One of my favorite things about time off work is being able to go days without calling or texting my husband because we are virtually next to each other for the entirety of vacation and everything is face-to-face. There’s also a shorter distance between snippy and apologetic for us and lastly, more kissing is involved. It’s a win all around.
After two years and several failed attempts, we’re finally hometown-bound.
How, pray tell, are we to get ready for vacation whilst maintaining normal life? There are simply not enough hours in the day. Oh, well. Here we go!*
*clamming with work friends, hours before my trip, because you don’t say no to adventures in Alaska
Tonight I stressed myself into a tizzy about an upcoming trip. The scurrying from task to task, the I do all of the emotional labor in this house, the loud cleaning, you name it — I was doing it at 10pm. Finally, I realized the twins were still awake and so I put them to work. They were not happy, but then again neither was I, and so we shall we how this ends in the morning.
We are slowly working our way through Gilmore Girls as a family, and it just hit me that these are the mundane week nights my kids will remember. Dinner in the living room, debating Team Jess vs. Team Dean, waiting for Lorelei to realize she’s in love with Luke, going back for seconds and thirds in the kitchen. I’m hard on myself when we don’t gather around the table or limit our screen time more intentionally, but these are seriously the goods, aren’t they?
Not being on Instagram is great because otherwise, I’d probably share about public mass shootings and personal hard days before I was ready. After this weekend, my family is down one tooth and up two emergency room visits and a few memories, plus a side of gushy and grateful affection. Also after this weekend, our country remains broken. Tonight, I’ll focus on the former.
As I walk to the car, wearing comfortable jeans and sensible sneakers, purse packed with a water bottle and a book, one hand high overhead so as not to drag my daughter’s costume bag, her makeup freshly scrubbed from my fingertips, I smile to myself and turn to holler at my husband. 36, baby! Is this what you saw when you scooped me up at 19?! He smiles back at me and says, I’ll take that any day. And off we go, my baby and I, to the weekend-long ordeal that is a ballet recital. To my own mother, who survived these things on my behalf decades ago, thank you.