If you were gracious (or bored) enough to read my recent "vacation" vents, you’d think I’d vow to stay put at home for a while. It would be the sensible thing to do. But no. I try not to be sensible too often. It bores me.
Last night, Husband and I piled our little jet setters (and enough luggage/gear/potty paraphernalia for six months) into a sparky rental car to drive to Cape Cod to visit Husband’s extended family. The drive was mostly smooth, the girls mostly slept, and we made good time. We scarfed soggy sandwiches and chewed gummy worms and in an old school (and utterly futile) move, I swigged a Diet Mountain Dew to stay awake. Around one in the morning, we tiptoed into the home where we’re staying and tossed the girls into foreign cribs. Obediently, like the awesome, well-raised kids they are, they settled in and snoozed. Five hours later, Husband and I woke up to a swell of saccharine baby screeches and damp beach air. Exhausted, yes. Drained, absolutely. Happy, you bet.
I will try to keep the vacation play-by-play to a minimum because writing about the indulgent details of my "adventures" is beginning to bore even me. But I wanted you to know that I’m here and not there (although in cyber-territory, it doesn’t much matter) so that you will forgive me if I say something flip-floppy, offensive, or just deeply blonde.
Apologies in advance for the beach brain.