So, did you miss me? Or were you secretly thankful that your feed-reader reported one less blog to read? Be honest.
We had a great time on vacation. Especially, when you consider that a trip with young children isn’t really a vacation at all. Especially, when you’re renting a house where you still find yourself doing most of your own cooking and cleaning (well, cooking, at least). And despite the fact that we went nowhere new because a two-hour car ride with sleeping children is infinitely better than a five-minute plane ride to anywhere with screaming children. So, yes, we went down the Cape, again. That’s where we will continue to vacation until I become blissfully deaf.
But, I love Cape Cod. I don’t care if that makes me boring or old; I still love it. I write love letters to it in my mind every time I visit. They’re not quite the ballads that Patti Page might sing, but as my preschooler wouldn’t hesitate to point out, I’m no Patti Page.
The things that strike me about Cape Cod vacations more than the salty air and quaint little villages here and there are: the smell of mildew that nearly knocks you over when you unlock the door to your rental cottage. And by cottage, I don’t mean small mansion (the definition seems to be shifting). I mean bare shelter. With lots and lots of shell decorations. The patchy, straw-like grass in the yard is unreasonably sharp and poised to skewer tender toes. There’s always a beat-up Weber grill in the backyard. And an outdoor shower with far fewer spiders than the indoor shower. If you’re lucky, there’s a beach within walking distance. It’s luxury, really, considering I only really need the last three things to be happy. I mean, in addition to my wonderful family.
Contrary to my predictions, I didn’t have any trouble at all staying away from my computer last week. It felt odd, I’ll admit, not to share the minutiae of my daily bread with complete strangers. So, this week, I plan to bore you with some highlights from my vacation. It’s going to be thrilling, I can assure you. Not the punch in the stomach that was last year’s vacation, a synopsis of which includes: seven kids, ages 1 month to 4 years old. One house. One week of rain. Cold rain. One child who wouldn’t sleep more than one hour at a time. That would be mine. A broken leg. That would be Husband’s. Cause of break: slippery rain.
Most of that vacation was spent in the car. Husband was being shuttled to and from the ER and various splinting appointments. I was driving around trying desperately to put the littlest one to sleep for two continuous hours, while simultaneously trying to drown myself in the rain/ocean. Note to self: It takes too long on the bay side.
So, yeah, this year was better. Only one day of hail.
(Husband took this picture. Somehow, he managed not to break his leg on the hailstones in the process.)