We got home around 11PM on Sunday night, Father's Day.
It was admittedly an interesting way to spend a Father's Day,
altogether in the minivan for 11 hours
but it was a small price to pay for maybe the
Saying I am homesick now for Florida even with its' ridunkulous, uncalled-for heat is a monumentally silly understatement.
What I feel now is more akin to desperate, rose-colored-glasses-wearing longing.
It was a beachy week, with enough swimming to make even my husband officially state that he was tired of swimming.
And that's saying something.
It was a week of sand and sweets and sleeping in.
It was a week of emotional events and loving embraces and sensational sunsets.
It was a week of some of the best photos my boys have ever taken.
Most were unintentional candids, obviously.
It was a week of celebrated days off, snuggling little boys, clear blue water, exotically rented housewares, mileage on our aging van, seashell souveniers, palm trees zooming by the car windows, blazing heat, splashes we didn't mind, giggling children who slept deeply after a dreamy day filled with every childhood pleasure
and heartfelt promises to return.
We both strive to create an idyllic space for our boys.
We both desire to fill their memories of childhood with...
~snow, sparkling trees, giving hearts and the Miraculous Birth at Christmas~
~stuffed turkeys, family time and pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving~
~special days of being King of the House on their birthdays~
~weekends of sports, visits with friends and Sunday naps~
...and neon summers of beach family vacation, day camp, ice cream, laughter and heat.
For our family and especially for this Writer who spent many summers on the same
coastal Florida sand it was heaven.
Or at least the closest I can imagine.
This Writer stood in the surf, past knee-deep in the morning water
and watched only 3 boats way Out There.
One was too far away to identify.
One was a rushing speed boat.
One was a placid sailboat.
On vacation, I am the sailboat.