Monday, August 24, 2009
they do not call me sandy
That's me and Dr. Krog at the beach last August.
I really, really miss the beach. Any beach. The ocean. Vacation. Swimming with sharks.
But you know what? It's okay. Because I suspect that having both my children at the beach right now would be like a hermit crab out of its shell having its limbs torn off by a squid and an octopus. Sandy and painful and generally a losing proposition. T.Rex would be so warm and moist and gritty, you know?
So now I've got my sights set on Disneyworld.
Why? I mean, I don't even like Disney. Not the characters, not the branding, not the movies, really. But it's just so safe. Everything remotely related to Disneyworld is child-friendly and parent-friendly, and you'd have to go out of your way to get hurt there. And that sounds fabulous to me, because both of my children regularly seem to go out of their way to gain new and interesting bruises.
I guess I'm officially a mom. I actually dream of a Disneyworld vacation.
Somewhere, deep inside me, my rebellious 13-year-old self is pointing and laughing and screeching, "Sucker! Sell-out! Loser!"
But I don't care, because I'm thinner than she is and I have better hair.