Living: Making Memories

Our weekend-o-fun got underway Saturday morning when we piled in the car and headed off to Philly for the weekend. It was the family version of a babymoon before baby girl arrives. We set out with only one goal in mind—to make some memories.  

There were sweet treats—donuts for breakfast and ice cream before bed,


fun rides at Sesame Place,



and hands-on learning opportunities at the Please Touch Museum.  

There was also plenty of snuggle time for mom, cheesesteaks for dad and jumping on the bed for my guy. My guy also got his fix of roller coasters and got to stay on his favorite ride at Sesame Place five times in a row since there was no line. His daddy was a good sport, but looked a little green when they finally got off the roller coaster.

There were a few moments-o-reality thrown in along the way. I underestimated the direct correlation between my energy level and my patience—not just with my little guy but also with other people’s children. There was also the fact that my little guy decided he no longer liked pizza, chicken nuggets or French fries—foods he really shouldn’t have but are all too convenient and often the only things readily available on a road trip. 

On our drive home, I was thinking about the trip—the good, not-so-good and ordinary moments that made up the 33-hour getaway. Giving my little guy 50 cents to buy a finger puppet when we stopped for gas, sharing a funnel cake with my hubby and watching my guy jump on the bed for an hour straight were the highlights. I took a lot of pictures, shared a lot of smiles and made memories that most likely will shine brighter for me than they ever will for my little guy. The best part of the trip was that I was able just to be there will my boys—without my computer, without my to-do list and without worrying about all I needed to accomplish in the day. 

In her book Loud and Clear, Anna Quindlen talks about being present. She said: “The biggest mistake I made [as a parent] is the one that most of us make. … I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of [my three children] sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.” 

I’m also guilty of not being in the moment often enough, but I am happy to say during the past weekend, I was able to just enjoy our time together as a family. 

 

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