This morning, we checked out of our motel long before the sun came up. We flew north, trading palm trees and crashing waves for frozen rivers and piles of snow. I confess: I am not good at flying. I get totally nervous every time I set foot on a plane. I hate the noise, the fuel smell, the cramped spaces. The only reason I do it is the payoff of more time spent on vacation, less time in the travel itself. This time, I didn't really care about any of that. I just wanted to get home.
While we were in Florida, my brother was released from the hospital. He's in the middle of a divorce, so he couldn't go home. The doctors wanted him to not be alone, so he moved into our house and my mom stayed with him. My sister picked us up at the airport and brought us home to a house full of people: my mom, Diva, my brother, and my brother's children were all here to greet us. It was chaos, and it was wonderful.
I think given the circumstances, we had a good trip. We spent half our time at the beach and half visiting Walker's snowbird relatives in Orlando. We spent a day at Disney World, just the two of us, playing like teenagers on a date. We took each other out to breakfast, and cheered the Packers to a Superbowl victory at an outdoor sports bar. We walked on the beach, slept late, and ate ice cream sundaes for lunch. I feel rested and ready to move on to the next challenge, but I wouldn't mind a bit if that challenge didn't present itself for a while.