See, it's a proven fact (by Jeff) that I ruin all vacations by picking fights on the first night. This was true when we went to Paris in 2005, for reasons that I have since repressed, as well as on our honeymoon in 2007, when I became so irrationally angry at not being able to speak any sort of semi-coherent Italian to our waiter that Jeff had an actual panic attack.
|I also attempted to make tomato sauce from scratch, which ended so horribly Jeff continues to mock me about it to this day, but he has yet to seek an annulment so you tell me.|
It is also a proven fact that our child, while undisputedly the light of our lives and mostly sweet and charming (note: mostly could mean anywhere from 10% to 90%, as he is currently three years old, which as it turns out is way more terrible than two, but I guess whatever genius came up with that phrase [sub-note: genius in this context means "asshole"] must have been too ashamed to modify it once she realized her mistake), ruins vacations by preventing us from relaxing during every moment that he remains conscious.
I swear I'm not trying to complain about going to the beach in January (except for the obvious re-shuffling of Bikini Season to follow directly after the Eggnog Equinox, which seems patently unfair), but it must be said that a vacation with a child or children no longer conforms to the definition of the word as you previously understood it. Kind of like "sleep" or "abdominals."
While I'm going into this next week with expectations and low as my tolerance for rum-based cocktails and direct sun exposure, I'm eternally grateful to the brave man who is taking his Terrible Three and Temperamental Thirty-Four--a.k.a his permanent carry-on baggage--on a holiday.
THANK YOU, HONEY. I promise not to attempt any Spanish or so much as *touch* a vegetable. Maybe ever.