What vacation?

Just about every day, I close my eyes for a few moments and long for a respite. Sometimes it’s because the kids are being kids and I need a break, and other times it’s because who in the world doesn’t want to take a vacation?
We are currently in the most beautiful place in the entire world. This little island is ideal for families, exercise enthusiasts and anyone who just wants to chill the heck out.
I have been looking forward to this trip for the last few months. Monster and I regularly discussed it. I may have begun packing a week before we departed.
Now here I sit in a quaint, three-bedroom cottage with décor that hasn’t been updated since the early 90s, but who cares? It’s vacation. On an island. I can hear the ocean waves.
No, not the real ones. These are the faux sounds of soothing swooshing coming from Eliza’s sound machine, or as we like to call it, “The Finisher.”
The baby is napping. Monster is with David and the rest of my family at the beach.
I have this entire place to myself.
Alone.
Peace.
Quiet (fake waves excepting).
I could do whatever I wanted. I could nap or drink wine or watch adult movies (no, not THOSE adult movies; I mean an entertaining rom-com starring a dude who looks good but can’t act and some chick whose post-baby body makes me wrinkle my nose with jealousy.
If I wanted to, I could lie out on the sun deck and read a book.
Ha ha ha. Who am I kidding? I don’t read. BUT, I could read if I wanted to. Or bake. Or just stare at the wall.
Yet I simply can’t do any of that.
Why?
Because the house is a disaster. We have been here just a few days and there are already toys everywhere, Cheerios ground into the floor, dirty clothes lurking in every corner, wet towels that need drying before we head to the beach, dishes with remnants of lunch on every table in every room.
Why can’t I just leave them alone and rest? Do what my husband does and say, “Eh, we’ll get to it later”?
Because I am somehow restless. The second I put my feet up, I want to be on my hands and knees looking for that miniature train Monster said he lost “somewhere over there.”
Here I am with this golden opportunity for relaxation, and all I want to do is clean and do a little writing and switch over the laundry and organize the cupboards.
I realize that I’m going to regret this later. If I mention to David later on that I am tired, I know what he’ll say: “Well, why didn’t you nap when you could have?”
First, I cannot nap unless I am sick or pregnant, and I’m not either of those. Second, I totally agree. Why don’t I nap? Or at least be a little lazy?
That thought nags me for my daughter’s entire two-hour slumber, during which I move about the cottage swiftly but quietly. I may not want to rest, but I will be darned if I am too loud and prematurely wake that little creature.
The place is spotless. I knocked out a little bit of work. All the towels and beach necessities are ready and neatly stacked by the door so we can simply pick them up and walk to the beach.
One little glass of afternoon delight, aka cabernet sauvignon, as I sit on the couch. That’s my treat.
I pour. I sit. I sip.
The baby wakes up before I can even swallow.
And I have no one to blame except myself.

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