I rarely hear Central America discussed when the topic of tropical getaways surfaces, but the Honduran island of Roatan is definitely worth some serious spring-break (or even summer) consideration—especially for anyone who wants to go snorkeling or diving.
It’s been a few years since our trip. We were living in New York and flew down via Houston. We actually went in August–the temperatures are fairly consistent year-round and the island lies south of the Hurricane belt (which doesn’t mean no risk, but there’s less).
We continue to talk about going back. The island is surrounded by reef, and the off-shore snorkeling was great and the diving was fantastic. (And so much more affordable! It would be a great place to get certified.) The reading under palm trees on a white sandy beach wasn’t bad either.
There was definitely less tourist infrastructure than on many Caribbean islands, but I expect a lot has changed since our visit. They’ve since opened a new cruise port. Still, when I search online for information, I get the sense it’s off the beaten track. Has anyone been recently?
I’ve just updated our Travelogue, if you’d like to take a look.
I’ll never forget the time when, a few weeks after Hudson was born, Aron walked into our tiny Manhattan studio apartment to find me rocking back and forth like a madwoman on the sofa—at the time convinced that it was perfectly normal to just pretend to have a rocking chair to soothe our colicky infant. We didn’t have room for one after all, and the yoga ball just wasn’t cutting it. Our eyes met and I suddenly realized how crazy I must have looked. We both burst into laughter. (Moments later, of course, I passed Hudson off to Aron when he, no doubt, started performing some other version of a soothing-jiggly-bouncy dance that was no less ridiculous. Probably right before I crept through our closet, past Hudson’s mini-crib, to get to the bathroom.)
Ah, the crazy things you do in the name of sleep.
It all passes, and you look back with humor and nostalgia at what would once induce panic and weepy tears. We survived (thrived mostly) in that 500-square-foot space, the three of us. And I’m grateful for the lessons I learned in minimalism. But there was often a sense that it would be so different (i.e. easier) if we had more space.
Yes and no, is what we’ve learned since moving to a larger home in California. We still have to do the jiggly-bouncy-crazy dance (and now while smiling reassuringly at a toddler) but now we can get help from a rocking chair. There’s still that sense of fear that strikes about six weeks in: “will we ever be able to go outside past 8pm again?” (of course, yes), but now we can eat outside in the backyard. When she cries, it still sounds as loud as a chainsaw (to her own parents’ ears), but we no longer feel like we have to jump at the slightest peep out of courtesy to our neighbors. Thank goodness for not sharing walls. No matter the circumstances, new parenthood seems to come with its own dizzying combination of joy and anxiety, and often a bit of isolation.
More than ever, I’ve discovered, it’s important to love where you live—and find comfort in your home.
Here are ten things making motherhood sweeter at home these days…
Her big brother, who has been more patient and tender than I could have ever imagined. “Her name Skyler.” “O want to pet her head?”—whereby “o” he means “u”—is the greeting Hudson offers enthusiastically to everyone who passes.
Fresh, white sheets for snuggling (and petting her head and nursing and napping and, more often than I’d like, not sleeping at night). I can’t tell you how good it feels to come home from the hospital and lay down (and lay your baby down) on crisp, clean sheets. And because it’s hard to keep them that way (hello, spit up), I got an extra set. Still, I like white for those precious newborn photos (and the spit up doesn’t even show!)
Fresh flowers and natural light. The illusion, at least, of calm. (And isn’t it amazing what natural light can do for your mood? It’s so refreshing and uplifting to get outside!)
A stack of thank you cards. Because, fortunately, people have been incredibly kind and generous and because, unfortunately, if there aren’t cards nearby I’m apt to forget to thank them. (Even though I’m sure friends and family would give a new mother a pass.)
Baskets. Baskets, galore. I can’t stop bringing home woven jute baskets. They help me carry away messes in a hurry to look presentable and they’re by my side with water (I get so thirsty when nursing) and snacks (I’m obsessed with these dried fruits for my sweet tooth) and entertainment. I love that they have handles for moving one-handedly (the manner in which so many things get accomplished lately, it seems).
A foot stool or ottoman for balancing little people on my knees and helping me to sit back and stop slouching while feeding Skyler. I’ve literally placed some version of one near every chair I tend to camp out on. (Can’t get enough of the jute.) It’s also just right for lounging on our slightly narrow couch if given the chance to binge-watch The Americans.
Our swing. (This is new to me and has been such a relief. We seem to make motion-loving babies, only this time I’m not walking around New York City for hours and hours every day.) And a video monitor so that I can be in the backyard or Hudson’s room while she’s in said swing. Or—eeps!—in her own room. With a lovely, full-size crib.
A partner to share it all with. A daddy to love them, and to play “shark attack” over and over (and over) in the “tiny pool” with an incredibly energetic toddler while I sneak off to soothe a sleepy baby. Obviously in a category of his own.
This post is sponsored by Target. The adventure begins here: Discover all Target has to offer for your baby registry and throughout your motherhood journey.
“[O]nce in a while, someone wants to talk about Crimea, which is a treat.” —Sara Miller, The New Yorker
Do you sometimes feel like all you do is talk about your kids (and everyone else’s)? I sometimes have to remind myself to stray from the subject among groups of friends at dinner parties, even though it is—of course—front and center in my mind these days.* (So I’m not making any promises, in other words.)
There’s a great parody of a parenting study in this week’s issue of the New Yorker, wherein it is concluded that if parents have to read one more “long-form think piece about parenting,” one more of those “articles that begin with a wryly affectionate parenting anecdote, segue into a dry cataloguing of sociological research enlivened with alternately sarcastic and tender asides, and end with another wryly affectionate anecdote that aims to add a touch of irony or, failing at that, sentimentality,” they will “go fucking ape shit.”
It’s pretty funny, particularly considering that my plan for today was originally to share with you the one that keeps coming up in conversation around here lately: Have you read the article in The Atlantic, “The Overprotected Kid“? It’s been largely circulated (and in being so probably prompted the New Yorker spoof), but it doesn’t stop it from raising fascinating questions about your tolerance for risk when it comes to your children. I’m curious where most of you fall on the spectrum, actually. I have said “be careful” to Hudson enough times that he will actually preemptively say—as he is about to run past the edge of the pool toward our dog’s house or climb atop a chair I’ve told him not to—”I be careful, mommy.” He’s got my number.
