With kids in preschool, it never really mattered when my family vacationed. But with our son due to make his public school debut this week, we took the opportunity to see and be seen this summer.

By mid-June, a mere week after preschool graduation, we were hauling two car seats, one stroller, two suitcases, three sippy cups of Transportation Security Administration-approved milk, one diaper bag plus two euphoric kids and one confused baby on a flight to Chicago. Later in the summer, we struck out for the beach twice and repeated the plane trip scenario, this time heading to NewJersey, for some bonding time with the grandparents.

Regardless of whether you have kids or not, back-to-school has always marked the de facto end of the summer getaway season. But now that I’ve got three, I wonder whether it might be time to reconsider the essence of “vacation.” Because when you’ve got young kids in tow, vacation is anything but.

The airplane rides were an exercise in continuous distraction, as my husband and I passed the baby back and forth above the seat backs, jiggling and jostling her to no avail. I cast envious glances at the passengers dozing in their seats, the ones thumbing through People. Whatever breaking news there was regarding Brangelina and their twins would have to wait; I was on duty.

By the time we arrived, our food stash consisted of smushed cereal bars.

The children doth protest. Their cries of hunger grew louder in tandem with the line at the rental car agency. We struggled with the back seats of three different rental cars before we finally succeeded in installing our car seats alongside thebooster the rental agency provided.

Meanwhile, the kids were still hungry.

By the time we reached my brother’s loft, the baby had conked out. Stealthily, so as not to wake her, I exited the car and proceeded to set up the pack-and-play in the walk-in closet. Ten minutes later, I went back down to retrieve the sleeping baby.Guess what? She was up.

Did I mention the kids were starving?

It wasn’t even as if we could relax now that we’d arrived. In two days, we packed up to move to a rental house for a rendezvous with friends who used to live in Chapel Hill. Three days later, my husband headed to a work conference and I stuffed the kids into the minivan and drove to the suburbs so one of my closest girlfriends could meet my kids. With traffic at a crawl, the 20 miles took two hours.

Let the fun begin.

Similar scenarios presented themselves on our other voyages. At each destination, the kids had to get used to a new routine while counting on us, their parents, to not let them stray too far from familiar patterns. Regardless, they went to bed later than they do at home. Often, naps fell by the wayside, yielding crankiness of the nth degree.

And yet, they persevered.

“Oh, those summer nights,” to quote John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John.

There were moonlit walks on the sandy shores in search of ghost crabs. Trips to the ice cream parlor at an hour when bedtime stories were usually wrapping up. The snap-crackle-pop of fireworks in the night sky.

When we stayed with family, logistics were easier. But when it was just the five of us, it was a lot trickier. We’d get to the beach and the baby would yawn. We’d pretend she hadn’t and carry on with the requisite body surfing and sand-castle-construction. When she got really fussy, one of us would head back with her. When she woke up, we’d grease her up again with sunscreen and return to the beach, just as the other parent was leaving.

My husband and I werelike ships passing in the night – cargo ships, loaded down with SPF 50 baby sunblock and sand toys, Cheerios and cheese sticks.

At one point, my husband saw me so infrequently between childcare duties (he took our son boogie-boarding; I supervised seashell collection) that he wondered aloud: Are we even on the same trip?

More to the point is an issue a friend raised: Are vacations intended for parents or for kids?

There’s no question that the concept of vacation for relaxation’s sake hardly mirrors my current reality. But leaving your comfort zone makes for much better memories than staying put.

My 3-year-old daughter remembers cavorting in the urbanely cool Crown Fountain in downtown Chicago. (Neither has she forgotten how she skinned her knee when some big kid bumped into her.) My 5-year-old son is still talking about the behind-the-scenes tour of Wrigley Field. At Oak Island, we watched Fourth of July fireworks from a perfect knoll on a golf course and warbled “Rockin’ Robin” during an al fresco karaoke session. In New Jersey, the kids splashed in their grandparents’ pool, learned to play checkers on their deck and couldn’t get enough of the train that ferried us to Manhattan.

“It doesn’t look like Thomas,” my daughter said, bemused.

The other day, the kids and I counted how many different beds we’d slept in over the course of the summer. We came up with nine. That’s a lot of unfamiliar pillows and blankets.

We’re only now getting settled.

Would you believe we’re considering packing the happy campers into the van and embarking on a Labor Day jaunt to the mountains?

Bonnie appears every Monday on TriangleMom2Mom.