Dec
19
Dec
16
Last weekend we took the kids to go visit my family in Port Angeles, and man, it was such a good time. It was wonderful to see everyone again, and it was probably the first trip we’ve taken with the boys that was virtually free of small child ass-painery.
They loved the ferry rides, they loved goofing around at my mom and aunt’s house (and squealing over their parrot), they loved the hotel room we stayed in. They were hyper, loud, and oblivious—but they were good-natured, happy, and so much fun to be with.
For what felt like the first time, we didn’t have to worry about naps, midnight feedings, bottles, epic mid-meal chokebarfsplat disasters, blowout diapers, or mysterious sustained crying fits. The nonstop exhausting grind of caring for very young children while vacationing has been mostly replaced by sheer fun—the four of us hanging out and talking and pointing out new sights and having a great time. This is what it’s going to be like, I kept thinking. (You know, at least until they don’t want anything to do with us.) God, this is awesome.
I always suspected that I would enjoy parenthood more when my kids were older. I don’t know how that sounds—bad, maybe? Like I didn’t enjoy them when they were little? I hope not, because I did. But I think (okay: I know) I’m happier now that they’ve grown up a bit.
Did/do any of you feel the same way? That you enjoyed parenting more once you were past the baby stage?
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