We started the evening by strolling around the Village, trying not to melt in the August heat. We ate at a lovely Italian restaurant and talked about our daydream to visit Italy; we'd start in Venice, go down to Florence, and spend a nice long time in Rome--where we'd eat gelato every single day. This is what we do when we're alone: plot ways to escape the country without the children. (Even though we love the children.)
When Bryce made the reservation at Loews he told me, "They have a special one-night package for anniversaries."
"Oh, that's great!" I agreed.
"Yeah, but I'm embarrassed to tell you what it's called."
"Okay . . . what."
"The Whoopie Package."
Oh my land. That is hilarious and clever and tacky at the same time. I guess we can thank the Newlywed Game for that gem.
Bryce left at 11:00 p.m. to settle the kids down at home. He intended to return after everyone was asleep but kids kept waking up and he was exhausted . . . so he didn't come back until 8:00 in the morning! I watched Cupcake Wars deep into the night.
WARNING: THIS NEXT STORY CAUSES MENTAL IMAGES THAT ARE NOT EASILY ERASED.
Next morning while I was alone I tidied up and went to put the remains of the Whoopie Pies outside the door.
I was wearing a "cute" nightgown. I peeked outside the door to make sure no one was coming down the hall. The coast was clear so I set the plate down. Just as I stood back up . . . the heavy hotel door swung shut.
BAM.
I stood there in my shortish and sheerish nightie, eyes wide, staring at the door handle.
Holy crud.
I was locked out.
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After weighing my options I decided to make a dash for the floor's courtesy phone.
"Hello, I'm in room 9202 and I need some assistance re-entering my room," I said, as if I were merely asking for more towels.
But then I couldn't help blurting out the whole story, about the plate and the door and the nightgown, and could she please hurry?
I returned to my post, the door frame of 9202. I tried crossing my arms, then putting them at my side. I fiddled with the ribbon on my dress and studied headlines I could see on the neighbors' newspaper. Finally a security guard came down the hall. He sized me up and said, "Well, at least you're wearing clothes."
Yes, at least indeed.
Oh my word.
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Since I'd lost my ability to feel embarrassed, when Bryce came back I suggested we wear our complimentary t-shirts to breakfast.
"No way," he said. "I will never wear this shirt in public. We will scar little children. And what if the stake president is here?"
"I doubt he's here on a Sunday. And if he is he probably got the Whoopie package too," I quipped.
Somehow I convinced him that we should do it.
After 15 years, I am good at getting my way.
We walked to Rick's Cafe. We sat next to a cute little family. The woman looked at Bryce and said, "I like your shirt!"
"What does it say, Mom?" asked the little boy.
"Oh, it says they like cookies. Like s'mores," she said.
I thought Bryce might die.
But having this gorgeous fruit salad helped to make it okay.
After breakfast we went to get the children packed up to come swimming in the hotel's gorgeous pools.
There's Harrison on his way to the slide . . .
and coming down!
And Tyce went kayaking!
We were living the high life, ordering food poolside and having it delivered. I said to Tyce, "This is like the show 'Suite Life on Deck' . . . except that there's no one your age."
His response: "I know, right?"
But that meant that the only people to hang out with were his brothers and sister, and they all had the BEST time. They played Marco Polo, had races, and shot each other with water guns. I was especially pleased with how well Tyce and Mary played with each other--both Bryce and I agree that THAT was the best anniversary present we could get.
We swam for hours, and poor Cam just couldn't go on any longer.
It was a great little get-away and we all want to do it again next year.
That is, if we don't run away to Italy.
