Almost Like a Real Vacation

You’ll all be relieved to hear that we eventually rustled up an “African Dreams” CD, so we were not subjected to Christmas lullabies throughout our entire vacation. Just most of it.

And yes, I used the word “vacation” to describe our week away with 2 small kids. Not “trip” or “familial obligation” or “culturally sanctioned prison camp.” In fact, it might actually have been the closest thing to a real vacation since we had kids. Were it not for my 16-m.o., that is.

See, Riley’s a bit, shall we say, “high-maintenance.” Also high-energy, high-spirited, and high-volume. Good thing he’s a decent sleeper, or none of us would have survived this long. At least you can tell yourself that if you can just make it till 1 p.m., and then to 7:30 p.m., you might get a break.

But in between, watch out. I think my dad put it best when he said Riley’s like the Gerber baby on steroids. He may look like a sweet little cherub in a diaper, but turn your back for a second and he’s launching himself off the coffee table or rappelling up a barstool. Or tipping over chairs and hurling golf balls at the dog. Or emptying out the contents of the kitchen cabinets and balancing on top of an overturned spaghetti pot.

If we only had Miles, it would have been a semi-relaxing vacation. 4 is a good age. On the long car ride he amused himself with his handheld video game, art projects, and DVDs. He spent most of his time at my in-laws swimming in the pool and playing board games with his cousins. He can tell you when he’s thirsty or hot or tired (although he admits that rarely). He even went to the fireworks this year – and then fell asleep before the grand finale.

And then there’s Riley. He did OK in the car. We mostly kept him amused with endless snacks and kids’ CDs. He also kept busy by pulling his brother’s hair and playing tug-of-war with his blanket. But he was up EVERY SINGLE MORNING at 5:30 a.m. He manhandled my MIL’s knick-knacks, took every framed picture he could reach off her shelves, pulled up a loose floorboard that nobody knew was loose, squeezed through the deck railing, and even managed to fall through a narrow gap between the deck and a fence, where he remained stuck and screaming for 5 long seconds. (He’s fine.)

The definition of a vacation changes drastically when you have kids, there’s no question. Anxiety increases; expectations are lowered. When we were single, C. and I traveled to the Caribbean. At one place we stayed, they ran out of water temporarily, so we couldn’t take our post-beach, pre-dinner showers. Boo frickin’ hoo, right? What a crisis.

This vacation was a little different. I spent July 4 sitting home watching “When Love Is Not Enough: The Lois Wilson Story” while Riley slept and everyone else went to the fireworks. Our “date night,” as it were, was grabbing lunch near the hospital when C. and I went to visit his dad, who’s recovering from complications from chemo. When we got to my parents’ for a couple days’ stay, an epic heat wave struck the Northeast and the beach was loaded with jellyfish. And did I mention they don’t have AC?

And yet, it was a good week. We got to see our families and did most of the stuff we usually do on vacation – swam, went to the beach, played mini golf, got ice cream, ate lobster, and argued over whose turn in was to get up with the baby.

The baby, who could usually be found bench-pressing an antique lamp or crushing someone’s sunglasses with his bare hands.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “Grandpa? Did you ever go to Target?”
–Miles, who believes there’s only one Target in the world and that everyone should know about this prime destination