We should never have gone on this vacation.
Some of the reasons are obvious, like we should be saving rather than spending. And we have 2 small children, one of whom is developmentally in a place where routine is king, and the other of whom has a very, very, very hard time with transitions.
Aside: Poor Noah: We moved 5 weeks ago. Transition 1 Summer school ended a week ago, so he spent last week in his old day care. Transition 2. Then we went on vacation. Transition 3. When school starts up again, it will be in the same building, but a different classroom and different kids (partially) and a different teacher than summer school. Thank goodness Montessori keeps the same teacher for 3 years. Transition 4. And next week Tuesday, Jill leaves for work for a month. Transition 5.
The location is beautiful, but it Does Not Work for our family. The “beach” is approximately 25 square feet of steeply sloping sand, in a partial funnel shape that ends in several large, slime-covered rocks and a foot or so of thick seaweed. If you brave that, the slope levels out for another foot, then slopes down to 1-2’ of water over sandy bottom for another 3’. Then it drops into invisibility. The water is an unattractive shade of dark brown.
If we were boaters, it would be more attractive. There is a lovely long dock that ends in a pretty deck with chairs and a ladder for brave swimmers. See the above reference to choking seaweed and dark brown water.
Note that none of these things discourage Josie, whom I have worked into a state of agitated rage twice now, by my refusal to let her independently explore said ladder or the other edges of the dock. She has proved my instinct correct both times, once by falling in to hip depth and once by defiantly standing on the slippery step and losing her balance. In both cases I was actually holding her and she was never in any danger, but it meant quite clearly that neither of us was having much fun or enjoying the moment.
Did I mention that all this action and excitement took place before 10 am? We fed a bunny, played checkers, dug in sand, found buckets of rocks to throw in the water, raced around in circles, ate breakfast AND 2 snacks, and Josie attempted to teach herself to swim, all before 10 am.
Then we unsuccessfully attempted to go tour a bison ranch, went “mining” for “pretty rocks” at a tourist trap, the kids had their first soft-serve ice cream with crunchy chocolate shells, we investigated a tourist trap exotic animal “zoo” (rejected!), a Wild West show (rejected!), and finally wandered an indoor flea market. (They had mini replicas of the Millenium Falcon! For $0.25! Noah has a new favorite store.)
Those activities, largely located 30-45 minutes away, managed to fill the time until 4 pm. Then I went to the grocery store in search of meat, bottled water (our tap water here smells like eggs), and wine.
By the time I got back, maybe an hour later, Jill was so frustrated and worn out by the intensity of the child care involved in this location that I was a little bit worried.
Bear in mind, we only arrived here for our vacation at 4 pm (ish) on Saturday. Call it 25 hours of vacation down, 137 hours to go.
Then there was the birthday cake.
Josie requested a Yoda cake with flowers.
Gamely, I decided to try. (No! Do or do not. There is no try.)
Since we would be traveling, I opted for cake mix rather than scratch. Josie helped pick it at the grocery store. After the kids (finally, finally, finally, finally, after endless screaming and crying and throwing things) went to bed, I mixed the cake and put it in the oven.
Jill persuaded me to take a quick dip in the beautiful, starlit hot tub while the cake baked. I set the timer for 3 minutes early and went for a soak.
When we returned to the main house, I found a pair of black, smoking, hockey pucks in the oven. They smelled just like burnt toasted marshmallows.
When Jill finished opening windows and screen doors to let the smoke out of the house, she asked what happened. “The oven must run hot,” I replied. I knew I’d been within the 32-36 minute recommended baking time, and even if I’d been a minute or two later, they shouldn’t have been hockey pucks yet.
She looked stricken.
“I forgot to tell you. The owners said to cook anything in the oven at 100 degrees less than what the directions say. I’m so sorry.”
Gentle Reader, I did not kill her.
I did, however, sit down and start to cry.
The next day, Josie’s actual birthday, we had pizza for lunch. Birthday pizza.
And also hideously ugly grocery store cupcakes.
The kids still had fun. And I’ll be trying to make a Yoda cake with flowers for her party on Monday.
It helped that every step except the part involving the oven was one he could do. And so could Josie, it turned out!
