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Being self-employed means working during vacations. Being a single mom means I have to do it with my toddler around.

by with No Comment Xpandfy

I’ve been taking working vacations for over a decade, long before the pandemic made them commonplace.

While the downside of working for myself is not getting any PTO days, the upside is being able to work remotely with flexible hours. Working from paradise, with a palapa shading my laptop from the sun’s glare, is one of my favorite things about being self-employed.

I realized that it would be more challenging once I became a single mom, but juggling work and a baby away from home turned out to be much harder than I realized.

I kept thinking it’d get easier

The first time I tried to take a working vacation with my daughter, she was 8 months old. I booked a flight to Hawaii, packed my laptop, and planned to work during her two naps and after she went to sleep for the night. I spent most of the week in Maui learning lessons the hard way — disconnecting the hotel room phone after a call interrupted her nap, dragging her from store to store trying to find baby medicine when she caught a cold, and departing exhausted after staying up most of each night working.


Hotel room with crib

The author brings her daughter on trips and works around her schedule. 

Courtesy of the author



Over the next few years, I kept trying, thinking with each hard lesson learned that the next time would be easier. Now that my daughter, Via, is 3.5, I’ve attempted eight different workcations. Each time I start out hopeful that I’ve found the solution. But I’ve always ended up with three jobs on what is supposed to be a vacation: working, parenting, and solving logistics problems.

I tried kids’ clubs

Resort kids’ clubs were supposed to be the answer. I needed a predictable block of time each day where my daughter was otherwise entertained so I could focus on work. I booked hotels (and even a cruise) that advertised them prominently, flaunting photos of smiling children that made me feel less guilty for leaving my daughter on vacation.


Toddler at kid club

The author took her daughter to hotels’ kids clubs. 

Courtesy of the author



As it turned out, those programs had their own challenges. Via wasn’t just nervous at the beginning; each day, she didn’t want to stay at the kids’ club and fought going back. At one resort, the website promised a nap room at the kids’ club, which was essential because Via still needed one midday. When we arrived, I was told the nap space was out of order. That meant I had to pick her up after just a couple of hours, put her down in our room myself, and then try to quickly finish work while she slept. On two separate trips, the kids’ club’s actual operating hours didn’t match what was posted online.

I paid $95 a day for our recent trip kids’ club

On our most recent trip, I didn’t expect much different, except I booked the six-day vacation at Club Med Cancún over a holiday weekend, strategically planning around a slower work period. It was the first time I’d booked a resort with a paid kids’ club instead of one where it was included. While the program for ages 4 and up had no additional charge, Petit Club Med, the option for 2 and 3-year-olds, costs $95 per day. So, I figured we’d try it out for just the one full workday we were on the property. At first, I was a little apprehensive about paying for a kids’ club after our past lackluster experiences, but it ended up being more than worth it.


Toddler on lounger

The author brings her daughter on workations. 

Courtesy of the author



The complimentary kids’ clubs I’d used before felt like drop-in playrooms, yet the Petit Club Med program was structured more like day care. They even included rest time in the schedule with a dedicated nap room. The difference completely changed the dynamic with my daughter.

At first, as usual at drop off, Via clung to my leg. I worried about her enough during the morning that I went to sneak a look at how she was doing. I was relieved to see her smiling and skipping to lunch with the rest of the kids. When I picked her up at 5 p.m., I really noticed the difference. Instead of waiting for me anxiously, she was engrossed in an activity and, when she noticed me, started talking excitedly about what she’d done that day. She loved it so much that she asked to go back the next day. I stood, stunned, taking in that moment with equal parts shock and relief.

I figured she would change her mind by the next day, but the following morning, she was still clamoring to go back. I wasn’t sure if I should take her; I had planned to spend the rest of the vacation together. But I was so happy that she loved going, I decided to bring her back. For the first time on a workcation, I found myself caught up on work and got to explore. I took a trapeze class, something that had caught my eye on the Club Med website before the trip, and borrowed a snorkel for a leisurely swim in the ocean.

When I picked up Via, she was once again glowing and happy from her day of adventures, and, for once, I was as well. For the remainder of our trip, we spent time together, and I felt like I could show up as the relaxed, carefree mom I’d always want to be on vacation.

Looking back at my past attempts, I don’t think I was overambitious to believe that a workcation could be enjoyable for both my daughter and me. I just had a lot to learn about how to prepare, structure the trip, and what to expect from kids’ clubs.




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A rattlesnake bit my toddler at a birthday party. What happened next changed me.

by with No Comment Xpandfy

I was sick at home when my 2-year-old son was bitten by a rattlesnake at a kid’s fairy-themed birthday party in LA.

My husband, Mac, was with our two kids when our son fell into the grass, crying and pointing to his hand. At first glance, Mac thought he was having an allergic reaction to a bee sting, a fair assessment for an Angelino parent, until he identified a second puncture wound in the divot between his little fingers.

It’s one thing to be present when your child gets hurt. The self-blame is straightforward — “It’s all my fault. I wasn’t quick enough. I should have seen it coming.” But when it happens without you, the guilt wanders until it emboldens — “Had I been there, I would have prevented it. I would have lured the snake away with the live mouse I keep in my first aid kit next to the Paw Patrol Band-Aids and butt cream.”


Toddler at hospital crying

The author’s son was admitted to the hospital after being bitten by a snake.

Courtesy of the author



Mac rushed to the Children’s Hospital LA while I went through the suddenly delicate motions of being a parent to our oldest. The CHLA attending doctors, in tandem with California’s leading poison specialist, determined that he would require an anti-venom treatment. A Marvel comic book plotline except this was real life, and the idea of Mads becoming Sssnake-Man was far-fetched, even in our desperation. Ironically, this is when you’re meant to conjure hope. Even if your son’s hand has gone from swollen pink to rigid gray.

As we waited to see if the anti-venom would work, I ran through the unthinkable what-ifs until I landed on a firm bed of memories from the last time I feared death.

My mom died at 67

The first time someone deeply close to me died was 10 years ago, when I lost my mother.

Her death made no sense to me. She was 12 years younger than my dad and only 67 when she died. She’d lived a self-proclaimed glamorous life before meeting my dad and becoming surprisingly pregnant with me at 39.

Before that, she was a “walking model” at Bal Harbour Shops in the 70s, touting signage from the then-emerging designers of couture. We loved each other completely, but it was no secret that becoming a mother deprived her of her golden years.


Mom and daughter

The author’s mom died when she was 67.

Courtesy of the author



I traveled across the county to be with her after her first heart attack. She refused medical advice to be added to a heart transplant list and was vehemently against keeping a low-sodium diet. For this, I was angry. I plead with her. I begged. Did she want to live? What if I were to get married one day? Wouldn’t she want to meet her future grandkids? All she wanted was sodium-rich tomato soup. I was so mad, I decided to cut my trip short so I didn’t have to watch her kill herself. Harsh, maybe, but that’s what it felt like at the time.

“Won’t you stay and hold my hand?” she asked before I left.

She died a few weeks later from sepsis after another heart attack. I made it back in time for her last breath.

Then my dad died at 82

I tried to do better when my dad became ill three years later. His death made more sense. He was an 82-year-old personal injury attorney with diabetes, Parkinson’s disease, and eventually bladder cancer.


Dad and daughter

The author’s dad died at 82.

Courtesy of the author



In a word, my dad was basic before it became a popular insult. I mean it in the most endearing way. He was a New York Jew who grew up at the tail end of the Great Depression and was generally satisfied as long as he had a Miami Hurricanes game on and a palmful of peanuts that, in his final hours, he wouldn’t be able to swallow. It was then that I’d watch the games with him and drop ice chips into his mouth to offer some relief.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before he died, but I guess I expected to be there when it happened. Instead, I got a call very early one morning to let me know that my father had “expired.” Like a carton of milk.

My son’s snake bite taught me something important

In the weeks leading up to Madsen’s snake bite, we were preparing to move across the country to be closer to Mac’s family. The decision was made at the last minute, and we had limited assistance. We were moving so fast, we forgot what mattered until Mads was admitted to the ICU.

A decade ago, I had somehow mistaken my mother’s autonomy for abandonment. It was only now that I understood, far too late, that my mom needed me just as much as I needed her.

Madsen received 21 doses of anti-venom over a 72-hour period. And it worked. When I saw him, he kept saying “I got you!” which is what Mac had been telling him since they arrived.

“I got you, too, little buddy,” I said and held his hand in mine.




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