Traffic.

Solitude. I crave it. I yearn for the peace to sit in silence with my Mac and feed it my thoughts. There is a huge traffic jam in my head. A busy intersection in the middle of New York City where everyone has their windows rolled down, inhaling all the smog and honking their horns in hopes of squeezing between that filthy yellow taxi and the trash truck. Scooters and bicyclists whizz by to demonstrate the ease and stress free life that comes with simplicity. Children are whining and babies are crying. Men are whistling their cat calls from the sidewalks in hopes of getting a glance. Okay, one man.

So some of this is not just in my head.

I miss journaling into space. I miss the quiet. And I treasure it. Oh how I appreciate a great ten minutes when the boys' naps overlap. And it is this time that I can reflect on the busy, go-go that I am so loving right now.

I get to dance everyday. My body moves swiftly between open umbrellas and toy crates and the forever pitched tent. My feet rhythmically dodge Matchbox cars and Thomas trains. I sing out at the stabbing jolt from the corner of the train tunnel as it shoots pain from my right ankle to my right ear. I bounce my head to the beat of the rain that keeps us all contained and to the sporadic drumming on Jack's drum set. Why, yes of course we prioritize our child's creativity and potential fame above our sanity.

If I really need a day off, I pick up a shift at the hospital.

Forty-five wrinkled shirts have taken permanent residence in the laundry room assuming they might be worn again when the kids move out. Was it forty-five? Maybe it was only twelve. I did not count them. Instead, I put up my ironing board and imagined my mountain as a mole hill and I learned something new.

That I simply LOATHE ironing. Four hours later, I am on my third shirt (it might have been my second, but we're not counting) and realizing that not one of these shirts fit me. Why? They fit my husband. They all belong to him! That is okay. I love him. I will iron his shirts. He will appreciate having a nice ironed shirt to wear someday. I can't imagine why he would ever need to wear one. We are not expecting any upcoming weddings and it seems all of our family is in good health, so there shouldn't be a funeral anytime soon.

And then I got to thinking. This is stupid. I should not be ironing shirts. I should be frolicking in the rain with my babies in rain boots. Let us live and love and laugh in a tangled mess of cotton and unstarched linen. And while we are at it, "let them eat cake"!

This, I can do.

Jose has been working hard on his garden. Yes ladies, I have a half-naked, very tan, tall, dark and handsome man on my patio glistening with sweat on his fine muscular upper body. And I am not paying him to be there. Did I really just say that?

There is an added bonus. Perfectly ripe, organic tomatoes every single day. They are juicy and full of flavor, a sweet addition to a great lunch.

My camera is loaded with fun and frolic and I promise to upload some more of this...

... and this

... and this

just as soon as the traffic clears.

Marco

A good weekend is followed by a burst of fresh new energy, a clean house and one big project checked off our list. A great weekend is followed by two duffle bags filled with dirty laundry, sandy car mats and sea shells crammed into little pockets.

We had a great weekend.

Sometimes my aim is a little off when taking self portraits with a passenger.

We took a three hour car ride (plus two stops for gas, one stop to pee, and two more stops to change diapers, resulting in four hours to destination, but who's counting?) down to Marco Island. Beautiful, sunny, white sandy beaches with clear blue waters lured us from our daily grind of work and school.

All the way down, we played an alternating shouting game of Marco Polo with Jack, a game Uncle Jem taught him so we could find him if he went astray. A brilliant game to teach a little who loves to hide. Another great game I learned (well, always knew, but not for this benefit) was Red Light, Green Light. If he runs, shout Red Light and he will freeze in his spot. When life is a fun game and full of play, it's a good life. Jack taught me this.

How did I stray so far off topic? Marco?

Polo. The whole island greeted us. Crossing the bridge over bright blue waters with beautiful sailboats lined with green palm trees and cracking our windows to feel the warm, salty breeze told us we were on vacation. My casual, laid-back husband met my obsessive, uptight planning needs by booking a fabulous hotel and printing a list of the top twenty places to eat on the island. A list that I read through very carefully before choosing our first stop: Simply Cupcakes. Let me assure you that this location was strategically chosen, utilizing all of my best investigative techniques and applying my education of theories and research and the scientific method. There was evidence of decadent chocolate and sweet butter cream. Obviously, this was the best option.

Upon further inquiry, I was able to conclude the subject in question is to be a certain first stop for all travelers of this destination. I am confident in my research (be sure to say research with an English accent, placing emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first) as a professor of decadence (be sure to roll the first r when say professor).

Judy, the owner, was the sweetest woman, for lack of a better pun. She told us about Marco, half convincing us to move in. Her whole cupcake bakery looks like a cupcake with bright pink walls and white icing trim. Everything had been touched with a little bit of fancy.

She stockpiled a hundred cupcake aprons on one hook, barely blocking an entryway. Apparently, all of her friends and relatives found her the perfect unique gift at a cute little shop that would represent her cupcake charm. She now names the apparels of that hook her heap of rags and was therefore happy to donate to a baker lover such as me.

Do not presume my family fills up with sweets prior to ingesting appropriate nutrients. Second on my list was the absolute best lunch I have had in a long time. Lee Be Fish is a hole-in-the-wall joint where Lee serves fresh fish on the days that he is not on his boat reeling them in. He fries up fresh fish and chips and whips up some fantastic curry tartar sauce. And if he likes you, he'll throw in some raw tuna.

After we checked into the Marriott, we did a whole lotta lounging by the great big pool.

We taught Jack how to act like a drunk in the hallway at night so the other guests would get aggravated.

And we drank in the view from the tenth story.