Why I Dread the Family Vacation I've Been Looking Forward to All Year

Photo by martin platonov on Unsplash

The text message from my eldest sister, Gracey, arrives at 6:47 AM:

"Can't wait for beach week! 🏖️"

I stare at my phone from bed, surrounded by the laundry mountain that's been threatening to avalanche for three days. Downstairs, I can already hear Rhodes crying—probably because his waffle broke in half or his milk is in the wrong cup. The morning has barely begun, and my nervous system is already on high alert.

And it's only Thursday. We don't leave for Holden Beach until Saturday.

Every year, my family takes a beach trip the week of July Fourth: twelve children under the age of ten, one beach house, and the ever-present hum of cousin drama echoing down the stairs.

While part of me truly can't wait, another part already knows exactly how this is going to go.

I am excited—really.

I love this tradition. I love my family.

But I'm also already tired.

Already spiraling.

Already gathering every ounce of energy to get us out the door.

There's the laundry to conquer (mine and the kids'), the snack list that keeps growing, and the fact that Rhodes has been down one navy Croc for two weeks now. I still need to return two Amazon swimsuits I desperately wanted to like—one of which arrived in full neon orange instead of "burnt sienna" and made me look like an actual highlighter.

A few years ago, I might've pulled it off. But now, I'm stuck in that weird swimsuit purgatory: bikinis feel like too much, but the classic "mom one-piece" makes me feel like I'm heading to water aerobics.

Seriously—what are we supposed to wear these days? (Asking for all of us moms caught between wanting to feel confident and needing to chase toddlers through the sand without a wardrobe malfunction.)

It's no wonder there's a part of me that secretly wishes I could crawl into bed, lock the door, and not come out until it's all over.

From Home to Chaos

I have plenty of PTO, but every year I still feel a twinge of guilt for taking off. It makes zero sense—Fourth of July week is literally the most out-of-office week in America. Most of my customers are off. But still, I can't shake the subtle feeling that I'm being irresponsible.

Add to that the fact that I haven't pre-scheduled enough Substack posts to "coast" while I'm gone. A week without creating anything? My internal dialogue goes haywire: What if I lose momentum? What if I fall behind?

Apparently, I've become the kind of person who doesn't feel permission to enjoy vacation unless the internet has something to chew on in my absence.

Then there's the drive.

Four hours. With two small children.

I don't know why, but when Rhodes screams in the car, my nervous system short-circuits. Bryce, my husband, doesn't even flinch. Meanwhile, I'm clutching my skull like it might split in half and gasping for air.

I've already started mentally rehearsing:

Rhodes asks for his firetruck five minutes into the drive. I give him his firetruck. He changes his mind—"That's not it!" he sobs. He points to something in the mysterious third dimension of the backseat—tangled in a sticky web of goldfish crackers and deflated beach balls.

He can't tell me what exactly he wants. He just wails, "That!! That!!"

I unbuckle (yes, I know) and twist into a Cirque-du-Soleil-level contortion to retrieve "that," because I'd rather risk a ticket than endure another second of screaming.

Bryce gives me a look. I hiss, "I'm more dangerous if I don't get the toy!" (IYKYK.)

When I finally hand over the desired toy, Rhodes throws it on the floor. Of course.

I try to breathe.

Bryce gently puts his hand on my thigh and mimics taking a deep breath.

I feel thankful and homicidal at the same time.

Arrival: Let the Games Begin

If the past is any clue, we'll pull into the driveway and the backseat will be a graveyard of spilt pouches and crushed Cheerios. Anything that won't mold can stay.

We'll get the kids out. Haul luggage up two flights of stairs. Take a longing look at the ocean.

Then—straight into logistics.

The race to claim the best baby room begins. We have a long-standing family rule: first sister to the house gets dibs on the laundry room. Or the closet in my parent’s bedroom. Or wherever we can safely stuff a bassinet.

This is what war looks like in motherhood.

Once rooms have been settled, we set up the pack-and-plays. I realize I forgot the baby sheet. Wonder if Collins will suffocate with an adult size one. Google it. Decide to wing it. "She'll be fine, right?"

Next: sound machines. Monitors. Sleep sacks. Missing pacifiers. A round of dirty diapers. And then that tug of shame—Shouldn't Rhodes be potty-trained by now?

(Cue my brother-in-law's voice in my head: "Sage was potty-trained at two.")

The familiar wave of guilt and fear washes over me, but there's no time to spiral.

Cousin drama is already erupting downstairs.

Welcome to the Mayhem

Within ten minutes, the shrieking has reached an entirely new decibel—a sticker war has begun. Rhodes and Evelyn are both screaming over the same blue star—even though there are literally 500 other blue stars in the same sticker book.

"Just choose another one!" I plead.

They do not.

Why is everything better if someone else wants it?

Then comes the "I'm hungryyy!!" chorus. My sister Kristi pulls out oranges.

Immediate protests: "I hate oranges!!" "Me too!!" "I want grapes!"

We exchange exhausted glances and pivot. Grapes and blueberries it is.

Five minutes later, we're scrubbing berries off a white couch cushion, praying it doesn't stain.

By 4:30 p.m., it's time to push out the door to the ocean. The kids are teetering on the edge, but if we wait any longer, the juice won't be worth the squeeze.

Bathing suits. Swim diapers. One is too tight. Swap it out. Sunscreen application becomes a full-contact sport. Load up the wagon with toys, snacks, towels, and a whisper of hope.

"Who smells like poop?"

It's Collins. Of course. Hand her to Bryce. Keep moving.

Set up the tent. Wrestle open the beach chairs. Why does it take five adults to figure these out?

Finally—settle into the sand.

Thirty minutes of peace.

It's short-lived.

"She threw water at me!!" "He knocked over my sandcastle!!" "That's MY shovel!!"

The unraveling begins.

We try to stretch the moment, but it's time.

Rinse off the kids. Drag the wagon back. Shake sand from their hair and hope it doesn't clog the rental's pipes.

Pizza dinner. Thank God. At least they'll eat that.

Bath time. Pajamas. Stories. Three rounds of "I can't sleep because…"

Finally, the upstairs pitter-patter and giggles and whines die down.

We all let out a collective sigh. We have survived the first day.

The One Hour That Makes It All Worth It

By 8:30 p.m., we're settling into adult time. The best part of the day.

We pour drinks (please, something stronger), collapse onto the porch, and watch the sun melt into the horizon. We're exhausted—but grateful for a few moments of uninterrupted conversation.

We swap stories from earlier in the day and scroll through photos.

Rhodes, Evelyn, and Bowen—the three-year-old gang—arms around one another, faces streaked white with the second coat of sunscreen. Reese and Adelaide, the sassy five-year-olds, striking poses in their pink kid sunglasses. The older kids tossing a football, learning to boogie board. And finally, the sweetest one of Collins and Hayes—the babies of the family—toddling through a tide pool while holding my mom's hands.

We laugh, breathe, and remember these moments.

And as my margarita hits the back of my throat and the sky glows orange and pink, I feel something quietly beautiful settle in my chest:

Maybe these trips aren't for me. Maybe they're not meant to be relaxing.

Maybe these chaotic, overstimulating, sticky, sandy days are the scaffolding of something deeper.

The memories that will shape my kids and their cousins.

The stories they'll tell about stickers and pizza and Paw Patrol protests.

The magic that lives in the ordinary.

After all, that's how it was for me and my cousins.

These are the weeks that define a childhood.

The moments that stitch a family together. A village. A legacy.

Maybe it's not a “vacation.” But it's still sacred.

And I'm lucky—so incredibly lucky—to have a family that chooses to spend our precious time off together, year after year, chaos and all.

One Last Thing

So if you're headed on a family vacation this summer—with little ones, with madness, with cousins and snacks and sticker fights—here's what I'm reminding myself:

Don't miss it.

Don't try to escape it.

This is it—the love, the beautiful mess, the moments that matter.

It's all worth it. 💛