A few weeks ago we took a much-needed break and headed to Fripp Island, South Carolina, where we stayed in the most adorable one-room bungalow. The island was tiny and quiet, not boasting so much as a grocery store.
Trevor and I, of course, had a blast together. Lots of laughing and exploring and neck kisses in the car. We had romantic dinners out, and candlelit dinners in, and during the days we rode around on bikes hunting for alligators. But at one point, looking over the marsh one morning with our coffee, we kind of acknowledged that maybe all that peace and quiet and relaxation was a little...boring. We tried to unpack why; should we have gone somewhere a little busier, more exciting? Is a week too long for a getaway? Do we have more fun vacationing with friends? Should we have rented the overpriced jet skis?
"You know what," I finally said, "I think we're just ready to have kids." And Trevor agreed. As we drove from place to place, the car quiet save for Jack Johnson and his guitar, a weird part of me wished we had a toddler in the backseat, throwing a tantrum because her shoe fell off, and because she's just a little bit theatrical like her mama. Sitting on the quiet beach I couldn't help but think how much more fun it would be to have a baby between us, a baby we had to constantly keep an eye on lest he put shells or seagull poop in his mouth.
It was yet another reminder that not only are we ready for this parenting thing, we're actually kind of excited about it. And I'm excited to be excited about it.