... in which I play the cheerful "Mom," full of zest and clever ideas for having fun, always remembering to pack along the sandwiches and the baby tylenol, only sometimes crabby and sunburned and short on patience. Scott's "Dad" was very convincing; both his jovial moments and his hot-under-the-collar scenes were realistic and lovable.
We went to a place called Ocean Point, near East Booth Bay, ME with our friends and their two girls. Lovely cottage with kid friendly details like a splinter free deck, and my personal favorite, a fully equipped kitchen including baby spoons left behind by previous renters. It was the kind of summer rental where you often heard conversations like this:
Kris: I smell poop. Is someone poopy?
Hank: (picking up baby nearest him and sniffing behind) Not mine. She's okay.
Scott: Must be ours. Let's have a look-see. (picks up baby nearest him and peers into back of diaper ) Yep. Honey, hand me the wipes. It's a doosey.
Three-year-old Ruth: (delivering a long rambling joke all of which is incomprehensible except for the last word, the punchline) Poopy!
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