Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

For Spring Break, the littlest one and I went on a trip. I should mention the littlest one is almost as tall as me now. That makes my eyes feel itchy. I think it's the pollen.

We spent a few days in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, then up to St. Augustine, then on to Savannah. I've never been to Savannah before. At least not that I can remember. I'll probably get an email from my mom, a sibling or a cousin saying "yes, you've been to Savannah before. Remember? When we were there {insert comically unfortunate circumstance here.}"

Then I started thinking about it, and that is how we describe nearly everything in my family.

"Remember that trip to Texas? The one where Patti wanted to get a picture beside a cactus and got too close and was ALL shot up with prickles?"

"You remember the trip to Gatlinburg, Amy! That was the time your brother convinced you the optimal way to see if you could spit into the river was by sticking your head through the balcony bars and you got your head stuck?" Editor's Note: I was 3 years old at the time.

"See that house? That's the one where Scot punched himself in the eye with his knee when he stepped out of the car directly into a hole in the yard ... but only one leg went into the hole!"

"Mom, where's my pink shirt? You know, the one I was wearing that day when you jumped out at me right as I was coming out of the bathroom and I screamed and almost fainted?"

I  just realized that, sadly, our recent trip to Nashville probably won't be remembered by our meeting with the Governor. No, it will more likely be remembered as the time my sisters locked me in the car, set off the alarm and ran away.

But Savannah. I shall remember it as the trip where Hadley and I visited a delightful little bookstore in an old, old house that smelled of cedar and lavender and leather and books, where we bought a couple of kids' classics and got a great dinner recommendation from the owner. I'll remember us saying "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get" a million times. I'll remember us walking through a centuries-old cemetery in the fog with a light rain falling and my child thinking it would be funny to jump out and attempt to scare me. She may remember me jumping out from behind every corner the remainder of the trip to get her back.

Mostly I think we'll both remember a fun trip, just the two of us, one and a half months before she walked through the doors of her elementary school for the very last time. How'd that happen?

Happy weekend y'all!


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