A vacation with a one-year-old and a shared bed in a new room leads to a sleepless night and a missed nap and marching time means there's no time for a swim, so instead you take your tired baby to the buffet restaurant the moment it opens and fill a plate full of food she won't eat, and try as best you can to mop up the water she threw on the floor or intercept airborne cutlery, she's just too tired to behave, and then you abandon your beer, two sips in, and go back up to the hotel room, where you stay, lights off, and alone, and peanut butter smeared on crackers become dinner, a can of beer from the minibar is your consolation prize for making it through in one piece.
Still. There are no dishes, no toys to pick up at the end of the day, no meals to plan, no juggling more tasks than time. Alone in the room, there is the rise and fall of her breath. Its quiet, but for the tap tap tap of your keyboard. There is a baby asleep since six-thirty, and no responsibilities, and a good book, so you go to bed at nine, and then your husband comes back from dinner and and you sleep all together in a room with the ones you love most.