! Our girls are still in elementary school not college, twenty six days is not short and England doesn't regularly have hot sun, warm sand or can't wait to jump in it surf in July, let alone March. So what's a poor mother to do? The best advice I was ever given by another American living in England was to make certain that we arranged to get off the island during spring break. She was so-o-o right. But where to go? I nearly joined 50% of the population and went skiing but thankfully it occurred to me that only three of our five have skied once in their lives and it was a less than positive experience (read disaster). While my memory is pleasantly selective I was rather confident that without my husband, I couldn't carry six sets of skis. Voicing this dilemma, my eldest daughter suggested we could lighten my load if we all learned to snowboard. Declining this selfless offer I momentarily considered a short trip to the Med (no not the hospital, this is Brit shorthand for the Mediterranean) but the weather wasn't guaranteed and I didn't feel strong enough to face Euros. Inspiration struck rather suddenly. I left the youngest twins with the Brit, grabbed the big three and high on frequent flyer miles, headed for spring break - in California. Returning to "the valley" after so many months away was flawless and painless. We eased back into town late on a sunkissed afternoon. I cried in the airport when I spotted toddlers wearing sundresses and flip flops. I cried on the freeway when I spotted construction workers wearing jeans and skin. The girls and I drove in silence with the windows rolled down, sunroof open, hair flying. The sun set into the Pacific as we drank in the warm air and exhaust fumes. We ate our fill of Mexican food, Jamba Juice and fresh bagels. We did Great America (not recommended on the first day there with a 9 hour time change), shopped at midnight fueled by jet lag, made cheap phone calls, bought cheap gas (yes, it’s still a bargain by British standards) and managed to see or at least talk to nearly everyone I had ever met in all my years there, all in less than a week. I was nuts. It was heaven. Then the CA kids went back to school. My kids were so bored that I begged if I could send them back to their old school. I continued shopping until every inch of the allocated two bags per person was filled and we were officially overweight. And then I started to get antsy; I missed the little twins and the Brit. It was time to get home. Break can mean many things: split violently; disable or destroy; put an end to; escape; to better; to overcome or wear down in strength or spirit; to lessen or to become inoperative; to become suddenly discontinuous or interrupted; to express or start to express an emotion or mood; to leave or escape; to yield and can even mean one or two blank lines at the bottom of a page. I have personally managed to cover all these bases. --------------------------- About the author: Deborah S. Gale is a Pennsylvania native, loving mother of five daughters aged four to nine including two sets of twins. Married to a classically cynical, witty Brit with whom she enjoyed DINKY status briefly. She hasn’t held a full time bill paying or spa treatment-covering job since the children and spent most of the '90's as an expat. wife and mother in Paris and London. After 23 years of calling Silicon Valley home, she bid adieu to the South Bay in December 2000 when she made a permanent move back to the UK. She writes a regular column for the American in Britain magazine.

home