The Dad and I returned home around midnight Saturday night. The grandparents had graciously returned dog and baby to home so we could go straight there and into familiarity. I had a hard time letting the lil' dude sleep on, and secretly hoped she would wake at 5am Sunday so I could scoop her up and smell her. The sleepy little munchkin slumbered on until 7:15am. She grew in 5 days, and the Dad said as he rolled over to greet her in bed, all groggy-like, You don't look like me this morning.
We had breakfast at a little diner before the grandparents made their way home. I fed the baby her first real toast, breakfast potato, and orange slice. 5 days?
The Dad and I on the ferry to Martha's Vineyard, hello, ocean breezes
Having a child makes it bearable to board the flight home. Never before have I arrived at the airport three hours early hoping for a magical voice on the intercom saying, Attention Passengers Going Home, Special Flight Leaves Now. In all my prior travels, I had always welcomed flight delays and even toyed with the idea of giving up my seat on an overbooked flight to stay and extra day. This time, the inconsolable crying toddlers in the terminal and hour-long departure delay made me ache. Home.
The Dad and I in front of Paul Revere's home
I don't want it to seem like I spent my vacation wallowing over missing the lil' dude and her days. The Dad and I had days packed with fun, sun, and laughter, albeit, while appropriately missing the baby. We each picked out sweet souvenirs, sent a postcard home, and commented on just about every baby/child we saw. Boston is the land of the Nanny and Bugaboo, so we saw plenty. Even the screaming ones on the flight home, the little towhead in the plaid overalls who wailed and wailed. And, wailed until we had to return our seatbacks to the full and upright position.
But, we are home. Home!
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