Parenting In Another State

Back in January—before everything in our lives and livelihoods fell apart—I booked a shore house in Ocean City, New Jersey, also known as "America’s Greatest Family Resort”. It's also known as a "dry town” meaning no alcohol is sold on the island itself, but there are three liquor stores conveniently located just across the bridge! I found a perfect little house on the bay, a few blocks from the beach, big enough for just the four of us. Excitedly, I put down a deposit for what we hoped would be a true family vacation—a week where we stayed in one place, free from any familial obligations or plans that weren't our own.

Things changed by the end of January.

And then again at the beginning of February.

A lot was uncertain, and we didn’t know where we would be in a few months' time. But one thing we were certain about: we were not canceling our June shore trip, no matter what. Regardless of employment or financial concerns, we felt we owed it to ourselves and our boys to take that week and make the most of it. We promised each other we would do everything possible to make that week a reality.

Thankfully, we were able to keep that promise.

Last Saturday, we returned from our week-long stay in Ocean City. We enjoyed a full seven days of perfect weather, playing on the beach—neither toddler came home with sunburn, much to my mother's relief—nightly walks on the boardwalk—eventually mastering the art of walking without tripping in our sandals—riding all the amusement park rides—surprisingly more than Mummy expected—biking to new breakfast spots every morning—halted abruptly after Daddy hit a curb and blew out his tire—and indulging in all the ice cream we could eat. We ventured off the island to the Cape May/Lewes Ferry—"Big Boat" became Finlay's favorite phrase for the rest of the week—Storybook Land, and the Cape May Zoo. It involved many late nights and far too many early mornings, but we made countless lasting memories

I can say, without any doubt or exaggeration, that we returned home with two very happy little boys. So much so that my older son asked, "When are we going back to our shore house in Ocean City?" To which I replied, "Not for a while, bud."

Because Mummy and Daddy are exhausted.

Can I vent for a paragraph or two? Okay, cool!

I’ve heard it said that vacationing with kids is just parenting in another state. After this past vacation, I feel that. HARD.

Obviously, this wasn’t our first family vacation. We’ve done extended weekends at the shore and the mountains, and—as you might know from my blog—we spent two weeks in the UK over Christmas in 2022. But this was the first full week, just the four of us trip. This vacation was solely on my husband and me; we didn’t have anyone else dictating plans or entertaining the boys. It was only us. Which was what we intended—a week of doing everything we wanted, not beholden to anyone else’s desires or schedules. So we planned activities for every day—my husband and I are too Type A to “wing it”. We wanted to be out of the house and away from screens, enjoying the weather and everything the Jersey shore offered.

Sounds idyllic, right?

And for the most part—like 85% of the week—it was. That sneaky little 15% was the soul-crusher, leaving both of us practically in tears at the end of the day and pulling our hair out—my husband has very little to begin with. That 15% was the whiny, entitled, bratty behavior of a normal toddler who refused to nap, despite telling us he was tired and needed to. Some days, it was more like 45%. And contrary to wishful thinking, being on vacation doesn’t eliminate those typical behaviors. In fact, they often intensify in an unfamiliar environment and disrupted routine. Children don't always grasp the effort and money spent on a vacation. And why should they? Appreciation is a concept that often doesn't click until the teenage years.

If even then.

But oh, how I wish they would sometimes. A simple, “Thank you, Mummy, for planning this wonderful week at the shore. I’m having the best time at the beach, and I know you and Daddy put a lot of effort into making this week happen for me and my brother. I love you!” Instead, it was, “No, I don’t want to watch what’s on TV! Mummy, why can’t we watch Finding Nemo? It’s on Disney+ on our TV!” (Yes, I had to explain to my toddler that we can’t just watch whatever we want; that we didn’t have a choice and had to watch whatever was on. Like when Mummy and Daddy were little…in the 90s. The blank stare I got as my four-year-old tried to process that statement…)

By Thursday, I was over it and started rage-packing. I did laundry like the machine was on its last legs, yanked out suitcases and filled them with anything we wouldn’t need for the next two days, and started cleaning out the fridge.

Then, a newfound appreciation for my parents and our family shore trips started creeping in. From age five to eighteen, my parents (and my uncle and aunt) rented a house on the beach in LBI for two weeks. One house with 1.5 baths and four bedrooms, housing four adults, at least eight kids (once we turned eleven, we could invite friends), and plenty of day beach-goers who stopped by for a few hours. There was no telephone (cellphones came much later) and no cable TV. It was just our two families and the beach. I’m sure it was chaotic—a house that size with that many people? How could it not be! Meal times must have been the WORST! I remember moments of chaos—like when the island flooded and we kids had to walk a mile home with water up to our waists, or when I accidentally slammed my hand through the eye of a sewing needle while all the adults were at dinner, or the time my cousin and I decided to race through the pitch-dark house and I slammed into a glass sliding door—but my best childhood memories are from those summers. My sisters, cousins, and our friends who joined every year would say the same.

Thinking back on those summers while in the trenches of my own vacation made me wonder how my parents managed it for all those years. There were never any elaborate plans—maybe a night at the amusement park, a day at the waterpark, and crabbing. There was no money to do extensive day trips—like we planned for our boys. We just spent every day on the beach and had the freedom to ride our bikes all over the island—something we couldn’t do at home. It all seemed so magical and effortless.

When I called my mom the day after we returned and asked her about all of this, she just started laughing. “Of course it was chaotic! You guys just didn’t realize it!”

Which is the point, really; vacationing amidst the chaos, while making memories to laugh at in years to come.

Thirty years from now, I'm sure our boys will remember how we almost missed the Cape May Ferry—pulling into the parking lot with just three minutes until departure, hauling-ass Home-Alone-Style through the welcome center, up two flights of stairs, and barely getting on board before they pulled up the anchor. They'll recall how Wyatt tripped while walking the gangway and scraped up his knee and cried until an attendant brought him two Band-Aids.

But we made it.

And had the best time.