Every summer, I am without fail bombarded with photos of people’s glamorous vacations. Drinking vino in Portofino. Roadtripping across New Zealand. Ramen-shop hopping in Tokyo. From celebrities to friends to acquaintances, it feels like everyone took an epic vacation this summer but me.
It almost entices me to book an international getaway.
Almost.
As I Google “nonstop flights to Oslo”, I’m reminded of how wiggly G is and how much she’d hate being cooped up on a plane for 9 hours. How restless Bub would be waiting at a busy baggage claim when all he wants to do is run around. How neither of them could care less about trying new cuisine, taking photos, and admiring scenic landscapes.
They don’t care where we are. They want freedom to play. They want food when they want it. They just want to be with Steve and me.
As much as my free-spirited, restless heart wants to roam the earth, it’s not the right time.
So instead, we made the most of our summer staying local. We visited every nature center in the county, played in our neighbor’s garden, and treated my sister’s home like an Airbnb when she went on a trip.
Now with the sun setting earlier, the temps getting cooler, and the trees beginning to turn, I look back fondly on our summer. The summer Bub was four and G was a baby.
