I took another glance at the blue sea just out the window, and thought of the Jews crossing the Yam Suf

The good thing about vacations is that they start.

The bad thing is that they end.

Coming on the heels of weeks of emotional and physical overwhelm, I was desperate for a break. And when I finally assembled the logistical jigsaw puzzle of kids-work-appointments and found two days I could get away, I was thrilled.

As the bus pulled away, I felt myself slowly relaxing. I was going away. Away from the blessed chaos I live in, away from the children I love and don’t always like, away from the constant, constant demands for my time and space and energy. And I’d forgotten my phone at home (for real!), so I couldn’t even be reached for emergencies like a missing library book.

I got to the hotel and collapsed into bed. I’d caught yet another in a series of viruses, but this time, there was no one around to insist I function despite my incapacitated state.

I felt better the next morning, but that didn’t stop me from spending another few hours in bed. What are vacations meant for if not to catch up on much-needed sleep?

Later, feeling much better, I went to the beach. It was blissfully empty, and the crashing of the waves was soothing. I felt my head begin to clear, and by day two, as I got ready to leave, I felt pretty human again. I wasn’t sure how long that would last though, once I got back to the grind of daily life.

Sitting with a book on a plush teal couch in the hotel lobby, a view of palm trees and the sea outside the window, was calming. Thinking that soon I’d be leaving to make my bus home was less so.

How do I make this last? I wondered frantically.