We’re three days into our vacation.
There are two thoughts that circle, like vultures. “I’m so glad we didn’t attempt this last year.” “We’re definitely not coming again next year.”
We’ve shortened our reservation in LA. I expect we’ll be home by Thursday.
It doesn’t help that my son is really sick, but that isn’t even the issue.
I used to be a really enthusiastic person. I got excited for things. I looked forward to them. It was one of the best parts of myself.
Since having kids I’ve stopped looking forward to things. I’ve stopped getting excited. It’s for the best, because it means I don’t get disappointed anymore. No more high highs and no more low lows. Just a real steady apathy about most things.
I forget why we came here. Probably because we (let’s face it, *I*) felt left behind, watching everyone go places on FB, feeing like we were the only ones staying at home. It always seems like a good idea when you’re planning it. Sun, sand, swimming: things we can’t get at home. But what we have to sacrifice for those things–security, schedule, our sanity–it’s a wash in the end. It’s not really being worth the time and money it costs to go, not when you factor in the stress involved.
One week until school starts. These are our last days of summer.