Houseboat living was indeed idyllic. My obstetrician had warned me that it might take me a while to become pregnant. He was wrong. Soon we were expecting a baby in the spring of 1975 and we were, as you know, living on a houseboat. As in, surrounded by water. Deep water. Water with a current.
No children lived at our moorage. We talked with the Browns, owners, and asked them what they knew about raising children on houseboats. I should add that ours was a one floor house with a loft bedroom, a combined living dining room, a kitchen at one end of said combined room and a bathroom. Even not surrounded by water, this was going to be a tight squeeze.
The Browns said that had seen kids raised on houseboats and that kids ALWAYS fell in, no matter how vigilant the parents. They said we had two choices; leave a life jacket on the child at all times or tie a rope around the child to haul her out when she inevitably fell in. We gave it about 15 seconds thought and realized that we were going to have to move to land. We figured we could make it as long as our baby wasn’t ambulatory, but after that our rocking life was over. Pun intended.