Lets see....according to dictionary.com, vacation is: a period of suspension of work, study, or other activity, usually used for rest, recreation, or travel; recess or holiday. According to the media: "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." (anyone who has discovered a glittery glass bauble on their left hand while trying to find the advil under the mountain of tequila bottles has found this is not necessarily the case) According to one of my neighbors it's "free baby-sitting when the whole fam-damily gets together!" (there would be bloody hair-pulling over that one)
Are we running away from our lives? Living out repressed urges? Resting? Recharging? Or merely finding an excuse to take pictures of the kids other than Christmas morning or Easter dinner...
And so I set out for the first real vacation my new husband and I have ever had together. It's been....well, waaaay too long since I left home without turkey stuffing recipes, bottles of brandy stashed to spike my egg nog, protein bars to supplement frightening "casserole" meals and a trunk full of gifts. (i.e. going to your sisters/parents/in-laws for holidays does NOT count as vacation. An exercise in sneaking sex at naptime or in the bathroom while hollering "hang on grandma--just brushing my hair!", dealing with constipated children, or contemplating the benefits of powdered prozac you could carry around in splenda packets for emergencies--yes, these are holidays, but not vacations)
Seven lovely sun-drenched days in St. Croix....
Vacation is....
An excuse to not wear a bra at all. Though this will not come as a surprise to those of you that know me, it did seem to come as a complete shock to every gawking male and judgemental female I sat with, walked by, or accidentally flashed in the airports we traveled through. Six flights of boobilicious fun.
A reason to buy multiple bottles of $6 rum that line the grocery store isles next to the tp and cornflakes...Y.U.M.
Cooking with one knife, two spoons, and no potato peeler.
Arguing over the absolute STUPIDEST of things.....the stress of traveling with 3 boys under 10 on six flights when someone always has to "go"....or sand in the bed, wet towels, "where is my camera?!", "I have to eat THAT?" failing deodorant, peeing in the bushes, and "WHO DRANK ALL THE RUM!?!"
Playing cards till 2am all the while marveling at how your sweet dear mum has transformed into cutthroat Sammy-the-bull before your very eyes---she's even squinting at you!
An outside shower that has a very large toad living under the slat floor.
Spiny lobster. Bowls of melted butter, rare steak and single malt. (does it get any better?)
Sitting for four HOURS next to a woman who swears that the 6 month old baby in her LAP usually "sleeps like a darling" on all flights.....but ours.
Picking avocados off the tree and making guacamole for every meal. Yes, guacamole for breakfast rocks.
Baby hermit crabs the size of your pinky nail that skitter across the floor while your children peal with laughter.
Having a panic attack when your darling friend back home calls to tell you that she can't get the spare key to work to get into your house to feed your cats.....your two semi-psychotic, completely neurotic, outside felines that are trapped inside most likely WWF wrestling and eating the carpet like they did last time the boys forgot to feed them.
Tree frogs that sing when it rains.
Rediscovering the thrill of sneaking smooches behind kitchen cabinets and trees cause you and your babe haven't been alone in like FOUR DAYS.
Seriously considering.....even pondering....living in a treehouse. If it meant you could stay.
Perhaps I will never tear it up in vegas, never "ooh la la" it in a Parisian cafe, never run away and pretend to be someone else for a weekend.....but I do know the soul piercing joy of watching my children play in the surf, giggling while my 10 year old holds onto the biting gecko to prove he's tough, the wonder of mangoes we picked from the tree on my ice-cream, and the simple joy of not thinking about the bills, the schedules, e-mail or the neighbors.
I mean, who cares if they see me naked?
Are we running away from our lives? Living out repressed urges? Resting? Recharging? Or merely finding an excuse to take pictures of the kids other than Christmas morning or Easter dinner...
And so I set out for the first real vacation my new husband and I have ever had together. It's been....well, waaaay too long since I left home without turkey stuffing recipes, bottles of brandy stashed to spike my egg nog, protein bars to supplement frightening "casserole" meals and a trunk full of gifts. (i.e. going to your sisters/parents/in-laws for holidays does NOT count as vacation. An exercise in sneaking sex at naptime or in the bathroom while hollering "hang on grandma--just brushing my hair!", dealing with constipated children, or contemplating the benefits of powdered prozac you could carry around in splenda packets for emergencies--yes, these are holidays, but not vacations)
Seven lovely sun-drenched days in St. Croix....
Vacation is....
An excuse to not wear a bra at all. Though this will not come as a surprise to those of you that know me, it did seem to come as a complete shock to every gawking male and judgemental female I sat with, walked by, or accidentally flashed in the airports we traveled through. Six flights of boobilicious fun.
A reason to buy multiple bottles of $6 rum that line the grocery store isles next to the tp and cornflakes...Y.U.M.
Cooking with one knife, two spoons, and no potato peeler.
Arguing over the absolute STUPIDEST of things.....the stress of traveling with 3 boys under 10 on six flights when someone always has to "go"....or sand in the bed, wet towels, "where is my camera?!", "I have to eat THAT?" failing deodorant, peeing in the bushes, and "WHO DRANK ALL THE RUM!?!"
Playing cards till 2am all the while marveling at how your sweet dear mum has transformed into cutthroat Sammy-the-bull before your very eyes---she's even squinting at you!
An outside shower that has a very large toad living under the slat floor.
Spiny lobster. Bowls of melted butter, rare steak and single malt. (does it get any better?)
Sitting for four HOURS next to a woman who swears that the 6 month old baby in her LAP usually "sleeps like a darling" on all flights.....but ours.
Picking avocados off the tree and making guacamole for every meal. Yes, guacamole for breakfast rocks.
Baby hermit crabs the size of your pinky nail that skitter across the floor while your children peal with laughter.
Having a panic attack when your darling friend back home calls to tell you that she can't get the spare key to work to get into your house to feed your cats.....your two semi-psychotic, completely neurotic, outside felines that are trapped inside most likely WWF wrestling and eating the carpet like they did last time the boys forgot to feed them.
Tree frogs that sing when it rains.
Rediscovering the thrill of sneaking smooches behind kitchen cabinets and trees cause you and your babe haven't been alone in like FOUR DAYS.
Seriously considering.....even pondering....living in a treehouse. If it meant you could stay.
Perhaps I will never tear it up in vegas, never "ooh la la" it in a Parisian cafe, never run away and pretend to be someone else for a weekend.....but I do know the soul piercing joy of watching my children play in the surf, giggling while my 10 year old holds onto the biting gecko to prove he's tough, the wonder of mangoes we picked from the tree on my ice-cream, and the simple joy of not thinking about the bills, the schedules, e-mail or the neighbors.
I mean, who cares if they see me naked?
1 comment:
Thanks for the taste of St. Croix, the photos were AMAZING by the way, what an awesome memory for you and your boys. I so wish I could go "boobilicious," but it would just look like I had tumors growing under my armpits. Oh, and to answer your question...I'm thinkin' I'd like a baby to photograph too, lol. Prevention is in the can, we'll see what happens. Game on! (This also means I'm committed to drinking as many consecutive days possible until I find out I'm cookin' a kid in there...the thought of 9 months without alcohol does frighten me so...)
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