I am back from my trip.
I had a great time. I am relaxed. I am tan, but not too tan. I have done a cranial flush and have forgotten when basketball practices are and that I was supposed to be in science class today helping to grind acorns. I feasted on Hawaiian fish and indulged in fruity drinks with umbrellas, some very weak and one very strong. I picked kohlrabi on the side of a volcano. I spent more time in the hot tub than is recommended on the sign nearby. I visited my favorite kooky coffee place, Java Jazz, and was happy to see the depraved Barbie-themed decorations are still there. I saw tattoos that were not right, and I talked to honeymooners still in shock that they just got married. I got briefly trapped in the back room of the Peter Max gallery in Lahaina with a saleswoman who enjoyed using the dimmer switch way too much. I watched every sunset and none of the sunrises.
And I came back to . . . three boys and a husband who were very glad to see me. Nothing suffered while I was away, everyone did just fine. But each boy found a moment to tell me it was nice to have me back, and I know they meant it because there was a little extra squeeze in the hug. Everyone appreciated me just a bit more. And I appreciate them just a bit more.
So I think I should go to Hawaii a little more often.