Day 24. 10 small moments

1. We wake up groggy and earlier than the sun. Our bodies are still in Milwaukee while we whisper to each other to see who is awake.

2. First breakfast is cereal and toast and happiness as the others wake and join us.

3. It takes awhile to get out the door, but eventually we depart -- or rather, they do, while I clench my teeth and grunt in frustration that he's hidden my shoes and I can't find them anywhere. I count to ten and put a different pair on.

4. Breakfast is underwhelming. The service is poor, and it amazes me what the baseline can be for some establishments. She let's them know how she feels.

5. We take a stroll to explore the hotel grounds, and I feel like a child again: visiting lobbies and oohing and aahing over succulents, flower arrangements and meticulously cultivated gardens.

6. At the cupola structure, she comes up with the idea to stand beside a column and share our promises to ourselves for the coming year. Their different oaths underline their differences.

7. I promise to write 100 pages. I have until June 11, 2019.

8. We stay behind at the villa so that we can talk while the others head to the pool. I take deep breaths to harness my anger and frustration with him. I regret taking him, but I know that I would have experienced an even deeper regret if I left him home. Parenting is always walking that fine line of a multitude of Catch-22s.

9. We text all day. She has a fever. She had a fever during the last time I traveled with the boys, and the guilt comes back in a familiar wave of grief mixed with worry. He takes care of her, but the sensation lingers, sharp and jagged.

10. It's her golden birthday. She is light and energy. She embodies the perfect Hayao Miyazaki heroine.