End of a long day at the beach, we're soaking in our palatial suite's oversize tub, martini glass misting on its tiled ledge, tall cold glass of milk beside it.
We slip on robes, drift out to the long balcony where dusk is painting pink our personal swatch of sea and sky. Room service has draped the wooden table in white, laid out fresh pappardelle with saffroned scallops and prawns, rare steak, béarnaise on the side…
Whodathunk my first vacation alone with my three-year-old son could be like this?
A week earlier, in a panic, I'd almost canned the whole thing.
Are we plot fodder for a Seth Rogen movie?
In the two years since Max's mum and I split, I've managed to cautiously carve out a parallel existence as dutiful co-parent – dinner, diapers and lullabies – with single-guy thirtysomethingdom – travelling to make documentaries, hitting the bars – with the considerable help of Max's adoring granny in the flat upstairs and his daycare round the corner.
But when the custody gods decreed that we'd have a whole week away to ourselves, I knew my knee-jerk notions of “vacation” would need a rethink.
Backpack years behind me, I'd still normally opt for the gîte or the ashram over anything with a whiff of prefab.
But on the road? With a three-year-old? No nanny, no granny? And hoping to maybe, like, meet someone new?
Clicking on “Caribbean all-inclusive” finds deals abounding for couples with kids or singles without, but for single parents, the options are neither plentiful nor cheap. (Come on, travel biz, where are the Yummy Mummy Cruises? Daycare and daiquiris for Dad? Divorce rates not high enough to make it worthwhile?)
Well if this holiday wasn't going to be a steal, might as well make it one to remember. And hopefully not just as plot fodder for a Seth Rogen movie.
On the website for Half Moon in Montego Bay, the stunning ocean views from the balconies plus the words “spa,” “yoga” and “children's village” drove my cursor toward “rates.” While Half Moon is not an all-inclusive, it does offer packages that wind up at a price tag similar to the big name all-ins.
I picture myself in one of those vast beach chaises, sipping something booze-and-fruity, while at my feet, quietly sandcastling, my adorable pint-sizer – known for such precocious lines as “Daddy, I'm still a bit ravenous” – beckons irresistibly to the lovely sun creatures strolling by.
But as takeoff draws nearer, drastically different visions seep in. How will the reality of our mealtime dialogue: “Max, eat… Max, eat!” our still-in-progress toilet training: “Why didn't you warn Daddy?” and Max's plaintive “Daaaaadyeeee!!” really play in a luxury Jamaican resort?
Will we spend meals locked in solitary parent-child kvetch in a dining room full of happily still-married families or the candlelit and child-free?
Will I even have the time or energy for such metrosexual concerns as whether these trunks make me look fat, let alone concocting any poolside bons mots, or will I just feel like mainlining pina coladas and burying myself in my chaise when Max finally succumbs to his nap?
Stroller-snooze through check-in
One possibly untapped strategy for quelling revolution in the hearts of the young would be to make them single parents.
During the 10-minute drive that separates Half Moon from the Montego Bay Airport, when Max finally conks out in the cab, I feel as though I should feel guiltier about the rows of shanties lining the road. But after five hours of travel, I can feel only relief when Half Moon's wrought-iron gates open on manicured lawns, tennis courts, pools, a fleet of golf carts silently swishing.
Max stroller-snoozes through check-in at the resort's breathtaking post-colonial plantation house. I sense the gaze of a lone young blond woman with a Fendi bag thumbing unnaturally through some flyers. Then sense a husky husband hovering into view. Never mind; early days.
