We're on vacation.

Sorry.

NO.

We're on a trip.

The rental house is in a resort community whose high, untamed desert is veined with smooth, paved bike paths. Every bedroom has an ensuite bath. The dining room table seats twelve. The hot tub on the back deck waits patiently for our post-dinner soaks, next to a stack of fluffy spa towels. We have a beer fridge, a ping-pong table, and a dozen bikes in the garage.

We are  not at all roughing it is what I'm saying. The house is sumptuous and well-stocked, the sheets unpilled, the dishes (mostly) unchipped. We're comfortable.

Or as comfortable as we can be when the kids have decided that they'll be substituting screaming for sleep until they get home. (No joke, Buster yelled for two hours last night before falling asleep. We could do nothing. He slapped away every comfort we offered - a thimbleful of Motrin in a clear plastic plunger, fresh binkies, my left tit. SLAPPED IT. BULLSEYE.)

Being a parent on vacation is really hard, even when you've got cable and a beer fridge. We might struggle with parenting while we're at home, but at least our house isn't mined with wrought-iron murdering knick-knacks and tubs of choking hazards. 

what the jagged christmas

Here, on vacation, we cling to the schedule even as it disintegrates around us. 

wait it's 11:30 shit shit shit how long has he been asleep wake him up wake him up now or no wait he woke up at 4:30 so fuck it I don't know

We tape foil over the windows to black out the kids' room. We whisper to each other across the too-large king bed in the middle of the night when, after 6 months, our 1-year-old reverse-night-weans.

What should we do? 
I don't know. 
Why is this happening? 
I DON'T KNOW.

This is the part of parenting that can't be explained to non-parents. The intensity with which you can both love and despise your life. The elation. The exasperation. The terror. The boredom.

I'm working on a metaphor. Stay tuned.