Sitting around the large square table on our beach rental deck, laptops and coffee scattered among related and unrelated 20- and 30-somethings, it finally felt like a family vacation. Salt air, someone else making my coffee, and actual relaxation. Nothing like those trips when the kids were little.
We called them vacations, but for me, they were “my life somewhere else, only worse.” Camp director, chef, chauffeur, and laundress – all while navigating truces between warring brothers and managing an ever-expanding cast.
Reinforcements (aka grandparents) provided welcome extra hands and breaks, especially when parenting morphed from (wo)man to zone defense, that is, going from two kids to three, with a near eleven-year age span. On the other hand, that also meant more people to please. The fridge became a dairy aisle: half & half, organic whole, skim, Lactaid, oat milk: everyone’s needs, no one’s ease.
Those family trips always featured multiple medical emergencies – emergency rooms, urgent care, dentists. A daring Roman holiday with three young-ish sons and an infection required an afternoon at the city hospital, with our tour guide providing medical translation services rather than a history-rich tour of the Forum and Colosseum. Nor were the health problems relegated solely to the kids: two long-ago South Carolina trips involved my husband’s broken ankle and my one-time bout of vertigo.
This trip started no differently. My husband went to urgent care the day before our departure—my emergency doctor’s appointment before we left. One son’s cooking mishap required urgent medical attention. But that’s where similarity ends.
Now I sit overlooking a pool requiring no supervision. Long, languid days stretch ahead. I need to check my phone to remember the day of the week.
When folks aren’t working, the conversations gravitate to finance, sports, and the arts, not discipline (although my phone and laptop chargers keep disappearing). The house stays relatively quiet—no fighting, no commanding. People clean without asking.
With three cars and six drivers, we scatter or gather as we choose, sometimes joined by 30-something women, the elder kids’ friends who temporarily even the gender imbalance in our group. When I want to run (fine, walk), I simply leave. Grocery shopping becomes a shared adventure, not solo drudgery. And there’s no meal planning; dinners are booked, the rest is grab on your own.
We are in that possibly brief sweet spot between my kids’ childhood and their yet-to-be-determined journey into parenthood.
This is the freedom that didn’t exist before. This feels like a vacation. The beach towels still need washing. But I’ll let someone else do it this time.
