luckymomma

There is no vacation when you have a small child. There is travel. There is screaming and kicking the seat in front of him halfway through an all-night flight. There is dodging the looks of horror and pity from the childless as they board the plane, squeezing past your car seat, diaper bag, rolling suitcase and, of course, thrashing toddler, smug with their ipods and thick novels.

And somehow I was fooling myself that once we arrived at our destination, I would be free of all baby responsibilities. I would be able to sleep late, lounge on the couch, bake complicated, delicious concoctions without "help." I would spend a leisurely afternoon wandering around my alma mater, visit old haunts, browse through the bookstore and enjoy a cup of tea on the Corner.

But Ronan came armed with his usual bag of toddler tricks, and there was no fairy godbabysitter to attend to him.

So instead I spent rollicking mornings wrestling in bed with my husband and my son. I watched as Ronan's grandfather crouched on the floor making choo-choo noises and carefully pushing a wooden train around the track. We wandered through the mall in the middle of the day, letting Ronan set the course as we shared a bowl of ice cream. We visited a chicken coop and laughed as Ronan became obsessed with throwing corn to the chickens. (I'm not sure the chickens will ever recover.)

It wasn't a vacation, but I'm still glad we went.