Family vacation. An ultimate oxymoron.

Hold off on plunging tomatoes at my head or stoning me to a state of unconsciousness. I have very fond memories of my family vacations as a kid, but in hindsight it is from the perspective of a child and I have a new found perspective of being a parent. Of toddlers. And a very hormonal teenager. All of whom I love.

But now I need a vacation.

It was a week of beautiful weather. I scored a bronzey tan which I'm totally gloating about like I'm a 13 year old pool rat again trying to gain bragging rights to a summer tan before going back to school. And I caught some sweet waves. On my body board. Conceal the snide laughs; I haven't tested the surfboard on Jersey waves for God's sake.

Our family of five ventured to a gigundous beach house shared with my parents, my in laws, my grandma and my youngest teenage cousin who contributed to keeping the balance among the teenage population. I cooked four fantastic Rachael Ray meals that will be added to the bangin' foodie list. But it was beyond exhausting on many parts, mostly because of the kids. I've realized how much energy is put into them even more so on vacation because as a parent I want them to enjoy the aura of the beach as much as I do.

I want them to point to every obnoxious advertisement being flown overhead by the puddle jumper planes, the military jets that rip past us, the tug boat too close to shore, the sand crab pinching my toe, and the dolphins jumping beyond the waves. But they don't yet, so I act as the motherly tour guide for the majority of the time. Sorry folks, it's tiresome. Especially if your kids want nothing to do with the above and really only want to eat piles of sand by the fistful causing ungodly sights and stenches in their Pampers, thank you very much.

Add to that: a week of spoiling, limited structure and discipline and you have yourself a picture of childhood anarchy.

I was sad to see the week end mostly because through it all we had a great time, but Jason and I were eager to get home. Half way through the trip home we were busy crooning along to Bob Schneider, Barenaked Ladies, and Dave Matthews incessantly when our SUV began sputtering on the Schuylkill Express outside of Philly. It's not our vehicle, but was graciously borrowed from Jason's oldest brother. The Yukon died in transit on the Schuylkill three times before we literally stopped 500 yards before the Conshohocken exit.

A lot of things went through my mind at that point, mostly all of them referring to dangerous statistics about highway fatalities to stranded vehicles. Every tractor trailer that passed in a blur of motion sent chills down my spine as its sheer power sent our 7-passenger vehicle rocking subtly. The view out my window led to a steep hill bordering Amtrak lines. I am a catastrophic thinker, and all I kept seeing in my mind were headlines about a family's vacation ending tragically on the Schuylkill.

I began retracting the thoughts I had about my kids. The "seriously isn't it bedtime for you kids, yet?" thoughts. I still do regret thinking them. Well most of them anyway. The teenager's request for a pink bra, no I'm sorry a Victoria's Secret PINK bra, was still not happening during day two of vacation and will not happen now either, mind you, and I don't regret the internal expletive thoughts I had after that little proposal. And I don't regret my reaction to my toddlers' baffling stunt where they managed to score dad's electric shaver out of the wall, shave off pieces of each other's hair, dismantle the mechanism, all in about ten minutes after I put them to bed for naptime on day three of vacation.

But all of the other grumblings I said under my breath out of exhaustion... yea those I totally regret.

And I still need that vacation. As if it were in question.