PenPenWrites

It’s November and all thoughts turn to summer vacation. Should we be making plans for a multi-family love-in with all offspring and theirs?

The first year we tried that, we bundled into one 4-bedroom condo: alpha daughter, her hub and a one year old; uber son, his wife and a 5-month and 2 year old. Luxury place. Protected lawns for running; swimming pool and tennis courts across the way. The vacation was, well, here’s what it was: Neither alpha’s family nor uber’s came with the attitude that pater familias and I would be babysitters in residence. Nor did they expect all their meals to magically appear at the table. Everyone pitched in. There was no dumping. What there was, tho, was a lot of need. From the moment I hauled myself out of bed in the morning, someone small needed something that wasn’t being provided: a quiet cuddle, a romp outside, a belly rub, an apple sliced, a clean sock found, a milk run made.

What with different bedtime rituals for babies and toddlers [plus the complication of different time zones–alpha daughter lived a coast away] and the plain old exhaustion of having three children under 2 in the house, not once during our week of togetherness were all the adults in our little family able to sit down to a dinner at the same time–which was part of the point of vacationing together: the chance to visit with eachother as adults.

Almost every afternoon, pater familias would raise his head from his book and call out to an ever-more frazzled me: what time do you want to play tennis? Or, when are we going for a bike ride?

What universe was he living in?

Actually, he was in the real one. This was, afterall, supposed to be our vacation, even though a week of rest is what I needed once this one was over. Yet, as we all packed up to drive off to various cities and airports, both alpha and uber asked the same thing: Can we do this again next year?

Reader, we did. it does not get easier.