Spring Brake: St. Petersburg, Florida

My dad used to tease me and call me Leadfoot. Admittedly, I got a charge out of the growl of a muscle car V-8, and I peeled out more often than not just for the joy of it. Since I was old enough to walk, accelerate as been my primary gear. This year is no different, and my lead foot has been heavy on the gas. My hands have yanked my steering wheel hard to the right, and big changes are right around the corner. But, for just a few days, we hit the brakes. Life screeched to a halt, and we were Florida bound:

 Almost. We were almost Florida bound. Traffic on I-35 reached what I hope was and will remain unprecedented standstills. After an hour, we had traveled approximately twelve miles and found ourselves in downtown Oklahoma City enjoying Disney's new Cinderella. 'Twas a lovely, lovely film. Of course, our little princess was understandably devastated when the magic ended; real tears fell from those baby blues that night. Eventually, we found our way to the Marriott DFW/Irving--a park and fly hotel that's clean, easy, and accommodating if ever you're looking. 

Anxiously we awaited the arrival of our Spirit aircraft. Reviews were dicey, and I expected to be surprised with a mite box asking for just a few more coins to cover unexpected fees. We were surprised. Spirit graciously allowed us to check our car seats for free, and we boarded the plane without so much as an additional dime dropped in a tip jar. A word of advice: book everything in advance and come prepared. Prepay your bags, preprint your boarding passes, and prepare snacks for on board dining. If you're prepared, all that's left to do is enjoy the grand player piano as you shuffle to the check-in desk. 

The plane was clean, new, and more than pleasant enough to make me glad that we had saved a thousand (yes a thousand!) dollars on tickets by flying this little budget airline. 

Vacation Mom likes selfies. 

Vacation Kids tolerate Vacation Mom. Vacation Gigi does not tolerate vacation potties: "Can't we just go home where there are no auto flushers?"

He's still a lover, not a fighter. His jam? The Fisher Price Rainforest relaxation album. A nervous flyer, this one. 

Once on the ground, we were again surprised, unpleasantly so. Hertz at the Tampa airport had our reservation, but no car. They graciously offered us a convertible at a premium, because you know, they had those in stock. They also had a Cadillac available for just a bit of an extra charge--this, despite the fact that the Toyota Corolla that we had reserved wasn't inbound for another two hours.  The Cadillac was probably worth the extra cash, but the sour taste lasted for a few days. Then again, we (and by we, I mean myself and the Cadillac) were the object of much envy from some of Florida's finest seniors: "Hey, I like your car…and  your wife!" And in RJ's opinion, "This car smells way better than my dad's." So, we had that going for us, which was nice. 

We made it to the Sirata Beach Resort without further incident and quickly found our way to the pool. 

There are three pools actually, and a good sized hot tub. (I don't do community hot tubs, because there's no water hot enough to make me want to soak with strangers; so, I can't speak for the tub. Though, the crowds packed into it suggest it was warm enough.). The pools are heated and are entirely pleasant and clean. 

Toddler appropriate steps provide the perfect play station for little ones. 

Even those little ones who are gymnastically inclined. (It is her father's job to keep her off the pole; Godspeed, dad.)

And, a wide ledge surrounds the pools, giving parents a place to lounge, and little ones a spot to rest without having to endure the horror of exiting the pool (a fit saver, no doubt). 

There are plenty of lounge chairs, and towels are dispensed from a room-card operated cabinet nearby--as many towels as you need throughout the day, no limits!

Our room was too messy to photograph, but we did have a mini-balcony with a partial beach view. For a reasonable rate, we had a king-sized master suite, a walk-through vanity area, and a living/dining room complete with a comfortable sleeper sofa, table and four chairs, a stove, full sized refrigerator, dishes, pots and pans, and silverware. I made bacon and eggs in the mornings, and a quick trip to the Publix grocery just a block away made cents as we were able to cook a lot of our food, avoiding restaurant rates. 

Speaking of restaurants, the resort has three. We ate a beachside dinner at Rum Runner's one evening, and while I'm not a foodie by any means, I can say the coconut shrimp was as delightful as the service. The server mentioned that the resort is one of two privately owned on the beach. Anytime a server brags that he's well treated, the owners take pride in the resort and their employees, and there's a sense of pride, I listen. And, it shows.   

The resort thoughtfully has a beach playground situated within view of parent hammocks. 

The hammocks work pretty well for warming up after an evening swim too. 

Have I mentioned the beach? 

Because it's amazing. 

Wide, powdery white sand expanses from shore to poolside. 

Shallow wading yards and yards into the ocean.

Thousands of seashells for little fingers to harvest. 

Gentle waves perfect for hopping.

And crystal blue water. 

Oh, and you can get a decent enough beach umbrella from the Publix up the road for about ten dollars. (There's a nail salon, bakery, Dollar Tree, and CVS in the strip too--a blessing when you've got kids who tend to get vacation hives.).

And of course, there's the real reason we put on the brakes and headed south for spring break: four generations!

We found our way to the Clearwater Marine Aquarium, about thirty minutes away. The lines were long but manageable. (I can't believe he'll be 7 next month!)

You'd think Gigi wasn't impressed. She totally was. "When I grow up, I'm gonna be a dolphin feeder," she told me. "And," she piped up, "My name's gonna be Courtney." Two guesses what the blonde dolphin trainer's name was. 

We saw a movie star! Winter the dolphin and her friend, Hope. (Gigi wore her hair in a whale spout to celebrate. Not really. It's just the only "do" that works for her right now. We're going with it.)

We found a lovely park. 

And even I eased off the accelerator and put on the brakes for a few minutes to swing with my big boy. I hope he never loses that sense of joy. 

Oh dear and oh my. 

Intense conversations were had. 

And Vacation Mom insisted on one more selfie before we headed home by way of DFW. 

We rested and restored. 

We braked and took a much needed break. 

Soon enough, my lead foot will hit the accelerator harder than I have in a few years. I'll hit a few bumps and make a few wrong turns, but I have no doubt, I'm on the right road. 

For those interested, this is what I used to take underwater photos: 

The Joto Universal Waterproof Casebag:  it fits an iPhone 6 in an Otterbox just fine. I wouldn't trust it for hours underwater, but for a few quick snaps or a drop in the ocean, it's perfect and only $10!

If I'm Being Honest, This Is Really Just a Humble Brag

I'm so far behind, I may never catch up. The snow is about three inches deep, and there's a whisper of a promise that the school might be closed tomorrow. Can I get a yippee for snow days?!

I thought I knew busy when I billed hours. I thought I knew busy when I had a three-year old and a newborn. I actually thought I knew busy when the kids had swim lessons a few times a week.

I had no idea.

This is busy, in the best way possible:

The Swagger Wagon ferried us safely to Ponca City one more time. 

We really have to be careful when playing in Ponca; the shadows from the palace on the prairie can really bring those spring-like temperatures down. 

This one is a lover, not a fighter. We ventured out to see Paddington a few weeks ago, and it was nearly too much for him: "Mommy! What if the bear dies?" "RJ," I whispered ferociously, "I will not take you to movies where they kill a bear. What kind of mother do you think I am?"  Two days later, he  reviewed the film and gave his suggestions for the future: "Mom, can you learn this? Never take me to a movie with guns." For the record, I don't recall a single weapon being aimed at the wooly British bear. What kind of mother do you think I am?

No attitude. That pretty much sums him up. We're reading Runaway Ralph these days. RJ isn't sure about it. "Mom!" he gasped, "He didn't ask his mommy if he could go outside!" 

Keep that spirit, little man. Your sister is going to need a good example. 

So says RJ, "Hudson doesn't know my name, but he knows I'm Gigi's brother. Everyone knows I'm Gigi's brother." I bet they do. 

Open house is serious business. 

She had a very different idea than mommy's as to dress-up day for school. 

Career day was way more her speed, though "I'm sad that Frozen isn't in teeaters anymore." 

RJ wanted to be an airplane driver, or rather, a fly guy. He looks pretty fly. 

Ear bobbles make a girl feel lovely. 

But sometimes, you really wish the mamarazzi would just let you be. 

But she's relentless, so it's really easier just to strike a pose. 

Some days just feel like a blue eyeshadow day. 

And others, you really just want to rock a fabulous pair of boots. 

Still others, you just want to put on some music and dream. 

Valentine's Day is just more fun when you're a kid. 

Particularly when you get to spend the afternoon shopping with mom. 

An afternoon at the princess symphony calls for a princess dress. Or, you know, Doc McStuffins--if you're into that kind of thing. 

She has an engineering mind. 

And she's quite handy. 

The late February snowstorm is a blessed curse--finally, we have two hours to stop, catch up, and be kids again. 

Daddies make the best playmates. 

Unless, of course, you're lucky enough to have a big brother. 

That Defining Moment of Motherhood

There's a defining moment for every mom. That instant, that millisecond that forever remains with us. That one thing that makes us question if we're really fit to be mothers. It might be the day the two-year old stair-steps up the vanity drawers, stands in her brother's sink, and downs half a bottle of Avengers mouthwash while singing her ABC's. Or, maybe, it's the day when the school calls for the second time in a month, "We looked in RJ and Gigi's backpacks, and they don't have lunches. They're not signed up for hot lunch. Can you bring them food?" Maybe it's the day your six-year old cuts his thumb on a razor blade trying to empty the trash because you forgot to tell him to dump the can, not to handpick each item from it.

For me, my defining moment wasn't one of those moments. I can shake those off, even give a half-hearted chuckle. My moment?

The day I realized my house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper.

I hear you: "Oh, we have to pick-up before our housekeeper comes too. It's no big deal!" you shrug and smile unapologetically.

I'll tell you like I tell my students: parse the language. My house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper. Not too messy. Not too many toys. Filth.

Fluff bunnies have reproduced like, well, rabbits. The cats have puked one too many times for me to pretend it just happened this morning while I was work. There are Cheerios in the couch; chocolate milk rings on the tables; and (I promise I'm not fibbing even a little bit) last week, the possum was licking my patio table by the glow of my kitchen light. Sand has overtaken my tile floors, and we don't live anywhere near the beach (Do kids manufacture the stuff? Is that where it really comes from?)

"I'm really sorry," I texted my housekeeper, "but we're just not at a place in our lives when we can make appropriate plans for you to come."

"K. Thx," came the immediate reply. Short, to the point, non-judgmental even. But I know she was judging. I heard it in her voice when she told me she didn't have time to get upstairs because there was "just a lot to do" downstairs. I saw it in her eyes when she asked me to buy more cleaning supplies (We keep our extras in the storm shelter, I swear. I really do own a bottle of Windex.).

Last week and the week before, I worked four out of five nights until past nine--either at my real job or my volunteer job with my kids' school. My house isn't a disaster. It isn't a wreck. It's not even a mess.

It is just plain filthy. And I fired the housekeeper out of personal shame.

Today, I gave Gigi a can of Lysol wipes and her brother free reign with the vacuum cleaner. They did pretty good work.

Next week, I'll work four out of five nights plus Saturday. On Sunday, we'll go to church and take naps.

There's a another defining moment for each of us mothers. That moment when we realize that what we do accomplish makes so much more of a difference than what we don't. Last week, when I should have been vacuuming, I worked on accreditation for the little Lutheran school that will help raise two contributing, caring adults. When I should have been hunting cat yak with foamy cleaner, I taught bankruptcy law to future colleagues who might someday represent the next emerging-from-insolvency Radio Shack (how is that place still operating?).

There are and will be so many defining moments of motherhood. My kids are still so young. My goal? To make the things I do accomplish define more than the things I don't.

Holding On & Letting Go: Christmas 2014

Yesterday, we made an early morning run to the grocery store. "Hurry! Get in your seats! We have to beat the ice!" I barked at the littles. A winter storm was imminent, and we needed kitty litter, desperately. I carried Gigi across the parking lot, her feet clad in feet 'jamas and pink velour kitty slippers. As is our custom, RJ grabbed my hand as he exited the swagger wagon. There we were: me in purple sweatpants, Gigi in her pink 'jamas, and RJ in mismatched flannel bottoms and a Thunder shirt.  RJ is getting taller, and smarter, and smarter mouthed. He has a quick wit, and a goofy little boy sense of humor, particularly when it comes to bottoms, toots and poops. Most days, when we get to the sidewalk in a parking lot, he drops my hand and dances ahead, just a few feet. Yesterday, he held on. He held my hand in the parking lot, on the sidewalk, and in the store (until he realized he could still ride in the cart, and riding is always easier on the legs). I simply held onto him. 

The days that he will be my little boy are growing increasingly shorter. With every video game, he slides closer to being a big boy, and with every movie, he learns one more snarky comeback. 

For now, he's most assuredly still my little boy, the little one who was excited for Christmas, excited for presents, excited for candy, lasagna, and playtime: 

This was when we told him he could watch Cousin Eddy's dog blarf under the table one more time. 

Rudolph gets thirsty; this year, we made reindeer water and waited for the magic. 

Video games are fun, but there's nothing quite like a little boy with his planes...

and his cars...

and just a bit of baby sister silliness.

Of course, this one is only three. 

She's three going on thirteen, 

and while she's letting go of a lot of things these days,

it will be a few years

 before she lets go of me. (Update: The littlest one, just burst into the room, singing, "Let it go! Let it goooooo! Can't hold me back anymoooore!" to raid my shoe rack for some slippers--three going on thirteen.). 

There were some serious discussions on Christmas Eve. 

Most of those serious discussions concerned whether I was really going to make Gigi wear a baby dress. 

I did. 

Because she is a baby!

Though, she and her brother feel awfully grown up when they work as a team. 

This pretty lady helped keep me sane over a five-day weekend with the littles working as a team. 

And Santa Daddy made a secret delivery, surprising all of us. 

An inch of snow is still exciting when you're six. 

It's equally as exciting when you're three. 

Particularly when you let go of your irrational fears and hold on to the magic that is being a kid. (Gigi was afraid of snow last year). 

We didn't get the icy mix that was predicted yesterday. We did get another day trapped at home. RJ played some video games, and Gigi tried on a hundred different looks. I held onto the last official day of Christmas break and onto the two littles that are still little for now. 

I don't think I'll let go.