I Can’t Live Here

“Bye Paul Spriiiii! I can’t liiiive here!” Max yelled as we boarded the plane, bound for home.

Our mini-vacation was nice while it lasted…..

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Somewhere between the three hour flight delay and the afternoons spent in the hotel pool, we found our family vacation groove. Things just seemed so much easier this time. Maybe it was because our tiny traveler is almost 3. Or perhaps it’s because Sean and I are getting better at this.  Mommy is more confident, less neurotic?  Able to go with the flow instead of obsessing over how Max might sneak out of the hotel room in the middle of the night?  Oh…perhaps.
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Palm Springs held new adventures, like a death-defying Air Tram ride up into the mountains. After having a serious conversation with myself I decided to not let fear screw up my family’s right to have fun, and up we went. Until we reached a cruising altitude of 6 thousand million feet, dangling in the air above the rocky peaks below. There was snow at the top. And altitude sickness. Oh, the sacrifices we make in the name of adventure!

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The best part? Being with my two boys every day. Max’s morning snuggles. Watching Sean float Max in the pool for hours. Watching my curious 2 year old explore everything that was new, bright and shiny about this vacation. The sunglasses, the flip-flops, the cabana lunches eaten while still in wet swimsuits.  The easy bedtimes that happened because Max was exhausted from taking in so many new things….and from swimming his heart out in the desert sun.  The stolen moments between Sean and I.  Laughing about how funny Max is when he says “I got it!” in his British accent, or relaxing together in the evening with nothing to do but whisper about our day and make plans for tomorrow while we watched Max sleep.
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The makeshift co-sleeping arrangements that kept Max tucked right by my side and buffered with blankets and pillows.  The desperate attempts at baby Max-proofing our room and rearranging all of the furniture so that he couldn’t hurt himself….or escape. Or call the front desk.  Again.  The best Eggs Benedict I’ve ever had, at a cafe that was off the beaten path, washed down with a blood orange mimosa (me) and a Bloody Mary (Sean).

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My little family of three is feeling absolutely perfect to me. The sun, the desert town full of ice cream and air conditioning, and the memory of uninterrupted time together…bliss. And blessed. Very blessed.
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