I got back yesterday from eight days in Florida. Ah, spring break! Ah, greenery! Ah, warmth! Ben played in the pool every day, and he even figured out how to swim. Yeah. Laps. The technique isn't textbook, but he gets across the pool, mostly with his face in the water, with confidence. The last time he was in a pool, over Labor Day weekend, he couldn't do this.
I thought about going to Inverness to find a "Save a fish, eat a cooter" t-shirt, because Mona had wanted one a couple years ago. But then I Googled that phrase, and found this blog post by a local bemoaning the hick reputation that the lame Cooter Festival was giving the county. (And that county needs all the help it can get—between the Badcock furniture store, Mama's Kuntry Kafe, and the U-Kill-Em self-serve pest control store, it doesn't need any more blows to its elusive sophistication.)
The week in Florida was the most relaxing vacation possible without spa treatments. My mother-in-law cooked a lot, the air and the pool had both just warmed up in time for our trip, we had wireless internet access, we slept late every day, we did laundry a couple times (that counts as relaxing because not having any clean clothes left is stressful), and Ben went in the pool twice a day. Good times. And now, it's an Easter Sunday full of laundry and getting ready for a busy week. And—sigh—there's about 5" of fresh snow on the ground from Friday's storm, only the evergreens are green, and the cold, dry air is working hard to chap my hands, smooth from a week in warmth.