We got back this week after 6 days, 5 nights of vacation, and Dan has sworn that he'll never take me camping ever again.
Look, I love our yearly Maine vacation. I love hiking, swimming, and playing by the ocean. I love going out to breakfast and hanging out with my family.
I don't love sleeping in a clammy tent, holding my pee all night so I don't have to walk to the bathroom, or trying to find the most comfortable way to nurse a baby in the front seat of a car. There isn't one, by the way... a comfortable way to nurse a baby every hour in a crammed-with-stuff front seat of a car.
And I don't love worrying whether everyone is warm enough, or protected from sunburn, or having a good time.
I don't go on vacation to be comfortable, though. I go to make memories, to tick off each changing year, to remind us that we as a family can do big things together, like scale a mountain with a 5-week old, or a 13 month old, or a 2-year old and 2-month old.
Sure, I don't have fun camping, but I don't particularly have fun doing a lot of things. Cooking, folding laundry, visiting with my extended family. And yet I'm mostly glad having cooked, or having folded laundry, or having a family visit behind me. There's something good in lots of things that aren't fun all the time. It's good to come back from the tent to a house that's bigger, nicer, more appreciated than ever.
It's good to see my boys grow up, get bigger and more capable and more like their father each year.
I'll be sad to see them go without me.