Stop 2: Rodanthe, Outer Banks, NC

"Mommy, I've never felt this way. I've never been this happy."
"That's bliss, Ben. That feeling is called bliss."
"Blissful," he stated. He smiled, and got back on his bike.

That was on our third night in Outer Banks, NC. My 9-year-old made that comment, out of nowhere.
I knew exactly how he felt.

The last few days have been magical. Simple and magical. We did not do much: we mostly hung out at the Cape Hatteras KOA Campground where we played in the pool and on the beach, but there is no doubt that we all felt blissful.

We were in the town of Rodanthe on Cape Hatteras, which is one of the thin barrier islands that make up the Outer Banks. Rodanthe is towards the southern end, and in order to get there you either have to drive all the way from the northern end down or take two ferries from the southern end (which is what we did). What this means is that if you are spending time vacationing in this area, you had to put in some effort to get there. And what that means is that you have a lot of empty beaches, interesting people, and an overall feeling of being truly "away".

A pit stop on the side of the road in the town of Ocracoke,
the first southern island of OBX
and the location of the first ferry's stop. 

The first ferry: a two hour ride to Ocracoke, OBX

No, that big fancy motor home is not us.

That's us!

Waiting in line on Ocracoke
for the second ferry ride into Hatteras Island.

My view for my morning coffee (and evening nightcap). 

The view of our camp site from the beach boardwalk.

The feeling of being away from the rest of the world wasn't the only thing that contributed to our feelings of bliss. We played all day long: jumping, swimming, surfing, skim boarding, boogie boarding, biking...  We would put our bathing suits on first thing in the morning, and we were still running around with sand on our feet well after sunset.

Breakfast in our bathing suits...

...and dinner at a super cool local place (still) in our bathing suits.

Sandy feet
Happy hearts!

Bouncing pillow: one of the boys' favorite campground amenities!

Another favorite activity: crab-hunting at night.

 My little (and big) surfer dudes:

I got some board time in too, although I wouldn't call mine surfing...it was more like paddling against crazy-ass hard winds and then floating back to where I started.

One of our favorite experiences was going to Jockey Ridge State Park, the tallest natural sand dunes in the eastern United States. The pictures just don't do it justice. It is awe-inspiring.

See my teeny tiny family up there?

                                                                                                                     

We got some shopping time in, too. The boys all bought major souvenirs. The little boys got themselves a real-deal, fiber glass surfboard:

The big boy got himself a trainer kite for his latest hobby, kiteboarding:

I, on the other hand, got myself what has now become affectionately known as "Hat": 

One of my favorite days was the one when we woke up to watch the sun rise over the beach behind the campground...

...and then watched it set over the sound across the street.

For sure Ben put it perfectly when he declared his feelings that night. 

Outer Banks was bliss.

Now on to the next adventure: Washington, DC.

OBX sticker, check!

Stop 1: Savannah & Tybee Island, GA

How appropriate that we find this while window shopping in Savannah, our first stop; this quote can definitely sum up our overall philosophy of life and even this trip.

Found this at a Savannah antiques shop. It was too expensive and way too big to bring home,
but will definitely be going on Etsy for our version once we're home!

We drove all day Sunday from South Florida to Savannah, GA. Fortunately, this time, we actually made it there. (Savannah was supposed to be our first stop on our 2013 Summer RV Trip, but thanks to a very old RV and some bad luck, we never made it.) Although I must add that--as any RV-traveler knows--there are bound to be glitches. So far, we have had one beach cruiser bike fall off the back without us realizing it, the gas tank censor act up enough that it took 30 minutes to fill up, and overfilled transmission fluid leak out and smoke. However, a guy was nice enough to pick up the bike and walk it over to us as we stopped at the gas station. It had relatively little damage and did not cause an accident. The gas tank is now filling up just fine. And our mechanic called us and assured us everything was mechanically fine after we explained the situation. So, I'm going to go ahead and count all three of those incidents as non-incidents and/or good luck so far.

We arrived early enough to go into the historic district of Savannah, walk around a little and have some dinner. The kids were pretty fascinated by the steep, historic, riverside stairs that warned to "use at your own risk." 

                                                

They were even more fascinated by The Savannah Candy Kitchen, complete with giant taffy-pulling machine and overhead working toy train.

 I started my second day in Savannah in pure sin: a Bloody Mary and deep fried southern beignets.

We walked around town, did a little shopping, and showed the boys the famous Savannah squares and areas like Forsyth Park:

We then drove 20 minutes east to Tybee Island, where we spent the rest of the day on the beach, jumping waves, boogie boarding, and walking. Definitely way different than the beach at home (especially South Beach), but we loved it.

Looks desolate, but that's just an illusion of the photo angle.
The beach was amazingly packed for a Monday afternoon, even for a vacation town.

To quote one of my favorite Frankie Ballard songs:
"Sitting on the beach with my sweet Georgia peach...not a care in the world,
just trying to beat the heat."
That's a real Georgia peach, y'all! Stopped on the way at a local fruit stand.
And yes, they really are that much better.

One of my fave pics so far, and proof to all my locals back home that Miami
is NOT the only place in the U.S. with gorgeous beaches.

We ended our day with dinner at one of the coolest little places I've ever been: AJ's Dockside, where I had a "Margarona" that nearly put me to sleep on the drive back to the campground. Luckily, I had to stop at the fruit stand on the way back for more peaches, so that woke me right back up.

Last time, in our old beloved first RV, we added a sticker for each place we stopped. It was bittersweet, because we knew we'd have to sell it once we got back. This time, the sticker tradition is way more fun. 

Savannah and Tybee Island, check!

Packed up and ready to head out at 3:30 am to make it to the ferry that will take us to Outer Banks, North Carolina.

Mommy Blog Turned (Temporarily) Into Travel Blog

So I started this blog in an attempt to contain the chaos and panic of new motherhood. After I (sorta) got a handle on that, this blog morphed into a mishmash of my own musings about everything from Sex and the City to writing to the dilemma that can be bangs. The kids, however, always made a regular appearance, of course. Now, for a little while, it's going to be a bit of a Travel Blog.

We are nearly packed up and ready to go away for a major portion of our summer: 6 weeks, maybe even more, if we aren't sick of each other by then.

The Four of Us.

Just us for 42 days in our 31 foot long Class C motorhome (Honu, as we affectionately call it). We will be traveling up the East Coast into Canada...our longest and farthest trip yet.

And, to be quite honest, I am incredibly amazed by the number of people who have asked me (one of them actually begged, and she isn't even a relative!) to post updates as we go. So I'm going to use this as a sort of travel journal (wi-fi permitting).

We have been planning this trip for exactly a year, and adventures like this are one of the many reasons we made our Big Move last year. Now, we are nearly completely packed, the house sitters are set up, and anything and everything that turns on, runs, or moves in the RV has been lubed, serviced, and tuned up.

Here's the itinerary:
~Savannah, Georgia
~Outer Banks, North Carolina
~Washington DC
~New York City
~Cape Cod, Massachusetts
~Portland, Bar Harbor, & Acadia, Maine
~Mt. Washington, New Hampshire
~Niagara Falls, Canada`
~Charlottsville, Virginia
~Charlotte, North Carolina

We are so ready...

Their reaction last year when we surprised them with the purchase of our "5th family member."

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

~Helen Keller

Dreams: Non-Transferable but Exchangeable

Our last house was The House. Our son, who was 2 when we bought it, called it "Da Beeg House." He wasn't wrong; it was big. At least by our standards. We had 4 rooms, a 2 car garage, a pool, a huge family room and a living and dining. The master bathroom had a sliding glass door wall in the shower and double sinks and a door that led out to the pool. My friend referred to it as "the spa." And of course, it sat on a corner lot in a perfectly manicured and highly desirable neighborhood. Even at the great price we snagged it, we had to scramble often to manage it financially. We decided, then, that it was what we wanted. We gave up a lot to have it, but we had other things: granite counters, a fancy kitchen faucet, a house that held parties of over 50 people with no problems. We had a plan, too: stay in The House until the boys grew up and left.

And then, only four years later, I found myself posting this:

"Exchange"

we had always had a plan

so sure of what we wanted

to live life, together, out loud

be as free as commitment allowed

untethered to the things Everyone Else

used to measure their grand arrival

at the finish line of life

keep it small and live simply

so we could live Life large

travel, dance, laugh, sleep at night

without the stresses Everyone Else chose:

a lawn man, the corner lot

we planned life with bare feet

spontaneity, experiences, whimsy, free of cares

we were so sure back then

until something shifted, wishes got swapped

and we suddenly found ourselves dreaming

of a grown up life, settled

a home that was spacious enough

to welcome Just One More baby

(and a lawn man to cut

the grass on the corner lot)

we swapped one dream for another

found ourselves with a new life

new joys, different desires, wishes granted

but with it all sometimes comes

the subtle, quiet unease of wonder:

was this the life we intended

one we will look back on

with satisfaction of a life fulfilled

or a life exchanged for one

that is just like Everyone Else's?

That poem haunted me. Even  now, as I reread it, I don't really remember writing it. It was one of those "writer's moments" where stuff just comes out of you and you don't even recognize it afterwards. But it was perfect. Somehow, I was able to put into words the unease I was feeling; the unease of which I wasn't even fully aware at the time. I just knew something was gnawing at me: I wasn't sure this is what I had really signed up for. Did we sell out? And why don't I feel fully realized, if I had, supposedly, everything I wanted?

Of course, it wasn't just about the size and cost of the house. I had some sort of discomfort with Suburbia. And yet, when the time came to move, I was probably most concerned with leaving the 39 chain restaurant options I had nearby. Because, I learned, that with Suburbia comes not only perfectly landscaped lawns, but also ease, availability, and the masses. The longing for a different day-to-day routine, however, won out--thanks to some gentle prodding from Hubby the Risk-Taker--and I gave up the corner Starbucks (multiple ones on multiple corners) for some eccentric local joints that have been discovered by trial and error and neighborly assurances. 

We are having our first party in the new house today; I only picked the date because it was practical. I had no idea until just yesterday that it was the exact one year anniversary from our closing date. One year ago today, we left our lawyer's office with the key, bought a six pack of Heineken at the gas station, and toasted our new house as we took a million pictures of what we knew would be "The Before's." The months that followed were exhausting and exhilarating: we lived with my parents and then in our RV in the backyard as we completely remodeled the inside ourselves.

When we were finished, we had swapped 2300 square feet for 1600, a 2-car garage for a small room used for storage, and a "spa" bathroom for one with a counter that is so small I literally can not place more than one bottle on it without something falling into the sink. When I went grocery shopping the other day, I found myself standing in line behind an incredibly wealthy-looking and fit older couple buying mainly organic food and fancy wine, and standing in front of a homeless-looking man buying a 6-pack of Budweiser. Suburbia, it is not.

We ride our bikes to the beach, the boys shirtless and in flip flops, Hubby with skim boards attached to the back of his bike with a MacGyver-like contraption, and I with a backpack with the SPF and towels. When we need to clean the house, it takes less than half the time it used to. When we have to pay the bills, we have enough left over to afford the longed-for RV that used to be a dream and the house in Hawaii we have already rented for Summer 2016.

I do not miss the granite or even (gasp) the chandelier hanging in my former walk-in closet (although I definitely have to figure something out about the bathroom counter). Eight years ago, we took a chance on a dream we thought was ours. Fortunately, we were smart enough to listen to each other--and our instincts--and take an even bigger chance. It wasn't easy. I had many, many moments of doubt and even panic. But today, as we welcome our friends into our home, I'll know we did the right thing for our family, and I'll be celebrating another exchanging of dreams.

One year ago today...
Happy One Year Anniversary to our Hale Ma 'Alahi

No angst, no problem

I remember once watching an interview with singer/songwriter, Jewel, where she said it was easier to write when she was unhappy. With her infamous snaggle-tooth grin wide, she laughingly admitted that angst made for great poetry fodder.

Being the overly-dramatic brooding type, I immediately agreed. I am often most inspired when there's some amount of discomfort taking place. My highs are really high and my lows are really low; I tend to feel things pretty intensely. So when I've gone through periods in my life when I was frustrated or confused or anxious, I could get pretty creative--if for no other reason than it gave me an outlet for those feelings to escape.

I've been trying to figure out (as you all are probably sick of hearing) why I'm just not that interested in being here. And I realized that maybe that's it: no angst = no fodder.

I started this blog because early motherhood nearly crippled me. I felt like a caged animal. When I wasn't feeling trapped in my house or my postpartum body, I was feeling trapped in my own head. I was metaphorically claustrophobic (what do you mean, that's not a real term?). I didn't know if I was doing any of it right, I often didn't want to do a lot of it, could barely remember who I was before I was a mom, and truly believed I would never, ever be able to take a shower in peace or sleep in on a Saturday morning. This blog saved me.

But now, they're 9 and 6 and I'm 42 and I've been married for 13 years and really, we're good. (Knocking on wood as I type.)  I'm good. I don't question my parenting (at least not every single second of every single day), I don't wonder who I really am (unless I'm PMSing), and I'm even enjoying parenting (mostly). I spent my pre-mommy days growing up, getting married, getting divorced, attempting to find myself, falling in love, getting married, buying houses, trying to get pregnant, not getting pregnant, growing up some more, thinking that I had found myself...there was plenty of angst. Then I finally had my first son, the one I had so desperately wanted, and had to start the growing up and finding myself routine all over again...even more angst.

There was so much fodder, I was drowning in it .

These days, I feel like I'm finally really enjoying the fruits of all those seeds I flung around spastically. I am probably more at peace with the Big Picture Of My Life now than ever before (wood-knocking violently now).

Perhaps what I've labeled as "laziness" or "indifference" is actually something else--something I haven't experienced so often in my life that I recognized it right away: contentment.

So now that I've realized my life is (for now, at least) just as I want it to be, I return to the "issue" at hand: what about this space? Where do I go from here with my words, my thoughts, this blog? On one hand, I think maybe I should pull a Sarah Jessica Parker and shut down the whole production while there's still an audience left. On the other hand, I think why do I have to make any dramatic grand decision at all? (Remember: I'm not so brood-y and angst-y anymore, right?) Maybe this will go from a blog that started out so I could release my stuffed emotions and remember who I was pre-Mommy, to just an online journal where I can post vacation pictures, write about whatever randomness pops into my head, and maybe throw in a bit of attempted poignancy if the mood strikes.

And certainly, if the only "issue" giving me angst lately is this blog, then there really is no issue at all, and I'm in a damn good place.

I'm not good at good-byes. I'm even worse at Skyping.

I suspect that most people who know me would say I am very social.

Outgoing.

Friendly.

That's true.

But what's also true is that I have a very select group of people who I consider "close."

In my early 20's I remember saying I had a List Of My Favorite People In The World.

Now that I'm in my 40's, I don't go around announcing that so much anymore (instead, apparently, I just write about it on a public forum), but it's still true.

I can count those people on one hand. It's a very elite group of people, if I do say so myself.

And before you all go and think that I'm boasting here because they are so lucky to be considered one of my elites, let me go on record, that what I'm actually boasting about is how lucky I am to have them on My List. (You all know who you are.)

And now, one of those Very Elite People is leaving.

She is moving.

To France.

I am terrible at geography, but I know for a fact that that's really fucking far.

And I am at a complete loss.

I knew it was coming. In actuality, I've suspected it for years. There are people that you just know are not going to remain in one place for too long. I've had her in my life for nearly a decade. I'm shocked it's taken her this long to get to this point in her life, really. She's just not a Miami-kinda-girl. She's sorta like a hummingbird. She flits and flutters with a dizzying display of colors and movement. She's a perpetual blur.

And yes, I know. The world is small these days. There is texting and Skyping and apps that I have no clue about that I will most certainly have to learn how to use and we will most definitely absolutely without a doubt stay in touch and she will come back and forth for work and maybe even we will all go up to visit her on a fabulous South of France holiday worthy of being turned into a Woodie Allen-like comedy starring Drew Barrymore as me and Maggie Gyllenhaal as her and it will be just the same.

But it won't.

And so.

Here I am, with one my Elite Favorite People In The Whole World leaving and I am so damn happy for her and so damn sad for me that I don't know which one hurts more.

And so.

When I don't know what to do and I don't know how to cope, there is only one thing I can do, and that is write. (How ironic, considering my last post, no?) 

I got home tonight from her teeny studio apartment with the purple settee and the loose-leaf tea canisters and the professional photo equipment, after a take-out dinner of her favorite Indian food and a bottle of Trader Joe's red wine, weighed down by the garbage bags filled with her hand-me-down clothes and shoes. "I'm purging at least 50% of my closet before I move!" she declared. "And I want you to have first dibs because you'll appreciate it the most!" I explained to my boys (mostly my Ben, the 9-year-old-going-on-40) why my eyes were puffy. They, who love her too, were not happy either. "Right now, I'm hating Europe," Ben choked. I started to go through the clothes, wipe down the brown leather boots I had coveted for almost as long as I'd known her, tried one on, slipped it off, left it on the kitchen floor, came to the sofa, opened the laptop and here I am.

My words are really all I can give

to this friend who has taught me that...

...galoshes are perfectly acceptable with a summer dress to go window shopping at an indoor mall.

...I "must exploit" my eyelashes.

...in a pinch, hair works just as well as floss.

...if you really need a mixer for your flask of vodka while in the middle of downtown Miami during Art Basel, you can probably get some free coke (and a highball glass!) if you walk down an alley and smile at a caterer.

...I look much better in color.

...I take too many things way too seriously.

...Photoshop is not a myth.

...it's perfectly awesome to be myself.

...I am not the only person in the world who can have an intensely serious conversation about the meaning of my stiletto collection.

...there is no shame in rocking back and forth and sobbing uncontrollably as long as you are doing it with someone you trust.

...consignment shops really are the single best place to shop for true treasures.

...reading about Nietzsche is not that bad.

...reading about a post-apocalyptic road is. 

...green shimmery eye shadow can, in fact, be worn to work in the middle of the day.

...there are other people who ponder and wonder and fret and analyze and dream just as much as I do.

...I am not the only girl who thinks that an adventure race is the perfect venue for some shimmery body lotion.

...every Thelma needs a Louise, but every Louise needs a Thelma.

To you, my friend, I want to go on record as saying you made me a better Me. I am most certainly a cooler, stronger, more interesting and authentic version of myself because of you.

Thanks for the boots...they'll look hot with my new farmer's market hippie chic outfit. In fact, it may have to go on my Elite List of Favorite Outfits in the World.

You should be honored.

My lists are almost as coveted as your boots.

Writer's Apathy (Or: Sh*t. That Didn't Work Either.)

The only thing I seem to be writing about lately is not wanting to write.

Every time I think about a possible blog post, I tell myself I'll do it tomorrow. Every time I psych myself up that I need to spend some time on here, I go do laundry. Every time I remember that I am not "writing enough," I turn on HGTV.

And every time this happens, an urgent, nagging little voice inside my head violently whispers: "What the fuck is wrong with you lately?"

I'm a writer. It's what I've done and who I've been since I was old enough to peck away at my older sister's typewriter, feeling very important and wise and creative and inspired.

Inspired.

Maybe that's the problem here.

How can I get inspired to write again? Where can I find the inspiration to miss my blog, to need  to write?

Hmmm...writing...inpiration...blogging....hmmm....

Eureka! I've got it!

I thought I had hit the obvious jackpot when it occurred to me that I needed to go back to my favorite blogs, my favorite writers, the women who have inspired me all of these years since I had started my own blog. You see, not only have I not been coming here, to this space, to write; I have also not gone to anyone else's space to read.

I sat down today and started at the top of my personal blog roll of faves, and caught up with some of these old friends. But a startling thing happened....something that has never happened before.

Yes, I smiled as I revisited these favorite blogs. Yes, I read great stuff. Yes, they gave me important stuff to think about.

But that was it.

When I was done, I still didn't want to write.

In fact, I was almost...(my fingers literally hesitated over the keys just now because I feel like I'm selling out; not sure on who)...tired.

Tired.

Instead of feeling re-energized and inspired, I felt tired.

Sounds like a bad poem.

There.

I wrote a bad poem.

Does that count?