I should be on vacation.

Right? I mean, don’t they say that the person that needs a vacation the most is the one who just had one?

I’m taking that to heart. I’m still on vacation. I’m avoiding the “meal planning” and the “enriching activities” and the “schedules” (except for naptime, of course, because that is sacred). We’re waking up at 10, staying in pjs until 11, and playing all day long.

I’m not going to stress about taking three little boys out on the streets of Brooklyn with a small pedal-less bike. I’m just going to do it. It’ll be fun. No one will get hurt. (Okay, so maybe someone will, but only a little bit. Nothing a couple of band-aids can’t fix.)

What’s for dinner tonight? Don’t know, don’t care.

What are our plans for the weekend? We’re letting the morrow take thought for the things of itself.

Whose turn is it to clean up the train tracks? Not mine. That’s for sure.

We’ve got time to cuddle on the bed.

We’ve got time to discuss the location of Chicago, the minimum age for scuba diving, the nature of writer’s block (and how to overcome it.)

We’ve got time to let the luggage sit.

We’re on vacation. We’ve got all the time in the world.

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