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Summer drew to a close, and Molly and I were still asking each other, "Are we relaxed yet?"

For us, summer means travel, and this year's centerpiece was a week in Ireland, thanks to an article I was writing for Bon Appétit. We considered making it a family trip. But with Larkin launched into early-onset Terrible Twos, we envisioned a holiday that started with a sleepless, screaming transatlantic flight and diplomatic crises with fellow passengers, then went downhill from there. So I traveled to Ireland alone.

The three of us did manage some driving trips -- to the Catskills, to Cape Cod, and to one of our favorite places in the world, up in Maine.

For a dozen years Molly and I have been going to a cabin my aunt and uncle own, on a lake in the secluded woods. For us it's one of those important places, where you chart the course of your life over the years. We went there when we were first together and in the throes of brand-new romance. Later we brought along our bulldog, Bert, when he was just a puppy, and took pictures of his hilarious attempts to swim. The cabin became our retreat, and we loved our lazy routine there: reading, walking, and swimming; hiking up the mile-long path for dinner with my aunt and uncle in their farmhouse on the hilltop; hauling the mattress out onto the screened-in porch and waking in the middle of the night to the unearthly cry of a loon echoing over the lake. Sleeping until whenever, then ambling down to the water for a skinny dip.

Blissful, all of it. But traveling with your toddler is a whole new world. There isn't a lot of ambling, for instance. There's a lot more ... scrambling.

The realization that this year is different begins on the long drive north. In the car we let Larkin have a pacifier, and soon she starts tossing it onto the seat, a breathless drama narrated by shouts of "Binky down! Binky down!" At first it's amusing -- like a line from The Poseidon Adventure, Molly and I joke. But a hundred times later it becomes torturous. Take the pacifier away from her, and she screams and wails. Give it back to her, and it's more Poseidon Adventure. Pick your poison. Binky down!

Things don't get any better at the cabin. The tag-team effort of constant vigilance that a toddler demands is all the more strenuous in a place you haven't childproofed. Argh, the lamp! Oh no, the sugar bowl! You're perpetually waiting for the Ominous Silence ... then the Thud, the Delay, and the Scream. I began to fantasize about the perfect vacation space for Larkin. A vast, empty lawn. A huge padded room, strewn with toys. Any place but our cabin -- with the fireplace, the stone porch steps, the propane tank, the big screens perfect for being poked, the standing lamps, the tottering rack of shelves in the kitchen, the rat poison, and on and on.

With Larkin along, the cabin was transformed -- so many things we liked about the place now represented a challenge to our peace of mind, our relaxation, or our endurance. Like the hike up to the farmhouse, for instance. Larkin weighs 25 lbs., and in the 80 degree heat, with her perched on my shoulders, I suddenly felt pretty damn old. The reading I used to get done in the course of a stay there took a big hit. And as for those peaceful, dreamy nights out on the porch, well, forget about it. Now at 4 a.m. it was the cry of the loon ... and the shriek of the Lark.

After two days in Maine I asked Molly, "So, are we relaxed yet?" It became a rueful running joke between us. Because whatever this vacation was about, it was not about that.

To be sure, we had some lovely moments with the Lark. Watching her discover things; enjoying how she would stoop over a leaf, a stone, or an insect, rapt with fascination, or hear an airplane passing far overhead and thrust a jubilant finger skyward. Again and again we smiled at her excitement. Her pleasure at learning a new word, her curiosity and consternation the first time she stepped into the water.

These are all good moments, but they are fundamentally her moments, and labeling them as the highlights of our summer makes me realize just how vicarious life can become for parents. I remember, from my pre-child decades, watching some parents and thinking, They're living through their children. It was one of those cautionary insights, and I still feel ambivalent about it. Even on vacation. Sometimes especially on vacation.

I know, I know, it's wrong to think of parenthood as a zero-sum system, and I can already hear some readers scolding me for doing so. But sometimes it does seem that way: as if our daughter's life experiences are created at the expense of our own, her fun carved directly out of ours. I felt guilty about it, but there were times in Maine when I wished she weren't along (or that a full-time nanny were).

Well, change in life means not only doing things differently, but expecting and experiencing them differently, too. In this sense, the cabin still fulfilled its function as a place that helps Molly and me chart where we've been, and where we're headed. We will certainly be back there next summer with Larkin.

And by then it's going to be a lot easier. Right? Right?