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T his summer marked a significant milestone in my family’s life. We took our first and second trip to the cottage. 

We are by no means road warriors, having only gone on a couple of road trips before with young Junior. We visited my parents’ weekend place up near Collingwood back when Jack was almost three months old, and we visited with Stephen’s family in Leamington and London a few times. Those trips met with varied success, as Junior was not a great car tripper. He cried a lot and seemed generally unhappy in his car seat, unlike other babies I know who fall asleep as soon as the car hits 30 km/hour.

Our first trip to Leamington was cut short by a night after Junior refused to sleep in his playpen and spent the night in the motel bed with me, flailing, crying and kicking the entire night. Luckily the room had a second bed or else my husband would have found himself sleeping on the floor. The next day I was a zombie and Jack was a cranky, whining mess. Our second trip went much smoother, and he slept through the night in his playpen, and even enjoyed a swim in the pool. But a trip to the cottage was a whole other ballgame. 

My family has a history on the French River, located about an hour north of Parry Sound. My grandparents had a cottage there and so did my parents until about 10 years ago, and since then we’ve inherited my grandparents’ place. What makes the trip a bit more involved is that it’s on an island, so not only do we have a 3 1/2 hour car ride, but at the end of it we have to unload the car into a small motorboat and take a trip on the sometimes quite choppy and busy water.   

My own summers as a child were happily spent swimming, running around, fishing, painting clam shells, playing Monopoly with my sister, catching frogs, and doing other cottage-y like things. It’s pretty rustic, but we do have electricity and running water. I really wanted that connection to the outdoors for Jack, and so I was pretty excited to take him with us for the first time.

S tephen, on the other hand, was apprehensive. Instead of the sepia-toned memories I was viewing our trip with, he was seeing mostly hazards and inconvenience. I have to admit, it was a bit daunting to know that the closest hospital would be a 15-minute boat ride, and then a 30-minute car ride away, but I was comforted by the fact that we never had any injury more serious than a first degree burn to my sister’s knee all the years we spent up there. So off we went, with a First Aid kit in tow and fingers crossed.

We’ve spent two long weekends there this summer, both times with my parents, and the last time with my sister and her new husband as well. Having other adults there to share chores and keep Jack from eating poisonous mushrooms was a bonus. It was pretty fun, despite my great disappointment that the sand beach was totally covered because the water level was so high this year. My visions of spending the afternoon with Jack wading in the water and throwing handfuls of sand were thwarted. And the mosquitoes this year in cottage country were bad enough that we were grateful for the breeze, even when it was strong enough to blow away our food. 

Being a cottage, there was plenty of opportunity for Jack to practise his latest word, “Dirrr-teh,” which he heard yelled out frequently: “Jack! Dirty! Don’t eat that!” His father found it hilarious when the next day he pointed at my feet and pronounced them “Dirrr-teh!”

Jack found the cottage so exciting that he refused to nap. I guess that he was afraid to miss out on anything. It didn't help that since there are curtains instead of doors on the only two bedrooms, and within easy reach of his playpen, he was able to pull aside the curtain to watch us eat dinner and demand a later bedtime. 

He was more tolerant of wearing his life jacket on our second trip, which was good, and he put up with a dip in the river, which I was insistent we would enjoy together. It was a bit chilly, though, and his expression clearly said, “Why are you doing this to me?!” We got out pretty quickly.

Jack was pretty good in the car, for which I was very thankful, since our car ride home ended up being 4 1/2 hours, due to traffic delays. At one point I thought we might be turning around to go back to the cottage when it looked like the two-lane highway was jammed up for miles and the traffic reports were advising cottagers to delay their departure if possible, but we made it home in one piece.   

One memory that sticks with me is when we saw a mink close up, running along the shoreline about six feet in front of us. It was pretty exciting for me, and while I’m sure just looked like a squirrel to Jack, it reminded me why I thought it was important to tolerate the inconveniences and work of planning, packing, the long ride, having seven people in a small space, and resorting to drinking tetra-pac wine in order to reduce the weight of our recycling that we have to cart back with us. Seeing that kind of wildlife and experiencing the quiet of the Ontario North is something that I want to be part of Jack’s growth. I think Stephen was relieved that there were no mishaps, but I know he didn’t relax while we were there. And I’ll admit that I didn’t really either.

As I’ve talked with other moms, a family vacation usually isn’t a vacation for the parents, what with hyper-vigilance in non-baby-proofed surroundings and interrupted routines, not to mention the laundry avalanche that follows once you arrive home. But next summer Jack will be two, and I look forward to seeing him run along the shore, chasing frogs and minnows. Hopefully there will be less rain than this wet summer, which will mean more beach and fewer poisonous mushrooms.