Ok, I’m cheating. The first photo shown in this post has been used before . . . in a Wordless Wednesday post . . . by me.
(Original Post: N.O. Gold Here)
But, I love it — it’s a favorite picture from one of my favorite trips.
Before Hurricane Katrina.
I was a newlywed, visiting New Orleans with my inlaws. We didn’t go during Mardi Gras or the typical summer vacation time; it was early December. Christmas time. We didn’t have to deal with crazy tourists or large crowds.
For the two days we were there (yes, it was a very short trip), we practically had the city to ourselves.
We strolled Bourbon Street and the rest of the French Quarter, ate beignets and drank coffee at Cafe du Monde, and marveled at the romantic architecture that was every where.
I fell in love.
Who wouldn’t? Old New Orleans is the stuff of literature and history. Voodoo, humidity, sensuality, Christianity, and lush, verdant greenery intertwining through out the aging Quarter . . . remnants of ironwork and brick left behind as hushed secrets of the southern belle and the life she lived.
Even the graveyards, with their white tombs and elaborate statues seem eerily romantic.
Sigh — those two days were too short. . . especially when it seems like we didn’t really see anything. We didn’t go on a ghost tour or participate in anything that would share the history of New Orleans. We didn’t walk through the historical houses or skate through the swamp on an air boat.
I want to go back. Back to this city that captured my imagination — back to a city full of secrets, dreams, and quiet ghosts. Not the city of Mardi Gras — with the flashy beads and the flashy girls. No, I want the quiet, demure Southern Belle city . . . with her devilish suitors and her devilish secrets.
Guess what? I just *might* go back.
With OUT my husband.
With OUT my kids.
Yeah, you heard me. A-loooooone.
After a week of dealing with a two year old who can’t hear (why else would she be ignoring what Mommy tells her) and a teething little boy, I am so ready for “me time.”
Goodness — that sounds so incredibly selfish, but its the truth. I want that sick day, personal day, vacation day that Mommies just don’t get.
I want a day (or two . . . or three) where I’m not reminding someone that we go to the bathroom IN the potty and not in our panties.
I want a day where I’m not having every last hair on my hand pulled out by chubby little fists.
I want a day where I’m not hearing a little sweet voice say (unsolicited, mind you), “Don’t worry, Mommy — I put it back and didn’t make a mess.”
(That phrase, of course, is always a dead give away that a mess has, indeed, been made)
Yep — a weekend where I get to be with other moms (BLOGGING moms, at that!) but I don’t have to worry about mom stuff. . . . like spit-up, potty training accidents, or snails being pulled out of shells.
I. Can’t. WAIT!