In the car, out of the blue, C said
“Before we go to Hawaii I want you to get me a Hawaiian skirt.”
There are so many things wrong with that sentence. First, we’re not going to Hawaii. Second, she was so sure that were going, there was no way to correct her. Though maybe we were just laughing too hard to try.
We haven’t been to Hawaii since we went back in 2006 for a friend’s wedding and back then we went alone, leaving C with her grandparents for the week.
We’ve been joking about going back ever since.
I just don’t think we’ve ever considered going with the kids.
Every time I open my novel I dive into the Hawaiian world I have created for my characters. I’ve tried to take myself to the place we spent a magical week, tried to recreate it perfectly in my mind so that I could in turn create it perfectly for my readers and take them there with me.
My perfect Hawaii doesn’t have sand toys, sippy cups, or even a booster seat or two.
I’m not sure how taking the kids to paradise meshes with my fantasy.
Would it be amazing to go on a vacation with them that doesn’t involve extended family? Just the four of us, bonding over sand castles and Mai Tais? (Do they even make virgin Mai Tais?) Or would it be sad to destroy that one place that I love to escape to in my mind? That place where I got to be a grown-up without kids, even though I’d already had the one.