What I am doing this week sounds extremely luxurious: while my bathroom at home is being tiled, I am spending four nights in a waterfront bed and breakfast on a remote island. It sounds real good, like the kind of thing that others, not I, do. The only problem is, anything you do with a 19-month-old boy cannot, by definition, be luxurious.
Lying in the sand on a perfect sunny day with a book and a margarita? Yes, very nice, but make sure to check every fifteen seconds or so that your little beach bum hasn't wandered too far into the surf or destroyed someone else's sandcastle or tried to eat one of the hermit crabs his sister is collecting in her bucket.
Taking a lazy stroll down a narrow country lane while watching the bald eagles swoop and dive for salmon? Most relaxing! Except when your youngest child is at constant risk of being hit by a truck, or throwing a temper tantrum because you won't lift him up, or trying to chase deer into the bracken.
Cooking a late breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee for your lover and then leisurely sharing it while listening to a Glenn Gould CD? The epitome of enjoyment. Too bad the bed and breakfast's CD collection has to be sacrified in order to amuse the baby while you stand at the stove.
So I need to alter, somewhat, my whole definition of what a vacation is. Here is what I have so far:
vacation (n): When you go away from your own home to somewhere else, and keep on living in pretty much the same way you did at home except that your Internet access is by no means guaranteed.
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