I was never asked to write about my summer vacations during all my years of school, which was probably a good thing for me. Because my “vacations” or “days without being required to go to school” were not too impressive. Most summers meant days at Lake Gardner, learning to swim in murky brown water, unsure of what you were stepping on in the squishy clayish sand. Playing kings in the corner on the front enclosed porch with my friend from across the street. Or riding in the back seat of a car too small for four people and all their stuff, on your way to Missouri to visit the grandparents you only saw for a week at a time every year.

Then there were the days when I was older, we lived in Texas, and summers meant sleepovers, time spent at the pool, the best tans my skin will ever know, and my initiation into a world where air conditioning was a necessity. I read books and created my own detective agency, typing out case files on an old typewriter in red ink, cause for some reason that’s all the ink the typewriter had.

In high school, summer meant relaxing at home, and working at Market Basket for the one summer I had a job there. Driving to said job in my father’s Chevy Caprice Classic, a boat of a car if there ever was one, I would listen loudly to Indigo Girls on tape, singing along when I could. Cause I knew all the words. A few summers included yearbook camp.

My family were not travelers. We did not go to huge amusement parks or travel in airplanes or ride on boats. We did not even camp. In fact, I have still never been to a summer camp of any sort. Summers were not a huge change in how we operated, except for the fact that my sister and I were home, and mom would have to keep an eye on us rather than doing whatever it was she did otherwise. Dad still went to work, coming home at noon to eat lunch and watch Love Connection, cause that was what was on, and it was a pretty funny show.

During college, I had the best job anyone could ever want during the summer. I worked on a farm, picking vegetables, working at the farm stand, weeding plants. I was outside all day, everyday, listening to my headphones and soaking in the natural beauty of the world. It was a dirty job, but it was fulfilling. Peaceful. Calming. And I was in great shape. If it weren’t for the paycheck I’d still be there now (my sister still is). Farming resides in my blood, my ancestry, and I felt that when I worked there. It made me happy.

Summer of 1997 I started dating my husband, and from then on, summers meant camping, hanging out with friends, going to the beach.

In 2002, I had my first daughter. In June. So now, summer means birthday party.

In 2009 I reconnected with old friends from high school, and every summer now includes a huge yard sale.

To me, vacation is not a destination or a place. It’s a state of mind really. It’s allowing yourself time to be yourself, and enjoy time the way it should be enjoyed. Leisurely, drinking in every moment and every thought.

I am 34 years old, and I have two girls now. And this past week, we have been on vacation by ourselves, because my husband can’t take vacation yet. Or rather, it’s the week where I didn’t have to go to work. We didn’t really go anywhere, or do anything remotely vacation-like, unless you count swimming for an hour in grandma’s pool before either storm clouds rolled in or baby started crying. Nothing was required of me this week. The majority of my time was spent cleaning the house and getting it back into a manageable state, so no, it was not a true vacation for me at all. The thing I’ve most wanted to do all week won’t happen till Sunday morning when we go to the flea market, which we were supposed to go to last Sunday.

In the end it all doesn’t matter much. It’s time set aside just for me and the girls to be. We’ve had a chance to wake up leisurely, snuggling in bed before we go downstairs to have breakfast. I reconnected with Gordon Ramsey on BBC America and did some cooking. And my bedroom and den no longer look like disaster areas. I can once again find things without wading through clean clothes in mountains all over the place. And my yarn is neatly put away in baskets and bins. It feels like such an accomplishment to see the carpet, which really needs to get vacuumed.

It’s pathetic to think that it took a week of vacation time to clean. And it’s still not done. But I can only do so much. And I really just want to read a book or write one or knit…something. Bills are paid, shopping will be done later. And then, I can spend maybe a couple hours on just me. After Lucy is in bed at 9. Those two or three hours at night when the house is all mine, after everyone has passed out and I can hear myself think. That’s my vacation time.