I won't lie, there are times I really want to be famous. So famous that everyone knows who I am. On the other hand, I would be terrified if I suddenly became a household name, because I know dirt would be dug up on me, really muddy dirt that I would be mortified if the whole world knew.

I know there are pictures out there of me from my past that would disqualify me from any future Thanksgiving dinners. I've done things and been a part of things that I never want my parents to know about. I've broken many a rule, gone places I never should have gone and done things I never should have done.

But let's be honest, who hasn't?

Right now, at this very moment, I'm pretty happy with who I am. I think I'm a pretty good mom, a semi decent wife and a helluva good cocktail mixer. I'm content with my conscience, and I know I'm an all around good person.

Still. If someone were to write my history book and publish it for all to read? My first reaction is that I would be mortified. I mean, I've done some pretty sketchy stuff, some stuff that may be considered illegal in 49 states. So yeah, for that to get out might be a little embarrassing.

On the other hand, I did it, I'll own it, and I can admit when a mistake I did make. Everything I've done in the past, good or bad, has made me into who I am today. And if we're being honest and humble, I'm pretty f*cking cool. Only if we're being humble and honest...

I guess what I'm trying to say is I've never really done anything that would devastate me if the truth came out. I've never slept with my sisters boyfriends, I've never voted Democrat and I've never slathered crisco butter all over my body to accelerate my tan in a tanning bed. (It works. It may eventually kill you, but hell it works.)

Now all I gotta do is decide on a name for my book...

I think "Shoulda Woulda Coulda: It's All Gooda" sounds....gooda...

What would your history book be called?

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So. 

When I wrote a little blurb in this post about my mom almost leaving me in San Diego, stranded and alone, with no way home, all because of one big misunderstanding with a rented jet-ski, an overwhelming amount of you wondered about my moms account, and begged me to have her guest post. Ok, so maybe only one person asked (thanks Kelsey!) however, I did, and she came through!

Quick backstory: a few years ago (like 15) my mom and I went on a vacation to San Diego, just her and I, over the 4th of July. One warm sunny day we decided to rent jet-skis and take them out on the ocean. Mine was busted. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. 

However my mom has another "version" of exactly what transpired that almost caused her to leave me deserted thousands of miles away from home. 

Below, in my momma's own words... (with a few tidbits from me peppered in, written in blue)

Let's just start where Raven left off. I was justified in leaving Raven alone stranded in San Diego for this reason alone:

The man that rented us the jet skis told us in no uncertain terms that if we took the jet skis "over by that island" that we would get stuck in sea moss and DIE. Plus we would still be responsible for paying for the jet ski. I love how she says we would still be responsible to pay for the jet skis if we were dead.

Needless to say, little Miss "don't quote the Raven" headed right over in that direction. Lies! She will tell you that she "accidentally" drifted over that way by mistake, but no, her jet ski pipe got clogged with that clumpy sea moss and it almost burned out the engine. Black smoke was spewing out of that jet ski like you wouldn't believe! Now she was really adrift, couldn't get it started again, and I am deciding how to pay for this $5,000 machine!

After all, this vacation was being done on a shoestring budget, or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when we checked out of the hotel and I got our room bill...and realized that Raven was already a day drinker! Did I tell you this trip occurred when she was 16? 16 and a half. AND A HALF!

Anyway, back to the jet skis. Foxy little miss met foxy little mister stranded out by...you guessed it...THAT island. Mister got off his jet ski, swam over to her amidst all that gunk (yes readers, Raven really is "that " hot oh my gosh I'm embarrassed -- even at 16 -- and BB*), stuck his arm down that pipe, pulled out all the moss, pushed her while swimming in it, until her jet ski was clear of it all, it started up again, and she headed back to shore. 

We turned the jet skis back in and waited to see if we would get our deposit back, and what kind of damage Raven had done. Seriously? I got a lemon!

Can you say C-O-M-P-L-E-T-E OVERHAUL? Can you say "Raven, find your own way home?" I don't know, can you say child abuse?

A few other things you may not know:

Raven is my first born. And her favorite. She always promised her two innocent younger sisters a trip to Disneyland if they would do what she said. They believed her and they did it! For years! I think she owes them that trip -- all expenses paid. Ha! No.

I wear glasses and Raven would always tap on them while I had them on until I threatened her that if she did it one more time, I would take her out! So, she started coming toward me with her fingers curled, fractions on inches away from my glasses and says "what if I do, mom, what if I do?" Well, she did, and I took her out! Her dad came home just in time to save her, with a "what the *$&% are you two doing now?!" This one is true. Now that I have two boys that drive me insane sometimes, I feel really, really bad. I'm sowwy momma.

But...every cloud has a silver lining.

Raven is the only person who will go to a scary movie with me.

Raven drinks duckfarts with me.

Raven goes wine tasting with me.

Raven never comes to my house empty handed...she always has her rum and diet coke. Good one mom.

Raven is an awesome daughter. I am proud of her (yes, a round peg that will never fit in a square hole), she is an amazing mommy and her boys simply adore her! She will always be their best friend (oh my...just thinking of Raven's two daughter-in-laws! Please God don't let them marry a Democrat), she does discipline them, but they are hard and fast buds! They are her life and she has fun with them. They are so lucky! *blushing*

Actually with Raven, her cloud has a gold lining...in the shape of a heart. 

She really can be a blast to travel with...we laugh a lot! And I would go back to San Diego again any day with her. Me too mom, as long as you are paying!

I love her. AND YOU CAN QUOTE THAT!

* before boobs

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*for the life of me I can't find the main source for this quote. if you know, please tell me*

I've seen the above quote circulating on social media lately, and right away it hit me like a ton of bricks. I've always believed that kids are a blank canvas, that we as parents write on the walls of their brain. They are born innocent, completely pure. And I also believe, to an extent, a BIG extent, that children are a reflection of their parents. 

My sister was over the other day (you know, the one with three girls under two), and as we were discussing life, and as I was trying to engage her in gossip, she cut me off like she always does and said something new, something I'd never heard her say before. "I want my kids to grow up and say they never heard me say a bad thing about anyone." 

"Well that's a stupid goal," I replied.

I mean, shouldn't your children hear you talk about how bad and evil child molesters are? Shouldn't they hear you discuss how horrible murderers are? Bad drivers? Gingers? And lastly, don't you think your kids need to know the dangers of growing up to be a raging liberal who thinks the world owes them something?

And like she always does, my sister responded with something well-versed and wise:

"It basically boils down to keeping your heart and head as toxic free as possible. And seething over bad people doesn't add to your life. Learning the negative lessons help you be a better person and then you can move on because you don't continue hating people."

I hate when others put a damper on my shallow gossiping fun.

But then later that evening, as I watched my two little boys play in the front yard, I felt such a sense of pride. Pride in knowing that my boys have no sense of superiority. Pride in the fact that when I showed Gunner a picture of two little boys, of which were different races, and said how they were brothers just like him and Colt, he didn't bat an eye or ask why they looked different, the only thing he said to me was "mommy, we need to write them a letter and tell them we want to play with them." Because to Gunner, all he saw was two little boys just like him. That he desperately wanted to play with. 

You hear a lot where people say a child's heart and soul are innocent. That children are blindly accepting. Comparing them to adults who are critical and judgmental, as if growing older naturally does that to people. I can only speak for myself, but my parents raised me to believe that everyone is equal, regardless of race, background or social status. And I have an 87 year old grandpa who I have never, not once, heard utter a bad word about someone. Whose acceptance has trickled down to his five kids, and every one of his ten grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. (I would also like to give huge credit to my Nonie, my angel in heaven, the matriarch of our family and the most accepting, kind person I've ever known.)

It starts at birth. It starts at home. It starts with me and it starts with you. 

No matter how hard we try to preach what is right, if our actions don't line up with our words, our kids will see right through it, and what they will take away is what they see us do. How they see us live our lives when we think they aren't looking. I can tell my kids not to curse fifty times a day, but when they hear me say "oh sh*t" on a constant basis they will think it's ok for them also. I can tell my kids to not give in to peer pressure, that they don't need to drink to have a good time, but if they see mommy and daddy throwing some back every time there is a get-together, sooner or later they will get the impression that drinking does equal a good time. Regardless of what we tell them. 

I want my kids to see me be kind. To see me hold the door open for whoever is behind me, to see me respect the elderly and to see me never differentiate between people who may not look exactly the same. I want them to witness me being accepting of everyone, no matter their race, appearance or sexual orientation. I want them to see me respond to negativity with class.

Because I don't think innocence and tolerance fades with age. 

I know it doesn't. 

Let me refer back to my 87 year old grandpa.

It starts with us.

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( bottom two photos - waiting for dad to get home )

and sometimes a good husband...

- he lets the kids eat whatever they want when i am out of town. so much so that the night i get back, like clockwork, one of them almost always throws up in the middle of the night from eating too much crap. and i'm always the one who has to clean it up.

- he wrestles with the boys every night, and charmingly tells them to "steer clear of the peanuts."

- he still acts interested when gunner insists they watch the same movie for the seventieth time. 

- he doesn't give me too much grief when i overspend on the credit card.

- he gets on the trampoline, waterslide, and electric rv with them even though he is way over the weight limit. and then runs out to buy a new one when he breaks it. which is always.

- he reads their stories at night with much more animation than i do.

- he puts me first. in his words, "my wife comes first. my kids come second."

- however I secretly think he really puts the kids first. which is fine by me.

- he taught the boys how to "pop ass." most people think it's charming. their sunday school teacher does not.

- after ten plus years together, he still pops my ass at least twenty times a day.

- among other things.

- he would drop anything, anytime, for his kids. and his wife. and probably his dogs.

and

- he doesn't need any of that cheap ass mexican viagra, thankyouverymuch. (don't ask)

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* the last photos taken of my son and his long luscious hair

Just in case you are new here, before you go on, please read my original post, SPEECHLESS, to get exactly where I am coming from, deep, deep in my soul.

I once had a little boy, who had long spiral curl surfer-ish hair. 

It was amazing. I loved it. I cherished it.

And then my mom cut it all off when I went on vacation. I was devastated. It grew back, and then my husband chopped his bangs. To the scalp. And I was devastated once more. See, I kind of hung onto the notion that my little angel baby was "different," a little "hipster,"... maybe sorta could live on the beach in San Diego. So I kept it long. I refused to trim it. I didn't want a "normal" little boy hairstyle and I was just hanging on...however his hair didn't curl anymore, it kind of frizzed out and if I didn't brush it in the morning, he looked a little homeless.

So finally, just yesterday, after looking at him longingly from the breakfast bar, I said to myself "Raven, let your fantasies go. It was once curly, it is no more, and now it just looks like one big hot mess." And I decided right then and there, today would be the day he got his hair cut. However, it would be on my terms.

Before we headed to the hairdresser, we had a little fun with the 'do.

and then one salon photoshoot...

and what are we left with?

We are left with this.

A little boy grown-up hairstyle that makes his mommy cry.

The kind of tears only an episode of Grey's Anatomy could produce.

He's growing up. He's getting older. I can now see his neck.

And for that reason alone, I am speechless.

Speechless because my youngest little angel baby is growing up.

I'm so happy, yet I'm so sad.

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I've been thinking of writing this post for a while, but I wanted to make sure everything I was feeling came across how I intended it to in my head, and I didn't want to leave anything out nor speak too soon. So for the past few months, I have been writing things down as they came to me, and I finally feel I'm able to articulate exactly what it is I want to say, so I'm going to share that with you now.

Blog this, blog that, don't be too controversial yet don't be too boring, you don't like it, don't read it, it's my blog and I'll blog whatever I want to. That seems to be a running theme lately in this wonderful thing we call the blogging world. Everyone has an opinion, that's for sure, and how you run your blog is entirely up to you, and I'll definitely never try to tell you otherwise. Sh*t, I have enough problems as it is with my own.

Such as...

Blog controversy. If you've been a reader of mine for a while, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, so let's just start with the most controversial post I have ever written titled I Dress For Men. I wrote this post back in September of 2012, and I still regularly get comments from readers...mostly negative. Like, really really really negative. That post went semi-viral (it is my most viewed post to date) and at first, the comments I received were nice, respectful, sure some disagreed with me but nobody really crossed the line, and then, oh and then did the outrage begin. Some of the nastiest, most vile comments I have ever received started pouring in, to the tune of 200+. Go ahead, read them, I'll wait.

Not only that, but other bloggers were writing their own posts about me, telling people to contact my sponsors and voice their displeasure over what I had written, I'm sure with the intention and hope that those sponsors would drop me. (No one did, btw.) I was getting so much backlash, so much negativity directed towards me, I was being called the most nasty names and a question I kept getting asked was "why don't you moderate your comments to keep the nasty ones out?"

Here is why: this is my blog, and it is my choice what I choose to put on here. It is my choice to come across the way I do, to word my posts the way I do, and it is my choice to say whatever I want. And I think I owe it to my readers to comment whatever they want, even if it's negative. Just as I write uncensored and openly, I allow my comment section the same freedoms. (Again, this is how I choose to do things. Just because I do it this way doesn't mean it's wrong or right, it's just what works best for me.)

However, the question I got asked the most by far was "why don't you just take the post down?"

And here is why.

Because I have always, always said on this little space of the internet I call mine, that I try to be as real and authentic as I possibly can. I never want to come across as trying to be perfect, I never want others to think I am better then them, and if I make mistakes? I want my readers to see me admit it.

I wrote that post, I published that post, I owned that post and I stand by that post.

And I won't take it down because others disagree, are offended, or because it was received poorly. What would that make me? A coward? Hypocrite? Inauthentic? Three things I definitely do not want to be seen as.

What I can do, and what I will do, is admit when I am wrong. And in regards to the previously mentioned post, are there things I regret writing? Things I am now embarrassed about? Yes. I regret lumping all feminists in one big "men hate them all" category. I was trying to get a point of view across, and I f*cked that part up. Do I think some feminists have done great things for women and their progression? Absolutely. Do I think some feminists need to chill the f*ck out? Absolutely. Do I think some feminists give women a bad name, and on the topic of men, completely turn them off? Absolutely! Just like not all "mommas" are good people, not all Christians are good people and not all doctors are good people, not all feminists are good people nor do they help women and how we are perceived. Are there some feminists out there who do help women and their rights and also make fantastic wives and mothers? Absolutely. There are always bad seeds no matter what group of people we are talking about, and that is what I was trying to get across in my I Dress For Men post, however I can look back and admit how I wrote that part came off as offensive and poorly worded, and for that, I sincerely apologize. (I still stand by my opinion of cardigans, and that I still like to dress for men, and good for you if your opinion differs. If we were all the same, this would be a very boring world!)

Were parts of that post a mistake to publish? I think we can all agree that it was. But by taking it down, it's like pretending it was never there, that it never happened. However isn't that what life is all about? Making mistakes, admitting them and learning from them? What's that saying, "all my mistakes have made me stronger and into who I am today?"


I like to think so.


I have another part to this post, where I reference my second most controversial post of all time, written for a completely different reason, but since this was getting a little lengthy, I'm going to share that part with you tomorrow.

Seriously. It seems like just yesterday I pushed this little tadpole out of my fish whistle (sorry had to) and now dude is five. Five! It's so bizarre to me, as I still feel like the 21-year old who wants to go out and have fun (minus the DUI on my 21st birthday part) yet I also have this overwhelming desire to be a total momma bear. As in, this is my kid and if you mess with him? Push him around on the playground? Exclude him?

I will bust your ass. 

Usually I use asterisks for such words but when it comes to my children, no asterisks allowed! I feel a super fierce protectiveness over them, and if you never knew before what it would feel like to give your life for another, you will know once you have children of your own. 

A few reasons that make my first born extra special:

- His heart. I swear that his main goal in life is to make others happy. 

- The way he loves. He can't go to bed without his nightly hugs and kisses.

- The way he makes friends. He can meet someone for three minutes and suddenly, they are his "best best friend."

- When we are driving in the car, and I hear him talking to his stuffed animals. He has full-on conversations with them, telling them how much he loves them, how he will protect them, how he won't let anything bad happen to them. Be still my heart!

- The way he runs to me, hugging and kissing on me, telling me how much he missed me...even if I have just been gone for two hours getting my hair done.

- Whenever we walk into my sisters house, he goes directly to the hand sanitizer and cleans his hands so he can go straight to the baby and check her out. He knows the drill.

- The way he loves to cuddle. I know it won't be long until he wants nothing to do with me, so I try to soak it in and take advantage of the times he says "momma? will you lay with me?" Everything else in the world can wait.

- The ways he says things like "you've gotta be kidding me, baby!" and "well hellfire, save matches, f--- a duck and see what hatches!"

Ok ok, so maybe he doesn't say that last one (side eye Steven Tyler) but his little sayings pretty much melt my heart. Gunner James Smith is precious. He really does have a heart of gold and he loves his mommy, daddy, brother, granny, poppa, aunties, uncles, cousins, doggies and anyone else really who has a living heartbeat.

So today I wish a very happy birthday to my first born angel baby, Mr. Gunner Smith.

And when we go to the toy store and he gets to pick out any toy he wants, I won't be surprised when he chooses a tinkerbell doll, and I'll love him extra hard because of it.

My five year old is amazing.

************

ps. I am part of an amazing giveaway (the LAST ONE I will be participating in for a while) and this one is a goodie: $400 to Tiffany's! Check it out HERE!

from our wedding in 2004

I've made no secret of the fact that Rob and I do not have the perfect marriage. We try hard to regularly see our counselor, whom, by the way, has made a world of difference in our relationship. To anyone who scoffs at seeing a third party to help a marriage, well, let's just say it works, from personal experience.

There are a lot of things about Rob that really chap my ass. And as much as I want to rattle them off to you now, bullet point style, I hear the words our counselor always says echoing in my ears. See, there have been many times where we started a session raging mad, and as soon as we sat down, I would start right in on "well this is why I hate him today and he did this and this and I am just so mad right now so please just let me vent" and every time, she would cut me off and make me tell her three things I love about Rob. Three things that made me want to marry him. Three things that make him a valuable partner. Three reasons he is a fabulous father. 

And it pisses. me. off. I want to tell her all the bad things he did that week. I want to tell her how horrible he is because of x y and z. But she doesn't let me just sit there and bitch about my husband. Her job is to help us come together, help us create a better relationship, and she knows that by me spewing negativity, it helps nothing. By me criticizing his every move, it doesn't rectify any situation. So as much as I want to tell you all what angers me about Rob (like the fact that he can be totally inappropriate in public at times, or how he wakes me up in the middle of night just because he can't sleep, or that he never comments on my appearance i.e. when I leave home with black hair and come back with it blonde, he doesn't say a word, I mean, really?) I will hold my tongue and keep it to myself. (He also deletes my shows from the DVR without asking me first. Makes me livid. K I'm done now.)

But the thing is, I'm sure there are a lot of things about me that piss Rob off. I can sometimes have a princess complex and expect him to bow at my feet no matter what I do, and as Dr. Phil once said, "if there is one thing in this world you do not want to do, it is to marry a 'princess'. They will f*ck you up."

Ok, so maybe he didn't say that last part but Rob sure did.

I know sometimes on here it can seem like Rob and I have the perfect marriage. We vacation together, hang out on secluded beaches during the summer together, have fun parenting our children together, but would it surprise you if I said I have actually went and paid for divorce papers? I'm not sure if I was authentically going to follow through or if I was trying to make a point (did you know it costs over $100 to get divorce papers from the courthouse? Egads!) but whatever the reason, something made me drive down there and request the papers. I can say without any hesitation today that I am so happy to be married to my husband, we did work through that particular situation and I can't forsee any circumstances in the future that would make me want to fork over the cash for those papers ever again. And lucky for me, my husband would say the same.

Besides, it would be much cheaper for him to keep me around than to boot me out, wink face.

But we fight. There have been dishes thrown across the room and holes in the wall. I've packed up my kids and driven to my moms house at 9 at night. There have been many things we've said that we wish we could take back. Our marriage is not perfect and I challenge you to find one that is.

What I'm really trying to say is what I think we all know: Marriage is hard. But if you work through the hard, and if you put your spouse first, and if you duck under those dishes being flown at your head, you may see yourself celebrating fifty years of holy matrimony.

However, I swear to God, if Rob ever deletes another episode of the Real Housewives of Wherever without my permission, I'll be all, "what golf clubs??"

Wasn't me.

So the backstory real quick: 

Bre and I have been blog friends since last March. It started as a comment here and there, then facebook messaging, then texting, one FaceTime sesh and next thing I know, she is booking her ticket from Sacramento to come stay the weekend with me. 

Quite like myself, Bre is pretty f*ucking hilarious. (snort) And I knew I wanted to do something when I picked her up at the airport, something that conveyed exactly how I felt about our friendship. Hence, the chicken costume idea was born. 

She flew into Portland, Oregon, which is about a four hour drive from my house. I knew I wouldn't be able to take a few swigs of liquid courage since I had to turn around and drive back home, which trust me, did not sit well with me. Because despite what some may think, I can get very self-conscious, least not while walking around a public place in a freaking chicken costume. 

So yeah, I was pretty embarrassed. And it didn't even matter that my entire face was covered and no one would even know it was me (not to mention we were in Portland and no one would recognize me anyway) but still.  

Anyway, I pushed through the mortification of it all because I knew it would be amazing. Epic. And I couldn't wait to see the look on her face once she realized it was me under that beak. So I parked my car at the airport, grabbed my costume and made my way to baggage claim. 

And below are a few memorable things I heard whilst dressed as a chicken.

********************************************

From the security guard, while standing at the entrance to the airport, holding my enormous chicken head in my hands (I didn't actually put it on until right before she got off the plane):

"Well, you don't look suspicious or anything."

From many people (after I had put the costume on): 

"can I get a picture with you?"

From two little kids, VERY loudly, causing everyone in the entire baggage claim area to turn and stare: 

"oh my gosh! Mommy! It's a chicken! A chicken mommy! What is the world is a chicken doing here!?"

From two guys, about 20 years old, after they walked past, asked how I was doing, and I responded "pretty good!" (remember they couldn't see my face): 

"oh shit! It's a chick in there! That's not a dude!"

because clearly most people expected some class clown male underneath.

From another security guard: 

"this is the best thing I've seen since another guy picked up his friends in nothing but a thong bathing suit!"

Oh, and I made one little girl cry. 

And then for the finale. When Bre first came down the escalator. I saw her out of the corner of my chicken eye, I had my camera on record, ready to capture her reaction which I had been anticipating all day. I assumed she would walk right past me (thinking to herself "who is this idiot dressed as a chicken?"), look around for my face, then be confused as to where I was. I thought she would have inner dialogue with herself like "ok, so where is she? Is she late? I don't see her anywhere. There is no way she can be that person dressed as a chicken. I mean, can she? No. No way. She would never do that. But then again, would she?"

And then after looking for me in vain, she might approach me, circle around me a few times, start chuckling a little, and finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I remove my chicken head and she busts up laughing, unable to control herself and I would have an amazing video to show you guys which would most definitely start trending on youtube. 

Except. That totally didn't happen.

It went more like this:

Bre first comes down the escalator, spots me right away (obviously), whips out her camera phone, takes a picture of me, sends it to me, walks right up to me, and says in a very matter of fact way, "so how long are you going to make me stand here before you tell me it's you."

Really?!?

That's it?! Talk about not the reaction I was expecting! I wanted something grandeur, amazing, epic, at the very least, BLOG WORTHY!

And so, I digress.

Btw. I asked her how she knew it was me right away, and she deadpanned

"Because who ELSE would be crazy enough to dress up in a chicken suit at the airport."

Oh.

Yeah.

Bubba's. If you are ever in Kauai, eat here. They have the best double cheeseburgers. Not like I ever ate one. Twice.

It's been less than a month since we've been back from Kauai and I already miss her terribly. 

I miss 10 a.m. at the pool bar, ordering a double rum and diet and having the bartender fist bump me followed by a "live aloha girl!" 

I miss the nanny getting up with my kids in the morning so I could sleep off the 10 a.m. drinks.

I miss not brushing my hair for an entire seven days. See, I forgot to pack a brush and the nanny forgot to pack a brush, both of us figuring that the other probably remembered one. Seven days, no brush. Nada. It was kind of liberating, actually. Maybe next time I'll forget to pack underwear...

I miss waking up with sand in my bed. Because sand in my bed meant I was up to no good the night before.

I miss vodka pineapple for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Who am I kidding. I have vodka pineapple for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. 'Tis the life of a stay-at-home blogger I guess...

And for this very last post on Hawaii (at least until we return in T-minus less than 365 days), I leave you with an excursion we did on the last day of our trip. 

A catamaran tour on the Na Pali Coast.

lunch at a seafood shack before heading out

he was in time out

 holding hands. ohmahgah

The free mai tais weren't even the best part. No, the best part was that both my kids fell asleep on the catamaran, at the same time. A to the mai tai Men! You mothers out there of two or more know what I'm sayin'. 

And sigh.

Vacation: Over.

Back to the daily grind of sleeping in, day drinking and copious tivo'd episodes of Dr. Phil.

I need a vacation.