We’re chiming in from the beach this week, but before you start perusing our few vacation pictures and getting jealous over what seems like the picture perfect family vacation, let me just tell you this: we booked a week long vacation in a beautiful two bedroom beach house with a huge granite-clad kitchen, hard wood floors that were pristinely clean and baby gak-free (ohmygawd yes!), was surprisingly and wonderfully wicker-free, and came complete with an adorable front yard hammock swing for two during the week that was 1. muy caliente, similar to what I imagine a cayenne pepper dry rub on your tongue would feel like, except not just contained to the mouthal region. 2. Raining, raining, and raining as predicted for the only week we’d be hoping to catch some rays instead of thunderstorms and a few random doses of lighting and down pours keeping us permanently sealed up inside. 3. Came directly after the week that everything went wrong, including our AC crumbling into shambles 18-hours prior to leaving, and 4. A dramatic teething epicenter after my 7-month old decided to unexpectedly without warning suddenly grow and pop out his first two itty bitty teef which carried along the associated grumpiness that accompanies such endeavors. I mean, really. I hate to sound like the world’s biggest complainer here, but is it just me or does anyone else feel like their life seems to turn completely upside down as if you, your world and all its contents were baton twirled in a rain stick at the most inopportune moments.

I promise, though, not to complain, or even mention the staggering list of negatives. Regardless of everything, we are having ourselves one of the best, relaxing, fun vacations we could have. The sun has popped out on a few occasions letting us take baby to the beach where he’s experienced everything from naps in salty ocean breezes, to face planting in hot sand with a full tasting menu of all its glorious grit, to the feeling of cool ocean waves lapping at toes and baby rolls. A sand castle was even attempted, though quickly ditched as the heat wave we tried so desperately to escape never let us out of its grasp and ran us right back inside. We’ve even managed to have a few beautiful sunsets as I seem to be the typical woman and drag my husband across islands to see which spot gives me, err, us the best viewing advantage of this daily occurrence. He never gets annoyed — I’m so lucky.

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On Thursday my husband and I woke up earlier than humanly possible (being parents makes you super human and thus able and unfortunately familiar with getting up before things like the sun, and other life forms) and schlepped ourselves to the airport and flew all the way to Massachusetts. Boston, to be more specific, if you couldn’t tell from the title all five inches above this sentence. It was impromptu, meaning it was planned three weeks before we left, but we decided to forget about all the packing needed for an overnight trip our wee tot would be making to camp spoil me (ahem, grandparents baby oasis spa manor fun house) which left us scrambling to get everything ready and thus cutting into our precious 5 4 3 hours of sleep.

All day I kept waiting to feel guilty. Guilt over finally leaving my son with someone other than myself or husband for more than two whole hours, but something about Boston captivated me like no other city, err, at least of the four I’ve managed to be in. To be honest, I forgot did think about him between the beautiful spring popping up in window boxes and tree lined sidewalks, the cobbled streets, and after I looked down alleys that look nothing like the creepy, dark, crime-mob-boss-kill-you-death alleys of NYC or D.C. or Sydney. No, these alleys, to be perfectly 5th grade here, took me back to the 1700s. Where I imagined once upon a time a corset, hoop-skirt clad woman darted through to escape a harrasser, or where scecret coded letters were passed, or the way to a back entrance of a underground meeting — yes, this is all very National Treasurer, but nonetheless, the alleys seemed quaint, historic and full of secrets and stories. Then again, it was Beacon Hill, I’m sure the majority of Boston is just like any other city.

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I was supposed to be telling you of our spur of the moment cruise, the last hurrah before we take care of a little munchkin that will steal our hearts and energy, the final vacation before vacation is just life in a different location. Instead I come back with a tale of vacation havoc — words that should never be used together unless your vacation turns out befuddled, agonizing and making you wish you were in pre-term labor rather than battling the ruthless. We were going to be walking deck planks, using the excuse of my oversized load to steal some pool-side lounge chairs (which I hear go really fast), have an actual room with a view over Central Park (even if it is a miniaturized version on a boat) and get some sun to aid in my “glow” as I need to squeeze myself into a bridesmaids dress in less than a month, sigh, yes I know.

Instead I must tell you that I have no idea what cruising life is like, but after this experience I don’t know if I can say I am a fan — which is what you all really want to know isn’t it? You probably are thinking I will bemoan the buffet food, or perhaps you are wondering how I managed to stay upright and not hurt myself or the baby while being six months pregnant with unsteady sea legs and an already pitiful lack of coordination and balance. But that’s the thing. We flew all the way down to Miami, took a taxi to Ft. Lauderdale and proceeded to check in at the desk when this kind woman came up and started making conversation. Ahem, or so I thought. Her kind enquires about my mid-section soon became a nightmare as you can apparently be “too pregnant” at six months. Six months! We are still three whole months away from squirting this little person out, but say you are anywhere past 24 weeks and you are banned like the plague from the boat. And so we were left on the dock as our last vacation as young, childless, free adults sailed away without us (and our complete awesomeness plus half).

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I really had intended to share this with you last week, but my husband (I don’t believe I’ve told you how amazing he is yet) decided to surprise me by whisking me away to New York City for the weekend. During our 56 hour stay in the city we learned a few things: traffic lanes are mere suggestions — after all it is a whole heckuva lot more fun to play chicken while in a cab, then while out. You think you’ve seen/been around/can tolerate a large crowd of people, then you enter Times Square and your reality is shattered. Sometimes cabbies have no idea where “The Met” is, or “Central Park” and will need you to guide them, or give them a street address, because, seriously, central park has been relocated about five times in the last year and the met, well, they think you’re talking baseball.

For the times when we were not resting our poor feet we walked, walked, walked and walked some more, walking until our feet were lifeless nubs, stopping occasionally at a French chocolatier, where we were tempted to buy a $40 box of pale pink mini macaroons filled with chocolate, or pay $75 a pound for some caramel filled chocolates, but decided to press on to Levain bakery who won a throw down against Bobby Flay. They are famous for their muffin sized cookies that must weight at least half a pound each. There was also an impromptu lunch at Balthazr’s, which was exactly like their little red cookbook, and the bakery attached had fresh breads, pastries, brownies and, well, we tried to not get carried away because we also gluttonously downed two frozen hot chocolates in one sitting.

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Move along people, nothing to see here. Three weeks in paradise, warm weather and orange infused sunsets have left me wordless and short on commentary preferring to go through my 5,264 photos of euphoria rather than summon my brain to produce something picturesque and jealousy inciting. And after getting a bit teary-eyed that I am back in 32-degree weather with once powdery white snow dusting the ground instead of dipping my toes in salty ocean water the color of which I never knew existed, I will revel in the fact that my once albino-white skin is now the shade of an almond, a miracle even I can’t explain.

But for your sake, I will try to string together a few coherent thoughts: there were beaches that felt like brown sugar under your toes, skies the color of mango and strawberry gelatto, salty breezes that refreshed you down to your bones and sand that felt softer than velvet. There was the constant sound of giggling children, the sight of completely relaxed bodies and faces with smiles expressing utter contentment. And, oh yes, there were whales, dolphins, ice cream swirled clouds and a Christmas Eve luau that involved coconut clad women and men constructed of solid muscle. Could Christmas get better that this? I submit that it could not.

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