Sometimes It's Not the Journey, It Really Is the Destination

I am writing this from a house in the woods near the ocean on an island, which is, in my book, about the best possible place for a house to be. It is ten o'clock, I think, and for the first time in--and I don't approximate--sixteen hours that I have felt at all relaxed.

This is because although I fight it, deny it, strive for defiance of the fact: It is a waking nightmare to take a real trip with two small children. The trip itself, after the getting there part, can be quite nice, although it's a far cry from the old days of what I now think of, wistfully, as wanton self-indulgence. But the getting there--about ten minutes into it, every time, I find myself thinking: Is there anyway to get out of this gracefully?

Six a.m. the shrieking began--Annika, in her crib, asking in the most effective way she knows how, to get out. And like a village or any kind of idiot, I hadn't packed. I usually do it in advance, and it's still bad, don't get me wrong, but not this bad. The next three hours entailed the cleaning (minor) and dressing of everyone, the feeding of three of the four of us (guess who left hungry; hint: she's typing right now), the packing of thirty-seven bags in which every possible wardrobe situation had to be hit by the four-year-old, the packing for the doll, which took--and I'm not kidding--longer than the packing for the rest of us, and if you are thinking to yourself that I was being self-indulgent and could have curtailed this, believe me, I had to walk out of the room counting silently to ten and tell Ben that I was on the verge of hurling Bess (aforementioned doll) out the window into a garbage truck idling below.

There was more, involving missing bottle valves, the lack of canned dog food or milk, necessitating a last-minute, inexplicably forty-five minute run to the corner store, more whining and shrieking and crying and swearing, and then finally, we were actually in the car and on the way.

To Connecticut, where we had to unload the car and move everything into the van, the only vehicle capable of transporting my parents, sister, grandmother and us around the island (and I should say semi-capable, as I still--after thirty plus years of complaining--am the one crouched on the floor between the seats where all of the dog hair and crushed Cheerios live). And get a few more essentials for Bess, who is definitely going to boarding school, and change diapers, pick tomatoes, whine and shriek some more, the usual.

By the time we got to the ferry, at 4:45, my father, whom I was surprised to find still living, as he had been hoping we would arrive when he likes to--four hours before the boat leaves--and spends every instant leading up to the sound of the departure horn on the brink of a cardiac arrest, was standing by his car. Which of course had to be unloaded into ours, including all twenty of my mother's enormous coolers, because there is, of course, no Costco on this island and god forbid we should have to (in a whispered tone) pay full price for our weekend's groceries.

This left my customary nook between the seats nonexistent, so I got to perch on the comfortable plastic edge of Annika's infant car seat, doubled over at the waist because I was too close to the ceiling to sit up straight, causing my mother, a.k.a. She Who Buys Exclusively in Bulk, to speculate, "I wonder if this seating arrangement is illegal?"

Hmmm.

I could go on, and for once I actually want to, but I will stop. The house is quiet and peaceful and dark. Everybody else is asleep. I think I can hear the sound of the ocean through the woods and darkness.

Earlier today on the phone, at the height of the frenzy, I asked my mother (whose pre-made pasta dish was delicious and very much appreciated, I grudgingly admit): Is this really worth it?

I ask it every time. And the answer is always the same.

I'm very glad to be here.