In true Hampton last minute fashion, I decided last week that maybe we’d take a little road trip for spring break. It is smart and responsible to book Florida spring break trips only a week before they occur, and I am smart and responsible. Using completely random specifications for our location of choice–“Places that Rhyme with Grandpa”–I ended up finding hotel availability in Tampa which, thankfully for us, turns out to be a really fun place to visit. It’s a big enough city to feel very different from where we live. “Is this New York?” Lainey asked. “No, New York is a lot bigger than this. This is Tampa,” I explained. “I’m going to call it New York Tampa,” she decided.

Heidi and her kids joined us (husbands stayed home to work) for a 2-day, full-speed adventure that we’ll remember for a long time. Knowing we’d only be gone for two days, we decided we’d fill it to the brim, leaving early Tuesday morning and coming home late last night. My van smells like ketchup and my kids smell like sunscreen because we skipped baths last night and slipped right from car seats to bed sheets, but we are full and happy and thankful.

Adorable fun and easy-to-play car scavenger hunt 

My Spontaneous Kid Trip Saviors:

* Packing Light. I’m an overpacker by nature, but I’m slowly learning how easy trips go when you pack only what you need. I wanted to be able to slip in and out of the hotel with all three of my kids without a hotel luggage rack or six trips to the car, so I brought only one small suitcase for all of us.
* Backpack. We’ve been using a backpack for everything these days–traveling, day trips, beach excursions, etc. I put everything we need for the day in a backpack, skip bringing a purse and clip it to my stroller with a Mommy Hook.
* Double Stroller. Nella and Dash both nap in it when we’re out and about, and it works great for hauling stuff in and out of places. We didn’t get one until last summer (for Michigan road trip), and now I can’t imagine not having one when traveling.
* Hotel Baby Crib. Skip lugging your own Pack ‘n Play around and call ahead to the hotel to have a baby crib set up in your room–saves so much work.
* Spontaneity and a Go-with-the-Flow Travel Mate. If you’re laid back and messy and you’re taking a road trip with a Type A planner, you better sign a friendship contract and have it notarized. Road trips with Heidi have always been a breeze because we share the same travel philosophy and are in it to have fun and make memories.

We are also sentimental, and as our kids get older, these trips become more special. So many times this week, in the midst of both the chaos and the sweet moments of travel calm, we said to each other, “This is it, man. We’re in it. Living the dream. We’re going to look back on this and miss it.”

After all our exploration–the aquarium, the downtown roaming, the skipped naps, the pool party, the late night hotel dance fest, the pizza, the giggling, the aching calves from pushing heavy strollers, the museum, the park, the never-ending quest for adventure–we finally made our last stop last night at an ice cream shop in Ybor City before making the drive home. We finished our ice cream and then wandered a bit outside, hesitant to end our trip. We walked along railroad tracks, following a flock of lost chickens and finally reconvened in a parking lot where we made the kids huddle for a made-up thrown-together cheer where we all put our fists in the middle and jumped up with some ridiculous “Spring Break Tampa, WHOO!” chant that the kids mumbled through while Heidi and I gave our embarrassingly enthusiastic all. Moms be crazy. We’ll do the same thing at fifth grade spelling bees and middle school sleepovers, high school homecoming games and college Meet the Parents weekends, hiding it from the kids but never failing to play it out in our heads. We’ll be proud and forever thankful for the adventures we shared, the road trips we endured, the short time we had with them before they flew out of the nest to explore more of the world without us.

I watched the video below this morning and smiled at a line I hadn’t noticed, fitting for this sweet adventure we call raising kids: “We’ll hate what we’ve lost but we’ll love what we find.”

A little video of our road trip adventure:

ETST on Vimeo, Song: Featherstone by The Paper Kites

Thank you all who gave Tampa recommendations on Instagram. We definitely want to return to explore more, but loved the following:

Florida Aquarium: The kids loved it so much, they’re already asking to return. Bring the kids’ bathing suits as when you’re finished with the exhibits, there’s a fantastic outside water play area. 

Glazer Children’s Museum: We spent hours here, and it’s great for all ages. The little ones found plenty of age appropriate things to play with, and the bigger kids had a blast as well–flying planes, exploring weather and their favorite–an hour in the theater creating their own plays with sound effects, lights and costumes. Bring bathing suits again as there are fountains for play in front.

Curtis Hixon Park: Riverfront park directly in front of the children’s museum. There’s a huge grassy area for the kids to run around. There were two additional museums here that we wanted to explore but didn’t have time

Tampa Pizza Company: The best thin crust pizza ever and staff that were so kind and patient with the kids. Right downtown, walking distance from museums

The Sheraton Riverwalk: Loved the location–tucked right downtown so the kids got the city feel. Walking distance to park, children’s museum, restaurants. Riverside view, great pool.

After four days in California and an incredibly fulfilling retreat experience, I slid into my seat for the flight home last night, exhausted and uninterested in talking. My legs were crammed into the small space between my seat and the seat in front of me like a prank pop-up snake in a fake mint can, and my body followed suit, curling into roly poly bug mode. Poppeling, if you’ll recall–a trick too many people use not only for airplanes but for life: outer shell visible, inside one hidden.

And then if we’re really good, we take it a step further–paint the outer shell. I mean, if it’s all anyone’s going to see, we might as well make it look good. (If you’d like to learn more about painting outer shells, see also “social media.”) Fortunately for me, the jig was up last night and there was nothing I could have done to elicit anything other than, “Oh honey, you look tired. Are you okay?” But I couldn’t help but think, in the dark space of nose-to-knee in 27A, that life’s greatest gifts are available to us when we uncurl. When we lose the fear that people might shutter at the naked part under our painted shells. When we trust that there’s another roly poly bug out there just like us–and they’re waiting for us to be brave and stretch out so that they can come join us. Curled painted shells might be beautiful and all, but you can’t really move forward when you’re all balled up.

Okay, enough of the bug analogy. We’re talking about women–specifically twenty-two of them who joined me and Claire Bidwell Smith, and our friend Annie, for our first Spark retreat, dedicated to helping women use writing for self-discovery and personal inspiration. To get in self-discovery mode, we thought roughing it was best–you know–charming villa, gourmet meals, late night hot soaks, morning yoga, mountain views. That part was awful, I’ll admit. So many women confessed that this was such a foreign concept for them–nourishing themselves. Because we’re so busy taking care of everyone else, because we’re selfless, because everyone else’s needs are more important than ours. I’m so glad these women don’t believe that stuff.

For three days, we wrote–both about the ordinary and the extraordinary–one woman’s story creating space for the next. Deep life truths came out through simple descriptions of a Sunday scenic drive, pains from the past were revisited through poetry and hidden strengths were found both in words on paper and from the mouths of new friends. And laughter. It is amazing where you can find laughter–buried in the darkest corner, hidden in the hardest stories.

We didn’t sing Kumbaya or make up hand claps (couldn’t find anything to rhyme with Ojai), but we did hold hands…literally, figuratively.

Permission to feel please? Permission to be honest about those feelings? Permission to uncurl the beautiful painted part of our shells and expose the underside–the stories that make us who we are? Permission to write those stories down? Permission to share them? Permission to stop pretending everything is only great and dig into the hard stuff–motherhood and marriage and friendship and body image and broken stuff and lonely stuff? Permission to say “I’m scared” and “I’m alone” and “I don’t know what I’m doing” and still be part of this club, still hold my value as a strong, beautiful woman?

Permission granted.

Sometimes we just get stuck and need a little direction and connection to push us forward and remind us how strong and amazing we are–and how NOT ALONE we are. What an inspiring thing it is to watch the uncurling–like seeing 22 butterflies all emerge at once.

Thank you so much to the women who showed up this weekend and reminded me how beautiful it is to uncurl and move along.

“I write because I am alone and move through the world alone. No one will know what has passed through me… I write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because I am a woman trying to stand up in my life… I write out of hurt and how to make hurt okay; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home I’ll ever have.” ~Natalie Goldberg

We’ll be announcing the next Spark Retreat, scheduled for this September, on Instagram tomorrow (see @etst and @clairebidwellsmith).

A few vignettes from our weekend:

neglected but charming motel we saw on our drive up

Bart’s Books in Ojai–might be the coolest bookstore I’ve ever been in. A house, completely filled with books–both inside and outside.

Afternoon hot tub

Goyo, our chef, who taught us so much about nourishing ourselves both in mind and body

One kid into motherhood, Heidi and I made a pact that we would always be fun moms. Take-our-kids-on-adventure moms. Say-yes-to-life moms. We’d take a minivan spin on the Harley Davidson motto, and we’d “live to ride and ride to live” even if it meant our biker boots are mom flats and our bomber jacket is a pleather knock-off from Forever 21. Every time we set out on a Saturday to find a farmer’s market or packed up strollers to answer a call for spontaneous adventure–Orange picking! Lunch downtown! An hour drive to a cool hidden beach north of us!–we patted ourselves on the back and praised our level of commitment. Kids whined from the backseat, circumstances often turned hilariously calamitous and busy schedules aimed to make us weary, but we were in it to win it. And our kids were making memories.

And then we had more babies. And busier schedules. And less sleep. And though we swore we wouldn’t let our energy and enthusiasm for Spontaneous Trips to Far-off Places fizzle, it did. Naturally. Random itches to scratch spontaneity come fewer and further between, and when that “Hey, want to hop in the car and go explore?” text does make its way out these days, it’s often met with “Can’t, ballet tonight” or “Sooooo tired. Skipping this time” or “Wish I could, but so much to do.” I’ll admit, “I’d have to clean my car first” has become enough reason to shoot down a fun day.

So yesterday was a defibrillation of sorts, a revival of our dormant thirst for impromptu adventure and a return to some of those friendship/motherhood memories we used to have more time to make. We accept that life changes, but we also accept that busier schedules, more kids and–ahem–more active kids (not naming names) means we might have to try a little harder, extend our patience quota.

Earlier last week, a random “Hey, let’s go to Miami this weekend” was surprisingly met with “okay, let’s.” And then we actually followed through which is a lot more work than it was a few years ago. Packing two strollers and getting three car seats buckled in one van alone was almost enough to call it quits before we even left the driveway.

But we did it. Because we live to ride and ride to live, and ain’t no one gonna stop us. Except that group of kids on their bikes who realized that if they spread out, all thirty of them, across the entire two lanes of traffic to South Beach, there was nothing anyone could do about it. Yes, for fifteen minutes, a group of kids–probably none older than 16–rode their bikes, popped wheelies, flipped people off and held up miles of traffic. Even though Heidi rolled down her window and told them to–and I quote–“Get out of the road, you’re being disrespectful and you’re going to get hurt!” To which the largest one of the group had some choice gestures to respond with, let me tell you. I couldn’t help but satiate my need to positively reinforce so when we finally found a gap in the group where we could inch forward, I made it a point to find the one boy who stuck to the bike lane, rolled down the window and yelled, “Thank you! I see you! You’re being respectful and we appreciate you! You chose the right thing! Keep doing it!” Heidi later roared with laughter from the driver’s seat. Once a fifth grade teacher, always a fifth grade teacher. Also, I’m pretty sure when I finished my speech, he jerked his bike right to the middle of the street again. Whatever.

We still had fun.

We started out in the Wynwood Art District of Miami, home to over 70 galleries, museums and collections and notable for its street art, Wynwood Walls. The art is absolutely stunning, and the kids had a blast, their exploration made sweeter with an ice cream truck visit and rocks and tires that they could have climbed on all day.

(poor Lainey had her first skateboard wipeout this weekend–a handful of scrapes and cuts to show for it.)

I want to recreate this pink/yellow/black & white wall in my house. So colorful and happy.

Parched after hours of play, we hit a juice bar where the only water they sold was this fancy alkaline stuff. After Dash chugged half a bottle, Peyton read the back of it out loud, something along the lines of “This water is unpasteurized, may contain harmful bacteria, and young children and the elderly should not drink it.” I’m so confused.

We ended the day, after an hour-and-a-half drive that should have taken ten minutes because the Bike Boys decided to play Red Rover in the street, in South Beach. Our goal was to spend sunset on the beach and check out some of the famous lifeguard stations. But South Beach is rich with experiences and alive with color, and you always get more than what you come for. We happened to show up for the Art Deco Festival, which welcomed thousands of people on Ocean Drive, and weaseled our way through crowds to make it to the beach. Lots of bikinis and butt cheeks and dancing. That Will Smith Miami song?

“…bouncin’ in the club where the heat is on, all night on the beach til the break of dawn…”

Here’s an addendum to the song: Sometimes they’re bouncin’ it outside of the club. And by bouncin’ it, I mean bouncin’ them. And by them, I mean boobies and butts. And by boobies and butts, I mean ones that are falling out of the gum wrappers that are holding them. The kids were fascinated and learned some cool stuff about–um–creative expression.

The beach was grand though–lifeguard stations a total hit.

We finally packed up when it was dark and kids fell asleep, barely out of the parking garage, for the long ride home. As we left the strip, our windows rolled down to take in the lights and music and dancing, we retold stories from back in the day when we partied young and free in South Beach. That one time we stayed up all night. That one time I danced and fell off an amp. That one time I wore a crop top to the club. And then Heidi turned up the music–Madonna–and we rolled out of Ocean Dr. dancing in the minivan until one of the kids yelled, “MOM! Turn it down, please! We’re trying to watch The Croods!”

I wouldn’t trade where we are now with where we were then for anything.

We still live to ride and ride to live—we just have a messier motorcycle.