Hi.
So, I’m not fully back back. Our luggage is back, that’s for sure. (I’m pretty sure it found some friends and made some babies by the looks of the unpacking and laundry. The amount of pajamas alone are quite suspect.) The children are back and so are their parents- at least physically. Mentally, on the other hand, is a different story. There are exhausted meltdowns. There are 3am, 4am, 5am wake ups. There are floor naps. (And that’s just P.J.) Re-entry is real, people. (And a 17 hour it-sure-feels-longer-than-17-hours-are-those-hours-having-babies-too drive home promotes that whole “incinerating upon re-entry” feel. Highly recommend.)
But in the spirit of This Is the Life You Chose So Live It, Dammit, I’m posting a blog. Because It’s Thursday, Dammit.
5 Ways My Vacation and My Home Are Very, Very Different
The seafood. Few things beat Atlantic Ocean seafood. Sure, you can get a lobster roll in Chicago, but it’s either a) $50 or b) made from a dude in a food truck and it’s probably mostly hake and imitation crabmeat and wholly unsanitary…and probably still costs $36.50.
Last week, my middle child swam out to the sailboat buoys in high tide with the merest suggestion of water wings and minimal (though attentive) supervision. This week, she cannot reach the toilet paper and certainly cannot wipe herself.
Speaking of middle children (namely, me), I spent the entirety of our two-week jaunt having breakfast, lunch, and most dinners prepared for me by my mother. We’re talking Armenian food, gigantic salads, and my favoritest of favorite comfort foods. But as of 2:40pm CST on this date she remains on the East Coast and I possess zero Mom-made platters of kifta.
(There were and are, however, boy children and swings at both locales.)
The ocean breezes I fell asleep to each night through my bedside, oceanfront window were the pleasantest feelings upon my face and nostrils and soul. Upon pulling into our garage (sure, after our 17-hour drive which may have affected my reactions some), I was acutely aware that someone was grilling something meat-like and also that something may have ceased to be in the alley.
On vacation, I enjoyed a grown-up beverage at noon each day with my feet firmly planted in the surf. At home, I enjoy a grown-up beverage at 7:31 p.m. each night with my feet firmly planted in the pile of laundry and sopping towels. (Forget seashells: bourbon really is the beachy souvenir that helps one transition back home.)
And there are many, many more reasons why I’m dragging this week and feel adrift. But the truth of the matter is that vacation is special because it’s vacation. And if it were every day, vacation wouldn’t feel like vacation.
This is what I tell myself.
This is what I’m working hard to believe.
Pass the bourbon.
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