Sometimes, it takes longer to get ready than to go.

We are packing for a camping trip in the foothills of the Adirondacks, about two hours from home. We are not bringing the kids. Daughter 1 is spending the weekend at Aunt Kathy's; Gram and Pop will take care of Daughter 2.

Preparing four people to spend two nights in three different places is no simple task — especially when one of those people is a baby. There are bottles and diapers, bathing suits and towels, pillows and sleeping bags, marshmallows and tiny jars of orange and green vegetables. There are three different sunscreens.

When did things get so complicated? Fifteen or even 10 years ago, when I was neither a homeowner nor a parent, preparing for a day trip meant grabbing your driver's license and whatever cash you had or could get from the ATM. You could pack everything you needed for a weekend trip in one bag.

Today, the back of the truck is loaded with camping gear, a portable crib and a yellow bathtub shaped like a duck. We drop off the girls, ready to escape to a world with no bottles to warm and no smelly diapers; no games of Sorry or Go Fish or I Spy; no babies crying and no kids asking.

We're seeking simplicity: tall trees, quiet mornings and a couple of days with no responsibilities.

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Traffic is heavy on I-87 when we make our getaway.

I watch the cars and point out an oddly shaped luggage carrier, a black inkblot splattered on top of a white minivan.

"A who-made one," says Steve, and I nod in agreement.

I've already accepted the fact that we talk like our kids.

A few days before, I asked Steve to put a new lightbulb into the fixture over the stove. "It's bobbed out," I said matter-of-factly, using another phrase my 7-year-old invented as a toddler.

I suspect this happens in every family — words, phrases and even people's names, twisted and stretched and turned into something new, usually by kids with chubby cheeks and wobbly legs.

These words become part of the family dialect, used so often we stop hearing what's funny or cute or different about them. Today, they're a simple reminder of one of the most basic principles of parenthood: Even when you're away from your kids, they are with you.

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People go camping to "get away from it all," and we're no different. Before we left, I dreaded watching the nightly news (another beheading?) and opening the local paper (another fatal car accident?).

There's a convenience store a few miles from our campground, and we buy instant coffee and a thick newspaper. It's an "early bird" version of the Sunday edition, packed with features on topics ranging from patriotism to the New York City Ballet. We eat sugary Cheerios from small boxes, read the comics and do the family crossword.

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The trip home seems shorter. Traffic is light and so are our spirits. We've rested, relaxed, forced ourselves to stop doing and just be. We're ready to resume our complicated lives.

At home, the flower boxes actually look good, and my tomato plant has not died. Bills and laundry are piling up, but the kids are happy to see us.

Daughter 1 has pink toenails, a tan and more freckles. Daughter 2 has sprouted a tiny curl.

Reality lurks in the kitchen, where the newspaper has been tossed on the table next to a bib, a beach towel and a baseball cap. I will get to it, later.

Sitting in the loveseat with one arm around each girl, I consider the things I have missed: bear hugs and two-tooth grins, a hot shower, my own bed.

Maybe I didn't need to go away to find the simple life.

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Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.