Recently we took a vacation with my parents and siblings. I tried to make it a real break-- from focusing on the uncertainty surrounding our next potential move, from wondering where my kindergartener will be going to school next month, from e-mail, from Facebook and (quite obviously) from writing.

We rested, we played, we ate, we laughed; I read an entire book, cover to cover (and started another). We tried to slow down our time together, as it is never long enough and always too far between. We drank in these visions of our growing daughters, sheer joy and amazement over their new found abilities to swim in a crystal clear sea, to rescue clams and minnows from untimely deaths, to play miniature golf and to make friends with just about any child, anywhere.

Our girls relished unscheduled time with their aunts, uncles and grandparents. I soaked in being known and accepted, regardless of my choices or moods, by people who know me-- who've always known me-- and choose to love me and my little family. We were so very sad to say good-bye. I think one of the worst parts of living far from family is not knowing the next time you'll see each other.

Daniel had to leave mid-week overnight for work and surprised us by making it up to us with an extra day. Instead of heading home Saturday, as planned, we cashed in some of his (copious) hotel points. We wandered along the Gulf coast, stopping wherever we felt like it. I'm not sure why, but we don't have days like that. It was one of my favorite days the four of us have had (aside from Emerie's embarrassing and attention-grabbing meltdown in a densely populated area in Sandestin. I could've done without that).

Coming home has been a bit of a letdown, for everyone but Emerie, our little homebody. The worries are where we left them, only there are fewer days separating us from decisions, those made for us and those we will make.  We couldn't have been more grateful for this respite, the recharging, and the time together. Time away with our loved ones reminds me that these issues are blips. Our location matters, our decisions matter, but they're not everything. We already have all that we need.

Breathing in, breathing out, the salt in my mouth
Gives me hope that I’ll bleed something worth bleeding out
                                                   --The Lone Bellow, Bleeding Out

I've said it before: We're not afraid to spend time away from our children. We think it's important for our marriage, for ourselves, for our daughters, even. I've said it nonchalantly, like it's no big deal. But the night before we left for New Orleans, Mirabella sobbed. This was new. Turns out it's much harder to leave your children for a few days when they are anxious about it.

But, thanks to an exciting visit from Aunt Amy, who gave the girls an awesome few days, Wednesday we flew. We spent the day riding streetcars, wandering the Garden District, inappropriately taking photos of real people's homes, and being sat in the "Patio Room" of Commander's Palace for lunch. Make no mistake, this might as well be called the "Room for Under-dressed Misfits." Giacomo led us past the crystal chandeliers and seersucker suits and through the kitchen to get there. Whatever.

Later we strolled through the French Quarter, bought art in Jackson Square, and ate a late dinner at the gorgeous Cafe Amélie. Thursday, since Daniel would be in meetings all day and into the night, he surprised me with a half-day at the spa. A Mother's Day present, he said. I was thrilled.  But again, as in San Francisco, I was nervous. I made him map the route from our hotel to the spa with me. I asked about safe streets to walk. I worried about eating alone. I hated to feel that way.

It is so infrequent anymore that I am alone, out in the world. I forget what to do with my hands, how to carry myself. I sometimes forget I am a complete person, just me, capable of functioning independently. After coffee and a croissant at an outdoor cafe I navigated myself to, I started to remember. I made it to the spa right on time, trying to act cool, like I'd been there before. Then I realized the goofy smile on my face was giving me away.

"My husband surprised me," I said, to anyone who might listen. "I've never done this before." I probably didn't need to say that last part; I loved every minute of it. Four hours later I bounced down Royal toward the French Market for lunch. I opted for an outdoor café that had live music and even ordered "traditional" Cajun food. A waiter (who was not my own) started chatting me up about where I was from, what I'd been doing, and what I thought of New Orleans. And then I realized he didn't necessarily care about any of my answers. I was so unaccustomed to being "hit on" it didn't even occur to me this man in Crocs and an apron was doing it. I mentioned that I was just tagging along on my husband's work trip and-- what do you know-- he was gone.

For the next couple hours, I walked, buying little souvenirs and taking pictures along the river. I had a grand plan to sit beside the rooftop pool and read a book-- I couldn't wait. I walked back to the hotel, stopping for an iced coffee before heading up to my room.  When I went to pay I realized I never collected my credit card from lunch. So maybe my feelings of incompetence were not entirely off base. In my Tevas I walked the 1.5 miles round trip to retrieve the card and finally made it to the pool to read. I took a shower and took my time getting ready, waiting for Daniel to come get me. It was a glorious day.

We spent the evening with some of his colleagues on Bourbon Street, where I was again surprised by the lack of professionalism I've seen at "work functions" and that I was hit in the head with beads thrown from a balcony overhead. "Honey!" Daniel said, "Good job! Someone threw beads at you!" Bourbon Street was not my favorite.

Friday I slept.  Late into the morning while my darling husband did whatever he does on these trips. We walked the rainy streets together, had a fantastic dinner at Muriel's and took a pedicab to Frenchmen Street to listen to live music. By the time we ate our beignets Saturday morning, I was happy, tired, and ready to get home to our little girls.

We returned in time for the girls to bring me breakfast in bed (and eat most of it), and put on a private ballet recital in our living room.

The trip was two weeks ago now, and feels like a distant memory. Still I'm so grateful for time away and the reminders it brings: of the love and friendship I still have with my husband (of seven years and one day), of the spunky girl that is still under the mom somewhere, and that-- while the stillness and quiet and occasional ability to read a book are blissful-- those noisy, demanding, hysterical little girls make my life full.

Before our trip we visited our local library, leaving with 26 items, some of which are currently overdue (I am on my way to becoming either the most hated or the most loved library patron in three states now). One of our selections was Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss.  That Dr. Seuss gets me every time!  I have yelled reading The Lorax, cried reading Oh, The Places You'll Go, and now been shamed while reading this one.

A sample: 
"And suppose that you lived in that forest in France, where the average young person just hasn't a chance to escape from the perilous pants-eating plants!  But your pants are safe! You're a fortunate guy. And you ought to be shouting, 'How lucky am I?'"

Alas, that's not what I was shouting over the course of the last week.  But since I write from the other side of my epiphany, I will relay the story as if I had, italicizing the reconsidered parts. (Watch out, it's long.)

I've heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.  I think it might actually be something else.  For example, maybe it's driving from middle Tennessee to mid Maryland with two pre-schoolers.  By oneself. Then driving on to Connecticut.  Then coming back just a few days later (husband in tow, necessitating speedier travel).  Two weeks after relocating, long before the last box is unpacked, and right before one's husband embarks on three consecutive weeks of travel.  CRAZY.

Hi. We've been here two weeks now.  That is long enough to unpack a lot of boxes,  long enough to meet a few (awesome) neighbors and to  discover those peaches on the tree in our yard are not for eating and definitely not for putting in my children's pancakes.  It's long enough to get a new library card and find a find killer indie rock radio station (we are Music City adjacent, after all), long enough to visit a new vet and the same church twice, long enough to make my first antique store purchase, and long enough to find I really miss Trader Joe's and can't afford to shop at Whole Foods.

But really, it hasn't been long enough.  It hasn't been long enough for any of us to find our place, for me to make any friends, to figure out a routine,  how to work out when I am always with my precious children, or to determine what exactly my job is.  It hasn't been long enough to find a preschool or my kids' coloring books.

It has been just exactly long enough for Daniel and I to realize that it's easy to take our fears and frustrations out on each other, but that it doesn't do either of us much good since we're all we've got down here.

Despite our being decidedly unsettled, tomorrow we ride.  Daniel is headed to Atlanta to meet his new team, then on to meet us in Connecticut.  The girls and I are headed to Maryland with every intention of driving straight through and with a brand-new, dual-screen DVD player that totally doesn't work. (But we've got audio books!  Who are we, the Waltons?) Mosotos, the aging puggle, is headed to what I am calling summer camp.  We'll see if he agrees.

In 7 days, we will travel roughly 2,000 miles.  Having just made one leg of this journey a couple weeks ago, albeit with much more back up, I have packed loads of healthy food and drinks.  May we happily drive by Sonics, McDonald's and Waffle Houses in at least five states.  My goal is to stop only for coffee, to stretch and to pee.  I haven't tagged up with the girls to see if they concur with this plan. I have packed dry erase boards and finger puppets, glow sticks, Leapsters, cookie sheets and magnets. (Incidentally, if you have any great ideas for how to keep 2 and 4-year-olds occupied on long trips, please send them my way.)

We are so caught up in the logistics (what? Me? Never!) that we might have forgotten why we're going.  One of Daniel's best friends is getting married to a girl we adore.  We couldn't be happier, and we couldn't miss it.  And in the process, we will get to see my parents, one set of his, and most of our siblings.  I'll get to be there the day of my little sister's latest (and last?) knee surgery.  My little girls will get to see their precious Aunt Nae.  It's a whirlwind dose of the familiar, which we desperately need. We haven't been able to find that in any of our boxes.

Tomorrow, if you think of us and our first-world problems and you're the praying kind, please pray for open roads and hearts, for perspective and redeemed time.