Glass half full: Add a little bokeh

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Preston and I have been toying with the idea of buying a small house and spending regular time traveling rather than in extra square footage. He has every other Friday off, giving us a great opportunity to explore.

I called him one day at work and said, "I have a great idea! Let's head out for a fun harvest getaway to celebrate the onset of autumn. We will ride a train, take a boat tour, and do all things rustic and quaint!"

So we planned a weekend trip. To the Wisconsin Dells. Water park capital of the world. We forget, obviously, that we moved away from New England.

It was only a weekend, so we would not need much stuff (read: everything our girls own). We did not have a long drive, with little to prep, so we could for sure leave on time (read: 45 minutes late). Our kids would sit peacefully in the back (read: cry the whole time) since we care for them so well (read: forget to feed them).

We pulled onto Main Street of the Dells at dinner time and our eyes grew wide. I turned to Preston and said, "The Wisconsin Dells is the age appropriate, riverfront version of Las Vegas." Trade out casinos for water parks, alcohol for mac 'n cheese, and spray tans for zinc oxide, and you've got the Dells.

As we drove past bright pink, blue, and green shops and shuffling feet dressed in Keens and Reefs, I felt a bit smug: we had booked a really nice cabin resort for two nights a little ways from downtown. 

Cabin it was. Resort it was not. 

I looked at Preston and laughed. The beginnings of this trip were quickly humbling us. I told him all we needed to do was pretend we were bloggers by profession. We'd take nice photos with plenty of bokeh and suddenly those bright shops became adorable and our lives enviable. He countered that we just needed to shift out perspective. We were high-level camping instead of low-level hoteling. Problem was, I didn't pack for camping. I packed a Nic & Zoe cardigan.

Our tasteful dinner of risotto with sweet corn and scallops came with the Wisconsin stamp: cheese on cheese. Good cheese, yes. The best cheese, in fact. But the enemy to our efforts not to look like we enjoy too much of America's Dairyland. 

I had imagined our kids tucked snugly in bed in the cabin while Preston and I enjoyed our books on the front porch, holding hands and eating chocolate. Fool me once...

Preston slept with Halle in the loft where she chatted happily for two hours, finally fell asleep, then fell off the bed. I laid below in the master bedroom on what felt like a glorified air mattress. The dog moved from the couch to the bed to the couch and whined because he couldn't climb the metal spiral stairs to the loft. The baby, bless her soul, slept through it all.

Are you wondering how long we'd been on this trip by this point? Because yeah, it felt like forever to us, too. 

In the early morning (curse the skylight--"Dad, it's morning time!") we sat on the front porch enjoying the cool air for five minutes before the glorious 90 degree autumn weather set in. Good thing our cabin did not have any air conditioning, or we might have gotten cocky.

To garnish our laughable experience to that point, Preston's Adirondack chair decided to take our high-level camping down a notch, reminding us we had moved very far from the Adirondacks.

 As Preston laid on the porch tangled up in a broken chair, both of us belly laughing at the ridiculousness of our whole situation, we looked at each other sharing the same thought: "Maybe we just buy the square footage."

And now, if you ignore everything I wrote above, "Look at this fun weekend we had!"

We brought our whole apartment except the baby seat.

Burgers with Brie, Cake Batter ice cream (size "Love It," thanks), Belgian waffle sandwiches with strawberries and Nutella and whipped cream and eggs and sausage... (Yes, I vacation for the food.  Ask not where do you want to visit, but where do you want to eat. In that vein, we moved to a pretty great location.)

We even ended up going to a water park, where Preston and I took turns playing with the girls while the other giggled and splashed down the big slides. One benefit to the Dells: this type of behavior by an adult is totally normal.

  

Halle, Preston, and Sonny Boy took a very early morning trip to the river to let the baby and me sleep. Halle, bless her heart, just can't quite figure out "sleep in."

  

 

(Halle is like, "Guys, this Duck Tour is weird." Halle, the whole weekend was weird.)

From Little Children Learn

I'm no self-help writer or anything, but while traveling a couple of weeks ago, I nailed down one tricky little way to increase your faith in humanity:

Take a toddler to an airport.

On my various trips wading through airports and flying with a baby, I have been awed by the emotional encouragement strangers have invested in me and my child, ready at any moment to help as I wrestled with the demands common to traveling alone with a kid--

The kind old couple sharing our five hour flight who held six month old Halle, though she screamed with separation anxiety, so I could use the restroom.

The exotic looking woman with flame red hair, rough tan skin, and fading tattoos who stopped to say, "God bless you."

The peppy flight attendants who learn Halle's name and repeat it throughout the flight, making her smile.

The business man who simply gave me a smile as I chased her up the airplane aisle for a fifth time, her little legs taking her anywhere but her seat.

The people who have let her crawl on them and play with their stuff, chew on their bracelets or watch movies on their laptops, who have smiled and waved and played peekaboo when they really wanted to read or sleep.

Most recently, at 9:00 p.m. in a Chicago Midway airport gate waiting to board our final flight home, I found myself laughing to tears along with thirty other tired and disheveled travelers as we watched little Halle stumble around like Jack Sparrow on her new walking legs, going from stranger to stranger to show them her most prized possession: her belly button. In a moment of willing vulnerability, the crowd laughed together as we watched this carefree toddler roam, assured and proud of her belly.

These are people caught in the weariness of travel, the gray layers of an airport, and yet the kindness emerges in ways that give me the most tender of feelings for these people. Taking a toddler to an airport has not discouraged me, but shown me the power of innocence to encourage good.

...And now, on a less formal note, pictures from our visit! A dreamy afternoon at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

The girl loves to show off her belly button:

She refused to touch the grass with her hands, and every time she began to fall forward, she would throw those hands back, tighten her abs, and scrunch up her nose in concentration, determined to defy gravity.

 

 

Forget her belly button, Halle found out her finger fits perfectly in her nose...

  

 

What is the Cost of a Memory?

On Sunday after church, Preston and I decided to take a spontaneous trip to the Long Island Sound and escape our chaotic house that is slowly becoming a home. We already know that "spontaneity" and "baby" are not an easy combo. We mixed it anyway. As we began the hour long drive in the late afternoon, I began to question our decision.  Baby girl had already begun to fuss and it looked like we would hit traffic. We hadn't had dinner yet, and I don't do hungry very well. I shared my concerns with Preston, and he responded with one simple question: "What is the cost of a memory?"

At day's end, this was our price:

• Two hours squished in a messy truck
• A tired, inconsolable baby--for two hours, squished in a messy truck
• Dog poop on my white pants (apparently the dog didn't register "an hour-long drive in the truck")
• Preston caught wearing dress socks and Chacos (not pictured)
• Sonny Boy's epic, embarrassing asthma attack at the beach
• Grumbling tummies until 8:00 p.m.

And this was our purchase:

• Baby's first trip to the ocean
• Photos (you take a picture, and suddenly something is an event, right?)
• Sunset, misted over by a thin layer of clouds
• A warm, sticky breeze that said, "Welcome to your new home" as we tried to really believe it
• The ocean smell that wakes up your spirit and says, "Adventure!" (apparently this was a talkative place)
• Helpful strangers becoming fast friends, eager to meet a beautiful baby
• Sand on our toes
• Stained white pants and a vow to clean out the truck
• Our beach fix, meaning we don't have to go back for awhile

Okay. Now I'm just getting snarky. Enjoy the memories "en photo".

A Quarter of a Century

Last Saturday I turned 25 years old.  Admittedly, every time someone reminds me that I've achieved "a quarter of a century," all I really hear in my head are the voices of a young Rupert Grint and Daniel Radcliffe, discussing Harry becoming the youngest Seeker in "...a century.  According to McGonagall."  I want to finish everyone's sentences for them with just that.

Harry Potter movie quotes aside, age 25 has been pretty good.  Preston drove us south, past acres of gorgeous farmland that made my heart leap, for a day of adventure at Brown County State Park and a pleasant evening around Nashville, IN.  We stopped at the General Store for some fried biscuits rolled in cinnamon and sugar and smothered in apple butter.  Who needs birthday cake when you can eat ten fried biscuits?  Oh man.  Have mercy.

I took ample pictures of the vistas and scenic winding roads (what is it about winding roads shadowed by autumn leaves?) all through the state park, mostly for my mom and her friend, Kenna. (Enjoy the views, ladies.)  The day saw rain and clouds, which only added to drama of the autumn landscape.  Preston and I ended our adventure feeling invigorated--both of us miss the mountains very much, and getting up into these hills settled our longing a bit.  If you ever visit the area, I highly recommend a jaunt through Brown County.  Especially on a birthday.

  

 

   

Making it to 25 has been a blast.  With a birthday in October, each year is destined to just keep getting better.  October is the greatest.  So are birthdays.  Thanks for all the love, friends.  Have a good one.