I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
June 28, 2008
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I have dark circles under my eyes and my legs and back are aching. I’ve been chasing the kids around for hours on end and I want nothing more than to crawl in bed and sleep for two days.
I’m on vacation, baby. Can’t you tell?
Why do we parents even attempt to vacation with small children, anyway? Exactly who is having fun? We spend all kinds of money so that we can have a few overexposed photos of the family, grinning and sunburned on a beach somewhere in Florida. We stand in two-hour lines so that our toddlers can meet the Disney princesses and then completely forget the experience a year later. We endure the baby’s screams at popular family-friendly restaurants, counting the minutes until the bill arrives and we can go back to the hotel, where the kids will sleep badly, unaccustomed to their surroundings.
Our lack of funds kept us from attempting a “real” vacation this year, but I can’t say that either Hubs or I were all that disappointed about losing out on the prospect of taking Bruiser to some pricey villa for a week. Instead, our trips are confined this summer to visiting various sets of grandparents, who are kind enough to give us a few hours of relief here and there while they watch our rambunctious boy.
Even so, we spent a nightmarish night out at a restaurant last night, the eight of us waiting outside for an hour before wedging ourselves like sardines into a semicircular booth. Strapped onto a booster seat beside me, Bruiser kept busy by screaming his head off every minute or so, throwing every piece of food I offered him, and at one point, biting my arm so hard he left a mark.
Meanwhile, my writing time this week has been reduced almost entirely to whatever I can accomplish on car trips, pecking away at my keyboard when I’m not passing back bottles and sippy cups and Froot Loops and toys, squinting at a screen that’s barely visible in the harsh sunlight, trying to collect my thoughts while music blasts from the stereo.
And as I type, I stop for a moment and look out the window, realizing that the familiar wanderlust normally welling in the back of my throat when we travel is gone. Instead, I find myself wistfully envisioning the day that vacation is over and we can return to the boring, childproofed comfort of our own home.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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