Last week, my family and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for a much-needed “vacation.” For the past thirteen years, we’ve stayed at a beloved bed and breakfast, squeezing a cot and, most recently, a pack-and-play next to our four-post canopy bed. Sure, we had kids, but nothing had to change. We could still enjoy our quaint New England home away from home. It would just be a little, well, noisier.
Sadly, last summer, after the second day of our son waking up at dawn and screaming his little lungs out — much to the chagrin of the other house guests, whom I feared were about to turn into the New England version of villagers with pitchforks (graying old ladies wielding tacit disapproval and sailboat-themed throw pillows) — we realized a change was necessary. And so we withdrew our life savings and rented a house on the island. Armed with a couple of books and some sunblock, we prepared for a week of rest of and relaxation with the kids.
Such delusions were our first mistake.
