There are days like this, when there is nothing left. Days when I’ve eaten plain spaghetti without salt for lunch, sprayed with questionable ketchup for the last two bites, wore unmatching clothes, left on nail painted on my hands. When pulling my bra through my sleeves as I rest my back on the hard floor, is even too much. When I no longer have answers for countless questions, especially ones such as “mommy, why do all children grow up.” When a morning at the beach day felt like a week’s worth of manual labor; hauling gear, changing wet bathing suits, reapplying sunscreen, digging holes, fetching juice, washing sand off the grapes, feet, hands, feeling my back burning as I spend hour two in the shallow water chasing a beach ball against the current,  on my knees.

It’s only the middle of summer and I already know nothing is left, my strength was gone before it started.

I promised myself I’d be better than last year, I’d be more patient, more organized, I’d allow time for boredom, spend time outdoors, blow my fuse at least half an hour later than normal, insist on healthier eating habits without nagging, limit screen time, and all this while not letting the scorching Greek summers dictate our day. No wonder I was tired before it all even started.

Today, all I managed, was the beach. With only one incident of voice raising. For safety reasons.

I know I’m not alone, there are a million moms on the verge of a summer vacay meltdown every second of the day. And for most of that time, we, I, are alone. Even if someone is with us.

By bedtime, our patience has reached superhuman levels, our fuses have burnt out, faded, we can almost smell them sizzling. The lights are off, the stories have been read, the mess almost tidied up, and we lay there, sit there, waiting for the melodic sound of their sleep breathing, they all have a different tune, and suddenly they’re out and we are free.

But free to do what?

“But grown ups don’t play, ” he says before he finally falls asleep. And then decides, “I’m going to play when I’m a grown up.” Hugs my arm, turns his back and goes to sleep. My arm is twisted, hurting, but it’s the sweetest pain. And all that is really left.

So there I am, legs hanging out the trunk of our car, parked on the shoulder of a national highway, looking for the grapes. I find them and wash them using a plastic bottle of water. I’m wearing normal clothes and shoes for the first time in ten days, not a cold, wet bathing suit, yet the wind and dust raised by the speeding cars disrespect that, covering my legs and feet in stains.

The first few days were magnificent, carefree, happy. For the kids. We’d gone to an island where our fiends and their kids already were. By day six, I was done. I never again wanted to change a wet bathing suit on an excited, giggly, sun-kissed child. Or a cold, tired, whiney one. Our beach towels that were originally, soft and fluffy, but has turned into a salty planks of cotton wood. Sand was everywhere, on the floor, in our beds, in the shower, in my bra. I’d dipped my head into the water a total of two times, the wind had blown and turned my hair into a artful bird nest, I knew it would remain so until my hair mask and I were reunited at home.

At least all children’s palates begged for spaghetti and rice, limiting our time in the kitchen. A few slices of cucumber and tomato, and we no longer felt like a bad parents. Soon, bedtimes became painful, pre-dawn risings even more so. On the last night, I feel asleep in a chair. A feat I had not accomplished in 40-odd years.

So on the shoulder of that highway, a highway which in many countries would be considered a side street, I was happy to wash some tiny village grapes while buses of tourists sped by. My son whined in the back seat, faster mommy, I’m hungry, I miss my friends, I want to go back to our village and swim in the sea. I handed him the fruit, dreaming of its alcohol-infused juice in the fridge at home. We drove off, and I turned back to look at him. His blond hair was blonder, longer, it covered his twinkling eyes, his white skin a light shade of bronze, his little feet kicking my seat to the rhythm of the music, while he swallowed the sweet grapes.

It was his first time, his first real summer vacation, and even though I’m over it and the next ten to come, I only hope he remembers every moment of it, because none of it, was for or about me.

I’m not sure who coined the term “family vacation,” but the word “vacation” has no business being there. Unless it is used with irony.

As August finally sets in and I prepare to embark on mine, I’m haunted by family vacations of the years passed, even though I’ve spent July in anticipation of the day, with the enthusiasm of a child waiting for Santa. You see, summer vacations are hard. And by August, any stay-at-home mom of young kids has turned into a screaming nervous wreck, an alcoholic, or both.

Three pages of my notebook are dedicated to each family member and their list of essentials. I bet you know whose is longest.

I imagine the morning when we haul what seems like half of our apartment to the car, drive away late, sweating, someone’s crying because the 30-kilo suitcase they wanted to hold on their lap in the car seat, is instead in the trunk. Two hours later, we still haven’t reached the ferry, and “are we there yet” is beginning to sound like a noise a beast out of a horror movie makes before killing its prey. On the ferry, I run around the deck. The whole way there. And five minutes before we finally reach our destination, he’s asleep.

During the family vacation, I continue to rise with the sun, grocery shop, cook, and clean. But I also go to the beach, where I dream of a day when I will immerse my entire body in the water, when I will no longer worry that someone may drown real quick, if I do. I make castles, provide snacks and towels, and discreetly pull sand and pebbles out of my bathing suit bottoms.

After bedtime, I take the stack of books that I’ve been meaning to read for three family vacations, settle in a chair, and realize I haven’t exchanged an intelligent word with the other member of our family. We bring out the wine, sometimes invite some friends, and try to pretend we are normal adults, on a normal vacation. And sometimes make it to midnight, though it’s not pretty when we do.

A week later, we’re back home, more exhausted than we were when we left. And book a vacation from the family vacation.