By Sarah Bregel
Every year, as our beach week creeps closer, I start to craft this absurd little fantasy about what my family's vacation is going to look like. It goes something like this: we drive to the beach while the kids play sweetly (and quietly) in the backseat. We spend long, sunny days on the beach where the kids play together, since that's why we had the second one in the first place, and my husband and I get to say more than a few words to each other which are not interrupted by "Stop eating the sand! You're gonna be shitting it out for a week!" Basically, we are all relaxed, engulfed in beachy vibes and vacation bliss, and when we return home (seven blissful days later days later), we are rested and rejuvenated
Of course, I know better. In the past, when we've returned from a week-long trip, my husband and I were so beyond exhausted we felt like we could use a whole other vacation (sans babies and small children) to recover. The last time we took a week-long trip was two years ago. I was nursing a newborn round the clock, who screamed nearly every minute of the whole eight hour car ride to the beach, finally nodding off a few minutes before we pulled up to our condo. It took a lot of margaritas to recover from the car ride alone, as you can imagine, but we did our best to cope. Yet somehow, here I am, about to hit the road in a couple of weeks, but hoping I somehow managed to remember it completely wrong.
I'll likely keep up my wishful thinking about how my blissful family "vacation" will go, even though in my heart of hearts I know, there's probably some vacation goals I need to learn to let go of. Here's a few:
Sleeping in
The kids never get to bed at a decent time on vacation and that's totally fine by me. There are rides to go on and late night walks to take on the beach. Plus, it's a whole lot easier to wait until their eyes are practically closed from exhaustion on their own then dealing with the whole two hour bedtime routine we've become accustomed to. But I'm always hopeful that if they're going to bed three hours later than usual, and I draw the shades nice and tight, they'll sleep at least an extra hour or two to make up for the lost sleep. That never seems to happen, though. 7am is the pretty standard wake-up time. On vacation, it's maybe 7:08. Thanks for the extra eight minutes kids! Now go watch 17 cartoons while I inhale this pot of coffee (and possibly bourbon) and breathe in that ocean air... the only thing that makes this feel a little like a "vacation."
Laying in the sun for eight hours
In my child-free days, I would've gladly sprawled out on the beach, cocktail in hand, until the sun set, absorbing every last ray into my badly abused pores. Just me, a cooler, and a beach towel was all I needed. But these days, a few hours on the beach will do just fine. I mean, just trekking through the sand with chairs and toys and towels and swimmies and lunch is pretty tiring. After a couple of hours, some sand in everyone's diapers and eyes (and god knows where else), we're all basically ready to pack it in and head back to the condo. And, I know I'm probably getting old but that sun is harsh, man! And I really don't want to get sunburned.
Reading a book
Packing a book for the beach is a pretty standard vacation practice. There's about 14 books on my night stand that I never have time to read more than a page or two of before I'm drifting off to sleep putting on the new season of OITNB. Okay, okay. You got me. But it's just easier to watch TV than to read most nights. I'm usually too tired to focus and I'd rather just zone out than open my book and learn something. Sometimes, I just want to be effortlessly entertained. "I'll read on vacation!" I think to myself, somehow forgetting that vacation is actually the worst time to try and read. It certainly doesn't happen on the beach the way I imagine it, because going to the beach with children is actually a pretty grueling workout. It is a test in physical fitness unlike anything I'd ever seen or heard or, God forbid, put my body through. Sit down, get up, dig a hole, chase the seagull who stole my kid's sandwich, change a diaper, build a castle, pick crying kid up when a wave knocks him down. I'm exhausted just thinking.
Enjoying a relaxing meal
Going out to dinner on vacation used to be one of my favorite pastimes. A little pina colada. A view of the ocean. Now, whenever I'm out at a restaurant with my family in tow, the only view I'm getting is the one of everyone's feet as I crouch under the table, picking up all the crap my son keeps throwing down there. Plus, he refuses to sit in his high chair (or anywhere) for more than seven seconds at a time but when he is, he's trying very, very hard to knock himself over. He also seems to find my rage and/or fear of his impending concussion completely hysterical. It doesn't take long until we're asking the waiter to box up our food and leaving the restaurant, hanging our heads. But it's okay--the kids have about 47 rides to get to before someone pukes anyway. "Waiter! Can we take the drinks to go?"
Photo credit: Sarah Bregel
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This piece was originally published by Sarah Bregel on Mommy Nearest.Sarah Bregel is a freelance writer based in Baltimore. She is also a yoga teacher and self-proclaimed "Mediocre Mama." You can find her at the yoga and wine-fueled, StreeetchyPants.com.
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