Weekend Getaway

My husband and I needed a break from our busy routine so we packed up the family and drove to our summer place in Cape May County for the weekend.

Sounds nice, even relaxing, doesn't it?


Obviously, you didn't come with us.

The trouble started on Friday. We were supposed to leave right after dinner, but I couldn't find enough time during the day to write another news story, wash clothes, pack clothes, feed the kids, wash the kids and dress the kids -- a process that was repeated each time Sophie spit up and Hendrick wiped peanut butter all over his clothes.

John, my hard-working man, was supposed to get home early enough to help load the car before dark. That, of course, was as realistic as asking my 2-year-old son and his baby sister to make the meatloaf while I stuff the suitcases.


We decided it was better to leave first thing in the morning. For most people that would mean right after breakfast. For us, breakfast turned into lunch because we had all those last-minute tasks, like filling the baby bottles and packing a cooler with drinks, before we could take off.

The two-hour ride was quiet. Hendrick listened to his baby songs and Sophie slept. There's something about the purr of an engine that lulls babies and pacifies toddlers and gives parents the time they so desperately need to recharge. I felt like driving all the way to Florida.


Once we unpacked the car and got settled it was almost time for dinner. We headed to our favorite restaurant in Ocean City because, well, nobody remembered to bring food.


Mammas, by the way, should never order meals that they need to eat with two hands. One inevitably is needed to hold a bottle in baby's mouth and the other to feed toddler. Perhaps a liquid diet would be best, that way you can just bend your head down and reach for the straw.


I, regrettably, didn't have time to finish my eggplant casserole. Hendrick melted down quicker than the mozzarella on my meal and we had to go. My friend Marilyn, the mother of four young boys, jokes that her family stopped going to restaurants because the waitress always brought the check well before they were finished eating. I'm sure she didn't swallow too many mouthfuls either.


Our Sunday in Cape May wasn't as leisurely as it used to be before the kids came along. This time, we took turns going into the shops. One of us waited outside with the children for the other to come and report on all the pretty things we can't afford anymore.


If we did spend money, it was on the kids. John couldn't resist buying Hendrick a new tow truck and taxi cab. We also bought him a whirligig to stick in the front yard of our summer place. We offered to let him pick one, but it was well past nap time and the choices overwhelmed him. I decided on the school bus; he cried and screamed on the way home for the train.


Outside one shop there was a wooden plaque that read: "Parenthood is like getting pecked to death by your children."


I laughed, and looked over to two silver-haired ladies who were also reading the sign.

"You're going to miss these days," one of them said before they walked into the shop.

Really, I said, while struggling to turn the double stroller away from the breakable items. Maybe when I, too, have lived long enough to forget the hard part and reflect back only on all that was good.