So my plan to make a big, embarrassing (to them) scene at the airport did not come to fruition because I forgot that you can’t park at the arrival’s gates any longer than three seconds before security starts barking at you to “Move along, ma’am!” and other drivers start giving you the evil eye and honking. That was lovely.
But they were happy about it.
Somehow, despite my older son, Casey, talking a mile a minute and my younger son, Cuyler, occasionally grunting loudly from the back seat, both of them drowning out the voice of my GPS (dear God! I missed what she just said! Are we headed to Naples? New Jersey? Help!), I managed not to get lost on our way home.
But I didn’t go straight home.
Along with the nonstop chatter and the grunting there was the staring out the windows. I could tell they were seeing the palm trees, and the sun had graced us with its presence, finally, but on the highway, and then on the outskirts of Naples which can only be described as reminiscent of Paramus, New Jersey, they weren’t blown away. They weren’t thinking, “This place is great.” They weren’t thinking, “Now I can see why my mom loves it here.”
And I needed them to think that, see that, before the sun went down.
So I took them straight to the beach. Our beach. Ok, it’s not ours exactly,