Before I was a stay-at-home mom, I was a stay-up-late kind of girl. Especially when I was living in Pacific Beach, working at World Famous, and going (or not going) to school at UCSD.
I have vague memories of Spring Break in my 20s. If I smell a kamikaze shot, images flash through my brain: Ice luges. 80s parties. Sandy bathing suits. Late-night burritos. Phone numbers written on my arm with a sharpie. Sleeping with my clothes on. Sleeping with my clothes off.
You get the picture.
Come to think of it...this was probably just my normal life. But who’s keeping track?
Things are different now. There's always someone in my bed, but it's my husband and we've been married for 12 years. Sometimes I sleep in my clothes, but it's usually in the kids' room on the floor and someone is puking.
Ice luges are a thing of the past. Did we get brain freeze? I can't remember. Now, I'm the one sharpie-ing my number onto my kid's arms when we go to SeaWorld.
80s parties? If I'm lucky. Late night burritos? That still happens, I'm not gonna lie.
Enter: Spring Break 2017. I'm 39 years old. My kids are eight and five. Should we go on vacation?
Let’s face it. Taking ANY sort of trip with two children is a major risk. The vacation could be awesome. Or it could SUCK BIG-TIME. If the past is any predictor of future success, I would say that most of our family vacations have been 50% shitty, 20% fun and 30% somewhere-in-between. Like, I don’t exactly want to hang myself from that giant Redwood tree we just drove through, but I wouldn’t mind if my husband drove our car off a cliff. (As long as he did it really fast, so we wouldn’t know what’s coming.)
|Road to divorce.|
I digress. We decided to go to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Smack during the Spring Break season. This might turn off a lot of families: sloppy teenage drinkers and fraternity pranksters, questionable poolside shenanigans and murky hot-tub water quality. (Like, the sperm count in the Jacuzzi is higher than it is in most IVF emissions.)