36Posted: February 2, 2014
This beats the hell out of my last birthday.
Connecting with an old friend.
Ice cream bars.
Das Big Boy feeding fishy crackers to Little Liebchen.
Some pooping in the potty (by Das Big Boy, not me. Well, by me too, if you must know. But that was less of an accomplishment.)
It’s not pure idyll (lest you hate me): there are still fine dining meltdowns over boobs that won’t fit out of new party dresses (by LL; everyone else was content with my boobs in my dress), simul-crying by over tired children, forgotten diapers on a visit to another island, and bickering over who wakes up first; but really, it’s pretty frickin’ awesome. Anyone who tells you vacation with their kids isn’t vacation is bad at vacation, dislikes their kids, or didn’t think to travel with their parents.