I start dreaming of the sea smell and the sticky air almost before I get home every August and I sometimes imagine the iridescent light in the depths of a dark New York winter to get me through until longer days return.
Everything glows on the island and even on a cloudy day the light radiates color.
This year did not disappoint.
But vacation is different with children.
Sure, we’re away and we’re together but the days of lounging on the beach with a book are a memory.
Please don’t misunderstand this to be a complaint. I’d trade running down the beach after a naked toddler or cooking yet another hot dog for a picky eater (don’t judge me, I know you’ve given your kids hot dogs too) for a good book and dinner out any day.
But it’s not the same.
After the planning and the packing and the driving and the unpacking and the settling in and the activities and the packing and the traveling and the driving (again) and the endless laundry and unpacking when we get home—I need another vacation.
Still, I can’t wait until next summer.