Get me THE HELL OFF THIS BOAT

I fear for the weight limit every time I step on an elevator.
I am very, very acutely aware I am on a boat, because boats move and everyone who said, “Oh, you won’t even feel it moving!” is a fucking liar.
The room is, though, really nice. I would die without the balcony.
Everyone on staff is relentlessly friendly in a way that would annoy me if they weren’t also so damn helpful.
Since we’re trapped in the room starting at about 8pm every night, thanks to Jack’s bedtime, we have been given ample opportunity to check out the ship’s TV. As Maggie succinctly put it, “There are eight channels and four of them ARE ABOUT THE SHIP.” She’s not really exaggerating. There’s the show about the lifeboat drill, the Lido Deck camera, the camera that looks out to the side of the ship (also known as All Ocean All the Time), the shopping channel, the casino channel…it’s insane. They did show Get Smart, which I watched because Jack got us all up before breakfast was even served. It was pretty good.
Cruising with a baby is a horrible idea. You can’t drop him off anywhere—the Camp Carnival is only for kids 2 and up. You can’t take him swimming (our planned major activity) because kids in diapers aren’t allowed in the pools. There is lots to do on the ship, very little of which is baby-friendly and most of which costs extra.
And at 9:15 this morning Maggie and I realized we had 48 hours before we can get off the ship.
We’ve decided to switch off naptimes; she’s off somewhere right now while I’m on the balcony and Jack naps. I should nap, too, since sleeping in the same room as Jack means I wake up every time he moves. He also regaled the entire room with a fascinating narrative consisting of “Gah gah DAH DAH murphgah” at around 1 in the morning.
But the ocean that’s swimming by is turning a brighter shade of blue and I can no longer see the coast—which has never happened to me before. We’re at sea and headed south.