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FACTS & ARGUMENTS

Vacationing with toddlers is not relaxing, Hart Shouldice writes. But an impromptu midnight swim would change all that

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Nobody warned me about the physical toll of fatherhood. Sleepless nights, loss of independence, financial pressure? Sure. Those were red flags waved clearly by all who came before. But the masses were silent about how days upon days of chasing, dodging and lifting toddlers can take a marathon-like toll on thirtysomething bones and amplify the sound of middle age standing behind you clearing its throat.

Full deference, of course, to those who actually give birth. Mothers bear the physical brunt of parenthood in a way that I will never understand, no matter how violently I curse after stepping on Lego. But still, being a father to three-year-old twins has left as much a mark on my back as it has on my heart.

And so rejuvenation is a must for body as well as spirit. With that in mind my family and I recently spent a few days in the wilderness, camping at a walk-in site at a little-known spot just off the southeast tip of Algonquin Provincial Park. There were lakes and trees and everything else that summer in the Ontario wilds is supposed to have. Uncharacteristically quiet for such an iconic part of the country at what is supposed to be a busy time of year, our location might as well have marketed itself as having "all of the rocks, none of the crowds!"

Our site was a dream – secluded at the top of a forested hill that led to a lake – and we had fine weather. We paddled, we swam, we hiked. But the problem of vacationing with toddlers, of course, is that they don't stop being toddlers just because you're on vacation. They don't know that they are supposed to sleep in. They can't suddenly start cooking for themselves. And they aren't any less inclined to summit my shoulders using my beard as a fixed rope every time I sit down.

After two days of simultaneously vacationing and fathering, I was wiped.

Which brings me to our second evening away. The troops had all zipped into their bags early after a particularly full and active day. Not being one to pass up an opportunity for solo down time, I stayed up long after camp had grown quiet and the stars had emerged. Content and alone, I sat by the fire and read until I decided that my bones could benefit from a cold soak.

Something inside of me cracked as I stood up and stretched before unbuttoning my flannel shirt and stepping out of my faded green Carhartt pants. I tossed the bundle of smoky laundry onto an empty chair and headed toward the lake, sauntering down the needle-strewn hill until I was standing on a ledge above the cool, black water. I set my headlamp down and pointed its beam outward to serve as a beacon, then lowered myself off the ledge and took a few murky steps until I was in deep enough to dive under and kick away from the shore.

Breast stroke. Back stroke. Front crawl. I swam maybe 40 metres, stretching myself out and letting the water roll over me. It was as soothing as it was invigorating, and I felt unencumbered in a way that has mostly eluded me since I became a father. I paused just as my heart rate started to rise.

But for my splashing, the silence was total and conspicuous. I was surrounded by an iconic landscape in which someone had pushed the mute button. There were no animals to be heard, and the lack of a breeze meant that not a single leaf rustled in even the highest tree. Despite its inherent and obvious beauty, the night was so void of animation that it would have made for a boring painting.

Facing the opposite side of the lake I tilted onto my back and floated, taking in an impossibly complete canopy of stars while listening to my shallow breaths. The higher reaches of the trees that lined the shore were just visible at the top of my periphery. The oak, pine and white birch appeared only slightly darker than the sky against which they were silhouetted. The crescent moon was thin and sharp.

It was the sort of soak that can work wonders, if only of the temporary variety. Because even as I floated freely and prioritized self-indulgence, I remained acutely aware that it was a fleeting stillness, and that the twins would be up in a few hours. The daily routine of tending to their needs would start again, forcing me to discover new levels of patience while laughing at their clumsy take on the world and marvelling at the sweetness of their tiny perspectives. Muscles that were now so relaxed they seemed to have dissipated into the water around me would reflexively tense up with the morning round of hop on pop.

Yet still, gratitude. Because the aching knees, sleep deprivation and even Lego booby traps are, of course, small prices to pay for the front-row seat I have to watching two tiny beings stretch out and find their place in the world. To ensure that I remain present for them, quiet campfires and late-night swims – even in small doses – are an important part of stocking up my own reserves. And for me there is no better setting in which to fill up on patience than a tree-lined lake after midnight.

I swam back toward my headlamp and pulled myself up onto the rock ledge, leaning back on my hands when I got to the top. I drank in the stars and welcomed a natural chill into my bones as my heart rate settled. A shooting star cut its momentary drama just as the wind picked up and chased away the stillness. With a cold sniffle, I turned and headed back up the hill toward the glow of the dying fire.

Hart Shouldice lives in Ottawa.