Over the last 100 days, my baby has doubled in size. Everyone always says kids grow up so fast. But, I am just now beginning to appreciate the astonishing time warp that is parenthood. 

To commemorate our inaugural summer together, I brought my daughter on what I hope will be the first of many girls trips. Someday, we’ll hike the Appalachian Trail or canoe the Allagash River. This year, we eased into our new tradition with a glamping adventure. 

For the occasion, I reserved a Sandy Pines family cottage, located two hours north of Worcester in Kennebunkport. (Close enough to drive home in the case of a complete meltdown.) The accommodations were rustic, save for a refrigerator, air conditioning, heat, and a king size bed. We were only staying two nights, but it felt so homey that I unpacked our clothes and put them in the dresser drawers. How such a tiny human can require so many possessions, I will never understand. 

Once we were settled, I strapped my daughter into her carrier and walked the crescent shaped coast. Sandy Pines is only one mile from a tranquil stretch of beach where the Goose Rocks barrier reef forms a buffer from the Atlantic Ocean, creating a gentle surf and warmish waters perfect for kids. 

At the golden hour, I attempted a photo shoot. “We have to document our first annual girls trip,” I told my daughter. When I laid her down in the sand, she out-squawked the seagulls like a celebrity rebuking paparazzi. I gave up and decided it was time for dinner. 

The only restaurant along Goose Rocks Beach is a swanky place called The Tides Beach Club. I shelled out $40 for a lobster roll while the baby slept in my arms. When the check came, she let out a wail. “What?” I asked defensively. “We’re in Maine, it’s practically the law to order the lobster.” She rolled her eyes and slumped back onto my chest. The sun sank beyond the marsh and we headed home to our little cabin in the woods.

My daughter slept through the night, while I woke up every couple of hours to check out the window for ferocious bears. My anxieties ran wild. At 2 a.m., I started thinking about how the other cabins were named “Haven” and “Sanctuary” while ours was called “Rapture.” 

“Why do you think they named it rapture?” I whispered to the gurgling infant at my side. She let out a tiny snort like a little baby Clydesdale. Suddenly, the painting of a horse above our bed began to look sinister. I browsed through the selection of soothing audiobooks I had downloaded in the event things got Blair Witchy and eventually fell asleep listening to Linda Holmes’ latest novel, "Flying Solo" — a tender love story that takes place in a small town in Maine.

The next morning, the Sandy Pines staff pointed us in the direction of Cape Porpoise Kitchen, a charming market where I bought coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I googled “scenic lookouts in Kennebunkport” and followed the GPS to Walker’s Point. The neighborhood was fancy, but I thought the heavy gate and guard tower seemed like overkill at the house to our left. I ate my egg and cheese and watched the waves crash on the rocks. My daughter made cooing sounds from her car seat on the bench next to me. “Yes, it is a beautiful view,” I agreed. 

A gaggle of cyclists paused next to us, speaking in German. One woman played peekaboo with the baby. I was wondering what had brought them to our quaint little corner of the sea when I finally made out two words in English: “President” and “Bush.” Suddenly the aggressive security next door made sense. We had stumbled on the Summer White House of the late President George H. W. Bush. I decided we’d better get going before Secret Service showed up.

My daughter and I enjoyed a float in the heated pool at Sandy Pines and another long walk on the beach. Unlike the inns and hotels in Kennebunkport, most of which cost between $300 and $400 per night, the family cottages at Sandy Pines sleep two adults and two children for around $200 per night. Best of all, they make you feel like you’re visiting your great aunt in Maine. There’s an old leather butterfly chair in the corner where you can enjoy a book, a heavy wooden table in the center of the room to sip your morning coffee, and a trundle bed draped in woven blankets for a catnap after a long day at the beach. In my opinion, no hotshot hotel could ever compare.

On the ride home, I noticed some of the leaves had already turned a brilliant shade of gold. “Where does the time go?” I asked my daughter. She let out a deep sigh and drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, we were back in Worcester and I swear she was an inch taller. 

Do you have a favorite glamping destination in New England? Find me on Instagram at @sarah_connell and let me know.