Permission to be

Tonight is the last night of my vacation. I'm sitting in a dark wood paneled room on a sunken, too-soft mattress with purple pedicured toes tilted toward the ceiling. Outside, the kids, who are nearly adults now, are soaking in a hot-tub under the stars. I've spent most of the week laying around, cutting into my rituals of relaxation for an occasional and quick jump in the frothy ocean water or a couple of laps in the pool. We went out to dinner once and out for ice cream twice. The kids took turns cooking and cleaning. I believe I may have made a peanut butter sandwich one day and a tuna sandwich the next.

I expected to get tons of writing done, but instead I read historical romances with Dukes and young women debuting for a season in society. I watched a couple of movies. I played a bunch of board games with the kids and my husband. I really honed my skills at Scrabble and Uno. I didn't think about my job that much, though I did check email. I obsessed a little about PTA, but not as much as I probably should have.

And I refuse to feel bad about it. I needed this break. Sometimes we need to just check-out and relax. Sometimes we just need permission to be.