The Music of Family

Kate's only complaint, when staying in a hotel room, is sharing a bed with her sister. I sympathize; having been Mary's first accommodations, carrying her for nine months, I too have suffered from the incessant kicks and blows of a slumbering Mary. It's not uncommon to find her in the morning, feet on the pillow, snoozing peacefully, having completely flipped during the night. Years ago, in Dallas, I woke up to find her right foot under my chin, her left foot across my mid section. Frequently she sits up, appears to look around, and flops down, head first, in whatever direction she is facing. Pray that she has not turned to face you in this moment of alertness. She is a lovely and kind child but a wild and reckless sleeper; no one wants to bunk next to that.

And yet there I was, the night before Thanksgiving, in a beautiful downtown Chicago hotel room, wide awake while Wild Mary thrashed next to me. In the next bed lay Kate and her father, peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the scene being played out in our lovely and very dark room.

By this time the street outside had quieted, the sounds of the city taking a break before the big day. But in our room the music was just beginning: from Kate, whose 11:00 pm nosebleed had landed me in the bed with the Wild One, a deep and loud breathing, forced from the earlier nasal incident, all from her wide open mouth, breaths more like exhausted sighs. And in the horn section, her father and his rhythmic snoring, accompanying Kate's breathing as if they had been playing together for years. Next to me lay the conductor, orchestrating this great movement with madly waving arms and legs, a rhythmic feast for the senses, assuming those in the first row were wearing protective gear.

Two days later I was home in our kitchen, cooking our second, but first at home, Thanksgiving meal, when I realized that I was singing along with Snow Patrol, "This is All I Ever Wanted From Life".  Having just celebrated the day when I am told to count my blessings, it occurred to me that perhaps this was it: awake in a stuffy yet well appointed hotel room at 2:00 am, listening to the symphony of my family, with Mary's foot in my ear; was this all I ever wanted from life?

You know I believe that yes it is, that and a little bit of sleep thrown in here and there.

Dirty Laundry

For the past three years or so hotels have been asking me to do my part in saving the environment by sleeping on dirty sheets. As I don't change the sheets at home daily, and don't really find that I am noticeably dirtier while away than at home, I agree and find that I am no worse off for having slept on the same sheets I used the night before. My husband has not mentioned any odor, nor have I of him, so in general I find that we are adjusting well and eager to do our part.

But there I stand, hesitating over the garbage with my water bottle, certain that in such an environmentally conscious hotel recycling bins would be provided. They are not. And when I finish with the darling little plastic bottle of shampoo they have left just for my use? Garbage. I am but one person with a reasonable amount of hair, imagine how many of those small plastic bottles are tossed each week? There is a plastic liner in the ice bucket, a plastic liner in the garbage, and small paper box containing a plastic shower cap on the bathroom vanity. The lights are on when we come in, as is the mood music. If, for the greater good, we are willing to spend a day covered in our own dead skin cells, why then can they not provide a place to recycle the waste we accumulate as their guests? Why can't they turn off the lights?

It does not stop with sheets. Clean towels are also considered a frivolous waste, long gone are the days when you could wildly toss your daily towel onto the bathroom floor without thought of world destruction. Naturally the hotels I seem to stay in are older than this new wave of acceptable dirtiness and thus, have nowhere to hang your damp bath towel. Draping my towel over the doorknob is unacceptable, and disgusting. The hook on the door is usually busy holding up that comfy robe they leave for my use. Other options include the back of the desk chair and the doors of the closet; both filthy, and just waiting to share their accumulated germs with my now wet towel. Please provide a suitable towel bar and I will happily hang my towel to dry. Until then it hits the floor.

Undoubtedly installing towel racks and buying recycling bins would cost money, although I would think they are saving a good deal of money, and energy, in not washing my sheets every day. Lord knows I'm no financial genius, but it might be worth the investment. In the end, of course, it's all about the green.