If you want to write something funny, it’s a good idea to think of something painful. Summer vacation sounds good. I’m on one. I can hear all my cute little nephews and nieces playing a game downstairs that sounds like a not-pleasant scene from Lord of the Flies. 

We decided this year that instead of going somewhere cool and refreshing, we’d go to the beach. At least here there’s a tiny sea breeze attempting to blow sweat off my pate as I unpack the car, much like a very old man trying to blow out a candle. In Central Florida, the old man just rubs his frail hands above your head and cackles.

We’ve swapped the swamp for the sea, and it only took us a week and half of stressing about what to eat, what to pack, who will stay where, what a mess we’re leaving our house in, who will feed the cat, pay the taxes, visit the orthodontist, get that mole checked, and three days of putting two bathing suits, a toothbrush, a towel, and some flip-flops into a grocery bag before deciding to pack the entire house.

“Honey, I don’t think the foundation will fit. Besides, it’s cracked and sliding into the swamp.” 

“Just shut up and pack it.” 

And why, when I’ve packed everything I own and a lot of stuff I don’t, do I always run out of underwear by day two? Perhaps it’s because as soon as we get to our destination, the cousins rifle through our luggage, strap underwear to their heads, and proceed to act like kids on vacation – grabbing, throwing, ripping, and smashing everything they can get their little paws on whilst yelling like banshees raised by werewolves. 

I guess I can’t really blame them. As a kid, I remember losing my mind on vacation. I was tossed in with the dirty laundry in the back of our Pontiac station wagon, facing backwards, legs sweat-glued to our vinyl seats, Dad’s fishing pole poking me in the neck, and legroom taken by a sibling with a biting problem. After eight hours of this prison on wheels, listening to my father drone on for the umpteenth time that my sister couldn’t possibly need to go to the bathroom, my floor-space kid brother complaining that my legs were sweating on him, I honestly can’t say I’m responsible for the sorts of things I did. My dad always wondered why passing cars kept making rude hand gestures while I was in the back. 

Now that I think about it, our kids have it made. Not only do they face forward when we travel, but they get to watch movies, snarf candy, and when their blood-shot eyeballs are sore from their screens, they tweak the rear air conditioning, recline their, well, car recliners, put their earbuds in, and drool blissfully. It’s like a kid’s version of a day at the spa. We only ever hear from them when they’ve run out of crud to cram into their greedy faces, or when their tummies ache, or when they need to go potty, or when they yell because one of them couldn’t resist being in such close proximity to the emotional bomb that is their sister. They simply can’t complain about the stuff I used to whine about, like feeling car sick because I’m under a 50-pound suitcase, the air conditioning is not working, or not being able to feel my brother bite my lifeless legs. 

I know it sounds like I’m complaining about this family vacation thing, but I’m really not. There’s always a silver lining. I have the freedom to talk politics with my in-laws. What’s not great about that? Or I can get into a yelling match with my sister-in-law over Scrabble because she’s a “habitual liar and a cheat who sets a terrible example for the little ones.” Or sliding into bed, where my legs get to continue sun-burning under the sandy sheets, and I try to sleep only as my daughter comes in to say that Uncle Aaron is snoring again. Or I can get caught in a riptide (true story) on an inflatable taco with four kids, two mine and two not. “Don’t worry, kids. We’re supposed to swim parallel to the beach. The key to these situations is to stay calm and relaxed,” I said. As we frantically kicked our legs, all 10 of them, I wondered, Just how much churning does it take to attract a shark? Mayhaps, Jaws wasn’t the best movie to watch last night.

We lived, and perhaps that’s the true silver lining. On vacation, all the inconveniences of life are distilled into a concentrated ball of fury, but you usually survive. What doesn’t kill you makes your children whine incessantly, making you wish you didn’t have ears. They’re calling me to go to the beach.