We Just Wake Up and then Get Out of There

I woke up to the sounds of a young child wiggling in his sleeping bag.  A tiny crack of light was coming in through the paper blinds so I knew it was getting to be morning, but my alarm hadn't gone off, so I also knew I could keep sleeping.

The sounds progressed from wiggling noises to loud sighs and finally to a declaration, whispered into the otherwise silent roomful of sleeping bodies:  "I don't like going to hotels.  We just go to bed, wake up and then get out of here."

While it was a very strange thing to hear first thing in the morning, he was right.  Our weekend adventures usually consist of a long drive, hours spent at a chapel where Greg or I have meetings and then, finally, arriving at the hotel in time to go through the bedtime routine, sleep, and wake up early to head off to church again.

He was right that our hotels stays aren't super vacation-y (although they can be fun and have been know to be adventuresome at times).  But he was wrong about not liking it.  He loves going to hotels.  He doesn't mind sleeping on the very hard floor in a sleeping bag.  He never complains about the drive, though it's between 3 and 6 hours one way, depending on the branch.

Yes, although it's generally all business, we all love traveling for the church.  I realized today that we have been taking these weekend trips from 1-4 weekends a month every month for the past 10 years, except for at the end of pregnancy.  It's been our life since Greg has been overseeing the southern part of Poland (first in the mission presidency and then (now) as district president).  Evie had just turned two when we started.  It's been a big part of my parenting experience and my children's life.  I just love it. I have a hard time imagining living a different way.  I'm not sure how long it will last, but in this church when one adventure ends, a new one always begins.

Souvenir

Most people looking at this picture would see a small plastic cup and spoon.  And that's what it is.  A racquetball probably would not fit in the cup.  It's small.  And it is plastic.  And there's a tiny spoon with it.

When we were in Italy I didn't buy any souvenirs.  An ornamented ceramic mask would not mean anything to me.  The pictures we took are much better (to me) than any postcard or painting or statuette.  What I did do was snatch my family's gelato cups out of their hands before they could throw them in the trash.

THAT.  That right there is a souvenir.  To me.  It takes me back.  I see delicious ice cream, savored during conversations with people I love in places I never thought I would be.  I see stacks of the different colored bowls turned upside-down on counter tops in gelato shops.  I remember dreaming of one filled with a smooth delicious treat as we wandered, stomachs growling but eyes feasting, through Venice in search of "Quanto Basta" pizzeria. I can almost feel the wet-wipe in my hand after cleaning off Spencer's hands and face in Murano and Budoia (how romantic!).

It's just a small plastic cup and spoon, but it happens to be my favorite little cup and spoon in the world.

I'll post a bit about our trip soon enough.