Mike and I got back yesterday from two nights at our favourite hotel, where we enjoyed a luxurious, baby-free mini-vacation while Ellie hung out with my parents, doing the sorts of things you do when you visit your grandparents, like going out for breakfast and refusing to nap. I didn’t even cry when we left her, and I didn’t miss her TOO terribly much. (There is something soothing about leaving your child with your own parents, because you have experienced firsthand their level of overall competency, and can reassure yourself with the knowledge that you are awesome and alive and they can probably take credit for at least some of the awesomeness and most — if not all — of the aliveness.) I believe the Brits call this sort of thing a “mini break”, which I think is lovely, because it conjures up images of swimming on sunny days at seaside cottages and picking bouquets from wildflower gardens at cute little country homes and driving in convertibles with big sunglasses and scarves around your head, and although we didn’t do any of THOSE things, we did get to play music super loud in the car and sleep in late and eat breakfast in bed and order the margarita sampler at lunch, which is 3 mini margaritas (i.e. the perfect amount for an extremely rare indulgence in daytime drinking) served in a festive little tray, the perfect accompaniment to the fajitas and freshly made tortilla chips that you might eat too many of because there is no good Mexican food in the town in which you live.

(Sidenote: it was just enough margarita, in fact, that when I glanced around the room and noticed that the waitresses were all of an identical, extremely slim build and commented to Mike that they definitely wouldn’t hire me as a waitress because they wouldn’t want to hire someone who looked like they actually ate the food that was served there, and he said, “Yeah, well, you’d also be very unpleasant” I didn’t even divorce him on the spot. Also, we were very far from home. Also ALSO, he was correct. I would be a terrible waitress. Just the worst.)

Now we are home and there is no one to call to deliver us breakfast, and there is no pool, and we got up hours ago but no one has made our bed yet, all of which are very sad things indeed, but there IS a baby in feetie pajamas who is insisting on giving me many overly moist open-mouth kisses, and there was a package waiting for me at the post office, and a new episode of Castle on the DVR, so I suppose home is pretty good. It turns out that mini breaks — much like the margarita sampler — are all the more perfect because of their mini-ness.