I Found the Unicorn of Water Shoes: A Bzees Review

Water shoes are notoriously ugly- so ugly, I’m fearful the fish I’m trying to spot as I wade through the water will glide away in horror as they lay eyes on my clunky footwear. No more little fishies- no more.

I’ve found a pair so non-water-shoe-y I can wear them to drop-off and pick-up at my son’s school, where mom-style is on point.

These unicorns of the water shoe world were birthed by the brand Bzees. These shoes look like sleek sneakers, offer a bevy of colors offering an option for every type of shoe-wearer, and are insanely light and comfortable- oh, and they can be worn in water.

I wear these suckers to water my garden, navigate waterfall hikes in Costa Rica, trod up natural water slides in Sequoia National Park or just walk around town feeling fly- and ready to step into a puddle.


My faves are the Wink Water shoes, but click here to view all the options.

Happy water walking!

*I was sent a free pair of these shoes, but waited three months to write the review, to ensure I could offer my honest opinion. I receive nothing if you buy these shoes- besides the satisfaction of knowing I improved the lives of your tootsies.

How to Travel to Costa Rica With a Baby

IMG_3651Warm water, magenta sunsets, giant plates of nachos, and monkeys (loud free-roaming monkeys that don’t mess with your stuff)- me thinks I found heaven in Costa Rica.

You know this place is incredible if I can call it heaven after traveling seventeen hours, via airplanes and cars, with a baby. Yes, I had the support of my partner, parents, and brothers, but I’m the mom with the boobs full of milk.

The magic of Costa Rica made every ounce of anxiety-ridden travel worth it. I even plan to eventually follow in my wanderlust cousin’s footsteps and move my family to this eco-friendly paradise for six-ish months.

If you have the desire to explore the gem of Central America (and why not?) with your baby, here are a few words of guidance from one parent to another.

Read More on Huff Post Parents!

10 Reasons Why People Who Love The Beach Make The BEST Spouses

IMG_3679If they love the sand, salt, surf and sunscreen, they’re a keeper. 

Having sand in your bed is a rare form of torture. But having a happy, glowing, sexy creature spreading the sand makes it all worth it.

I like the beach. If I lived in the Caribbean, that “like” would be upgraded to a “love.” I don’t live in the Caribbean; I live in California where the water is cold and the beach is often windy, so I like it. But my husband lives for it, dreams of it, and straight up loves it. Our marriage is better because of it.

To take a nugget from the surfer vernacular, people who love the beach make rad spouses, and here’s why.

Read more on YourTango!

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Traveling to Costa Rica with a Baby (Part 456, just kidding, Part 6) : Toucans, Tree Frogs, Giant Ants, Oh My!

We “should have” turned back when I almost walked into the spider who was so big he told me we should turn back, but there’s no adventure in turning back.


We were back at The Hill, or ‘The Slippery Hill of Doom.’ But today, instead of traveling up The Hill we were going to travel up the creek that lay at the base of it, without a paddle.

With my stocky offspring securely strapped to my chest, I began to gingerly wade my way up the creek, attempting to keep up with my fellow creek waders (who weren’t wearing a diaper wearing accessory on their chest.)


As we meandered our way through the water, up, in, out and through the jungle banks, and across deceivingly slippery boulders, items from my mental bucket list began to slough away:


  • Earn the ‘I’ve gone on an off-the-beaten-path Costa Rican waterfall hike’ bragging right.
  • Carry twenty-two pounds of boob sucking baby through the jungle, without serious injury to my back, or boobs.


  • Take 4,567 “artsy” nature photos without dropping my new and case-less flimsy iPhone in the water.


  • Witness the flight of Toucan Sam, free from the constrains of the cereal box.
  • And five, swim in a Costa Rican waterfall, and explore the surrounding banks without being poisoned by a deceivingly cute frog.

Before I reached number five on the bucket list, number one on my ‘Anti-Bucket-List’ occurred:

  • Lose mom, dad, and aunt in the Costa Rican jungle.


As our group of travelers trickled into the waterfall oasis, it soon became apparent that the oldest, wisest, and best smelling members of our group were not in the trickle. Oh (not so) great.

After a worrisome amount of hours (just kidding, ‘minutes’) ticked by, I rallied the young strapping men in our group to go back and retrieve the lost travelers. The next sluggish twenty or so minutes I spent developing the nervous habit of nail biting, and perfecting my nervous habit of ‘worst case scenario’ obsessing.

As the search and rescue team returned, their faces showed signs of stress, but not of dread, all was good; our three stray travelers were alive and well, albeit understandably irked that we had accidentally left them behind.

Although ‘The Three’ did not encounter any jaguars, rabid monkeys, or cute frogs, they did have a taste (or should I say ‘give a taste’) of the local flesh-eating ants. As my mom had sat contemplating her state of potential peril, a curious ant had traveled up her leg; when she felt the little prick give her a prick, she reached down to remove said prick and witnessed the little flesh eater latched on to her leg. More effort than would be expected was exerted and the ant was removed, leaving a trail of blood, and a tiny chunk of missing skin in his wake. To my mother this was the epitome of ‘adding insult to injury,’ and she was “over it.” Luckily, the knights in dirty board shorts arrived shortly thereafter, and guided the bloody travelers back to our nomadic tribe.


As the band of heroic dirty board short wearers returned, they turned their attention back to the waterfall, and commenced determining the most reckless waterfall related activity they could partake in. It didn’t take much time for them to decide that the “best idea” would be to climb up the wet cliff face, and jump off the top of the slippery cliff into the murky waters below. Usually, this activity wouldn’t alarm me, because I usually have cliff jumping ignorance on my side, but this time, we had an experienced guide with us. He looked on nervously as they ascended the cliff and verbally noted the fact that in twenty years of living in this particular region of Costa Rican he had never seen anyone jump off this waterfall. Never. Not even the locals. Never ever. Oh great.


Besides fretting about the physical safety of the jumpers, I also grew concerned of our group’s ability to cart the injured soldiers the mile back down the creek if/when someone cracked a head open. I could barely handle twenty-two pounds of baby, 160 pounds of sweaty teenager was not going to happen.

The jumpy countenance of our guide was not doing much to mollify my fears.

True to form, ‘father of my child’ Eric decided he would be the first to jump off, “to make sure it was safe.” I held my breathe, closed my eyes, and pleaded with the universe to allow his giddy-with-exhilaration face to pop out of the water, preferably without a gaping head wound. My pleading was answered and pop up he did. The moment he was out of the water and re-scaling the cliff, my brother made the leap. This reckless rotation continued for another thirty minutes or so before I had to put a stop the foolhardiness, in fear that my heart might explode with anxiety. They were not as inclined as the universe was to honor my pleading, but my persistence persisted and they ceased to leap.


As our group, now high on adrenaline, journeyed back to our vehicles, Mr. Big Spider let out a smug, ‘I told you so.’ Jokes on you spider, we just had an adventure worthy of a blog post.

Taking a Baby to Costa Rica- Part 5: Slap in the Face from the Mother of Nature

“I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad.” ~ George Bernard Shaw


We were not awakened by the lapping waves from the nearby ocean, no; we were awakened by a vicious parrot brawl at 5:30am. “If you wake up my baby you stupid f***in parrots, I will f*** **** **** *****, shut the heck up!” Yes, they’re beautiful, but beauty does not excuse pure obnoxiousness. When the screeching was reduced to mild chirping, I was able to soak in the ‘oh yeah, this is awesome.’ Most of the walls in the rooms of our new jungle house were composed of wooden lattice and screens, to prevent the local diverse creatures from making themselves our bedfellows. These “walls” allowed us to see the vegetation surrounding us and feel the “cool” breeze.


Because Hudson was able to sleep through the bird riots I decided to sneak out and check out our new digs, without the need to walk hunched over to prevent a curious toddler from eating a crab. The house and surrounding landscape had an intense ‘Jurassic Park-esque’ feel. The huge lizards ran like tiny raptors and the howling monkeys in the distance made me half expect long-neck-riding demons to come tromping through the jungle.


After capturing an over abundance of still-life photos, I wandered back to the house to find Luis and his team laying out a table of lush fresh fruit, homemade toast, eggs, Gallo Pinto, and coffee; coffee, give me coffee, por favor. I sat for a moment enjoying the coffee and “jungle silence,” and pondered the miraculous fact that Hudson was still asleep. Oh wait, is that a shrieking monkey or my ‘not asleep’ baby, right on cue Hudson.


After our eleven person troop of travelers cleared all food from the table, the intrepid surfers rallied for a surf excursion. Apparently, the three-foot shore break in front of our house wasn’t enough for them. We donned our Costa Rican uniforms, composed of brightly hued bathing suits, and loaded in our rental cars. The first half hour on the heavily pot-holed road went “smoothly,” until we came to The Hill. The Hill rose up from a “criver” (a river/ creek,) and was not only incredibly steep but muddy, and strewn with some serious rifts. Could our flimsy non-four-wheel-drive sedan make it? The SUV rental car went first, created some cringe worthy spinning tire clamoring, but made it.

Us next.

Eric: “I got it, no problem, piece of cake.” (Infamous last words.)

Me:” I will not be in this car, with our baby, when this car goes up, then down, the hill of slippery peril.”

Conveniently, there was a footbridge over the criver for nervous mothers. As I walked sideways across the bridge, making sure my back was turned to Eric’s brazen ascent up the hill, in the rental car we weren’t “supposed to” wreck, or leave evidence of off-roading on, I heard clanging, banging, rock crunching, and then a car successfully moving up the hill. It was a miracle, but oh wait, we would have to go down the hill on the trip back.


We pot-holed our way the remaining distance to the surfer’s paradise of Pan Dulce; unfortunately for me, there was no sweet bread hanging from the palms, as the name so inaccurately implies. As our surfers waxed on and waxed, and drank the obligatory pre-surf beer, (at least those over 21,) I perused the beach for a “baby safe” hangout. I use the term ‘beach’ loosely and place quotation marks around ‘baby safe’ because the waves were not lapping/crashing onto a sandy shore, no; it was more like a giant-bruise-producing slab of rock. But, that of course did not stop us, and we picked our way into the ocean, baby and all.


It looks deceivingly sandy. Under that water is pure rock.

Have you ever heard the term ‘renegade wave?’ I have. Therefore, I should have known better than to take my baby into a seemingly calm shore break I was wholly unfamiliar with. As soon as we reached under-boob level in the deceivingly tranquil waters, I spotted it, the renegade wave forming. I quickly calculated my chances of reaching the shore before the looming mass of water crashed atop us, but determined the effort would be futile. I then quickly calculated my chances of being able to dive under the wave while holding my 12 month old. He would hold his breathe, but the strong force of the rushing water could likely prove to be too much for his little body. Last ditch option, rush towards the wave in an attempt to jump over it before it began its foreboding crest. I rushed towards the wave gripping my child with every last iota of strength and lunged up and out of the water. We were too late, the wave had begun its crest and Mother Nature harshly slapped us in the face. But, we made it through, and were met with another renegade wave! Just kidding. After our harrowing adventure, I was water logged, and baby was stunned into silence. We high-tailed it out of the unpredictable surf and found some sandy turf, well out of reach of the grasping waves.


After licking our wounds, my mom decided she would like to go for a dip, and because Hudson had long forgotten about our five-minutes-ago trauma, he of course decided that he must go with her. The surf had mellowed considerably and we were sure there was no further chance of a slap-stunner wave….

As soon as they made it to the exact same spot I had met my aquatic match, another rebel wave popped up. Not kidding. Before I had the chance to warn my never-gets-her-hair-wet mother they were receiving another fully submerged slap in the face. Baby wasn’t stunned into silence this time, he was pissed, and he let it be known. That was the last time mom got her hair wet in Costa Rica.

To make use of these bitchy waves, I decided to grab a boogey board, and the baby, and attempt to make the waves work for me. Just kidding, about the baby part. I dove out into the tepid abyss, and floated, and floated, and floated. The car rental Gods must have been pissed that we took the cars up The Hill because the waves knew what we wanted, and were consistently providing us with the opposite; hopefully the surfers were having better luck around the bend.

I decided to make a coconut cocktail out of the salty lemons being served up, and became one with the tranquil float. Our pre-teen travel companion then joined me in the watery float and we commenced to have a beautifully spiritual discussion about past lives, hypnotherapy, the power of the mind, and iPads; that’s right, we’re deep.


As the menacing thunder-heads rolled towards us, and the howler monkeys (right on cue) began wailing, we spied our luckily-not-too-intrepid group of surfers picking their way along the rocky coast back to the awaiting muddy vehicles. We all had the same unspoken thought in the back of our minds; ‘Get to The Hill, before it becomes a wall of sliding sludge.’

We piled into the mildew mired vehicles and slogged our way back to the The Hill. Our luck had fortuitously shifted and the clouds had not yet unleashed their watery fury on The Hill. We “gracefully” slid down hill, through the criver, and up the much less daunting other side of the hill, and continued our meander down the pot-holed path. Soon after, as we stopped so I could tinkle/urinate on the side of the road, an echoing cacophony of monkey moans reached my ears, as the fat drops of downpour soaked my exposed tushy. Apparently, the car rental Gods don’t appreciate “indecent” exposure.


Coming Soon: ‘The Tale of the I-Thought-You-Were-Right-Behind-Us Waterfall Hike’

Taking a Baby to Costa Rica- Part 4: Collective Bliss

“I’m awake, rested, in Costa Rica, and a giant lizard didn’t eat me in my sleep.”


Let’s celebrate with coffee, maybe mixed with some alcohol, maybe some Baileys.

Celebrate we did, but no Baileys….yet.


Our large group dined half naked, clad in our bathing suits, sporting fresh Farmer’s Tans, or Wetsuit Tans, depending on what part of the world you reside in. Luckily, most restaurants in Costa Rica have a ‘No shorts, no shirts, eh whatever’ mentality, but you better have money hidden somewhere in that bikini top. We feasted on piles, yes piles of moist (don’t you just love that word?) fruit, various forms of eggs, and a delicious mystery sauce contained in a nondescript plastic bottle. One of our teen travelers made the difficult breakfast order of, “Mango.” This simply stumped our server who was likely accustomed to difficult Americans ordering a, “Double and a half shot espresso mixed with soy creamer, a sprinkling of fresh cocoa flakes, a squirt of caramel sauce, and a pinch of fairy dust. Three eggs, one, sunny side down, one, lightly scrambled with a dash of cow’s milk, and one, egg broken but still slightly runny. Got that?” No, he just ordered “Mango.”

Server: “Mango smoothie?”

Us: “No, just one whole Mango.”

Server: “Mango slices?”

Us: “No, just one whole Mango.”

Server: “Cooked mango?”

Us: “No, just one whole Mango.”

Because our kindly confused server could not seem to comprehend this American anomaly, we picked up a whole mango from the barrel of fruit residing by our table and asked for a knife. Now he got it, but refused to allow said teen to devour said mango without some form of assistance. The mango was whisked away and returned a perfectly diced version of its’ former self. Mango good.

The sun was out, the waves were…waving, our bellies were full, and our cell phones didn’t work, life was good.

As I waded through the moist air, observing my fellow waders, I came to the realization that I could have just brought bathing suits, diapers, and bug spray/sunscreen and been just fine. I had no need, or desire, for clothes, and naked babies (big and little) were everywhere.


We covered up our bits and pieces with small pieces of waterproof material and boogied to the beach to let the ocean do what it wanted with us. The water was so warm I had no need to do my shiver shuffle into the waves (first the feet, then the legs, then a few minutes later the bottom half of my torso, and a few minutes after that the breath hold, and a chilly dive into the water.) I just dove in without a single shiver-me-tata. There aren’t many things as spiritually rejuvenating as floating in warm salty water, with the exception of floating in warm salty water with a cup of spiritually infused chilled alcohol.

As I looked back from my new-found briny oasis I observed Hudson having an equal dose of ‘yes’ rolling in the dark wet sand on the beach, with his Nana, who was definitely not rolling in the sand. Eric too, was enjoying a huge dose of ‘stoke,’ surfing in the ‘way too big for my comfort level’ surf further out. Our little family was living in collective bliss. Don’t be surprised to eventually see a ‘We’re Packin’ up the Wagon, and Moving to Costa Rica!’ blog post in the future.


Our final stop was a bamboo jungle house near Puerto Jimenez, in the Osa Peninsula, about three hours South of Dominical, aka, ‘Collective Bliss.’ After we slowly extracted ourselves from the yummy surf and undertook the futile task of rinsing the sticky wet sand off us, and the ‘I want to be dirty’ baby (while battling Pterodactyl mosquitoes,) we piled back in the vehicles and started our caravan deeper into the jungle.

The further we drove, the deeper we fell into total Zen; so deep, Eric almost fell asleep while driving. The passing green jungle excited us, the occasional rain cleansed us, and the visual hunt for wildlife entertained us.

DSCF3384 IMG_3633 IMG_3631

On this particular day, the final game of the 2014 World Cup happened to be taking place, and the two teenage boys, three grown men, one pre-teen boy, and one restless baby boy, traveling with us, were Jones-ing to witness the outcome. When my bladder required a release, we found a little “why are these Americans stopping here?” local hangout in the middle of “somewhere,” that obviously had a huge flat screen television, that was broadcasting the game of Argentina versus Germany. As the boys got their futbol fix, Huddy and the ladies wandered back to the little pool at the back of the establishment. As we wandered, a kind little boy brought an innocent looking pool floatie over to my son, a plastic floatie, not a brown one. My son proceeded to howl like he had seen an aquatic demon. Little did I know my little guy had a serious fear of colorful pool floaties. Who knew? The ironic thing was, that exact same floatie was waiting in my bag to be used by Hudson at the pool of our vacation house. Great.


After Germany was named the victor, we made the final trek to Puerto Jimenez and met up with the cosmopolitan local who would be our chef, comedian, caretaker, and guide for the next week. His name was Luis and he was a jovial, sarcastically humorous, Teddy Bear. He was full of jokes, smiles, and excellent cooking prowess. (He regularly made fresh bread and brownies, enough said.) After stocking up on food at the overpriced grocery store, we followed Luis on the dark road to our awaiting jungle house. It only took 15 minutes, but the potholes and ominously dark jungle made it feel like we had traveled an hour into the arcane abyss. Our primitive minds are instinctually fearful of the unknown, and my primitive mind was on fire the further we drove. “Where the heck are we going?!” When we finally made it, my fear of the unknown subsided and I felt as though I had stumbled across a secluded and humid slice of paradise. The house was an architectural masterpiece. Constructed out of bamboo, our new habitation resembled a luxury tree fortress. Well, maybe not a fortress… All the common rooms were open-air so we truly felt like we were living in, and with, the natural elements, mosquitoes and sneaky monkeys included. If were facing a zombie apocalypse, I would not want to live in that house. Well, maybe the mosquitoes would hold them off. No one likes to be itchy, not even zombies.


As we’re examining the house I immediately pulled the “Baby Card” to score us the downstairs master bedroom with the king-sized bed. Sleeping with a huge baby in a full-bed is less than ideal. And there were no “real” railings upstairs, so there was that.





As we settled in, our welcoming committee of a giant ‘maybe a Tarantula’ spider made himself known, and garnered rapt attention from us terrified, yet mesmerized city slickers. He was much more friendly than the flying bloodsuckers.


After stuffing our faces with Luis’ specialty, slightly mysterious, nachos (that definitely went against my “trying to not eat dairy and meat” diet,) and not having to do dishes, I realized that after two days of traveling, I had landed in heaven. Delicious meal + no cooking + no dishes = Heaven.


Taking a Baby to Costa Rica- Part 3: Don’t Drop the Baby in Croc Creek


The smells of perfectly seasoned Gallo Pinto, tiny monkeys, juicy coconuts, overpriced groceries, and salt-coated humidity hit my mind’s nose before I stepped out of the airport. We had arrived, and we had survived. First step of international travel with baby complete, and I didn’t even look like a frazzled sleep-deprived lunatic, not entirely.

We snaked through the peace of cake, stamp-and-go, immigration line, and found our luggage carousel. Miraculously, our heaping pile of luggage made it, complete with three unbroken and un-stolen surfboards.

We put some minutes on an old smart phone, because Heaven forbid we should spend a moment unconnected from ‘digi-world,’ and we really needed a GPS. Apparently Costa Rica has an aversion to road signs, and road names, and I’m ‘old school map’ inept.

We were escorted to our car rental shuttle and our luggage was loaded by a super-human, super-friendly, driver who was able to fit our two months supply of stuff into the available nooks and crannies of the van; and we were off!

Life was good, traveling was easy, and nothing could go wrong…. And then, the car rental debacle of 2014 occurred. We entered the car rental office with the “Beware of car rental scams” warning, from my cousin’s Costa-Rican-Expert wife, quietly echoing in the back of my mind. The jovial staff were happy to quickly compile the necessary paperwork and signatures, and would answer, “Yes, yes, yes, sure, sure, sure,” to every question.

Me: “Where is your bathroom?”

Them: “Yes, yes, yes, sure, sure, sure.”

All was going well, a little too well. Then, they asked the question, ‘how will you be insuring your two rentals?’

Me: “Well sir, if you look right here, on my handy rental agreement confirmation email, we’ve already purchased the $100 liability insurance for each vehicle.”

The Annoying Guy: (With infuriating smirk) “No, no, no, ma’am, you need much more protection than that for the vehicles.”

The gist was, we would need “much more,” insurance if we wanted to avoid purchasing the vehicles, if they received so much as a nasty glance from an oncoming vehicle.

The Annoying Guy: “We can offer you a very fair and thorough insurance package. $100 each day for full-insurance.”

Me (and my ultra-annoyed father): “What?! $100 per day to insurance the cars?!”

The Annoying Guy: “No, no, no, $100 per car, per day.”

Us: (On the floor, floored by this absurdity) “No f-ing way are we paying you $2,000 to insure these cars for ten days, we’d rather walk the trip.”

But, we had a baby, and a lot of stuff, a lot of stuff. A bus? We have a baby, and a lot of stuff, a lot of stuff.

As we fumed outside the office, trying the figure out what we were going to do, a kind fellow traveler, obviously well traveled and well versed in the ways of the ‘scam laden Costa Rican car rental agencies,’ quietly gave us the golden nugget travel tip that our credit card company would cover any damage done to the vehicles. The gist, the exhorbinantly scammy insurance offered by The Annoying Guy was unnecessary. My father’s ears perked up, but his need to ‘hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,’ (or the credit card rep’s mouth,) caused him to spend an hour, (and half of our cell phone minutes,) calling various branches of his credit card company, until he was 175% certain that our tushies were covered, in the event of our vehicle’s tushy being tapped.

After much effort, some expletives, and a few tears (from the baby…and myself,) he received his confirmation, marched back into the rental office, and triumphantly turned down their scam-surance.

After preventing them from gutting us of all our cash-ola before the trip even began, we were on our way.

After a whopping ten minutes of driving (we had about 180 minutes to go,) we made our first stop, a huge box store of course. Purchases? Beer, wine, coffee, and fabric softener (that was supposed to be laundry detergent; it had a picture of a clean clothed happy baby on the front, and there were bubbles!) Yes, there were stores in the Timbuktu of Costa Rica we were traveling to, but the tales of large and looming price tags frightened us. After painstakingly preventing the car rental agency from emptying out pocket book, we had no desire to break the bank in our pursuit of a light caffeine and/or alcohol buzz.

We wiggled our way through the lush Costa Rican countryside, eyes peeled for monkeys, or other brag worthy tropical creatures. Hudson hung in there for about an hour and an half before he was thoroughly fed up with being strapped into his cushioned seat.

We pulled up to a bridge that had a gaggle of tourists excitingly pointing over the edge; this has to be good, perfect timing Hudson. We parked the cars, removed the wailing baby, and walked the quarter of a mile back to the excited pointers. I looked down and immediately wished my baby, hanging on my hip, was securely fastened onto my chest with the Ergs-a-Baby; there were about 40 human eating crocodiles lounging on the sandy river banks below us. They were humongous, and likely hungry. The guardrail only went up to my waist; we weren’t in the paranoid, highly regulated, United States of ‘Oh Be Careful’ anymore. My grip on Hudson immediately tightened to the point of discomfort, and I stared in awe at these powerful creatures. A local, let us in on the fact that other locals, regularly lowered chickens down on a rope for the awaiting chompers, to ensure they’re never tempted to roam away.


Dead Ducks Walking


I’m fairly sure I saw the croc that gobbled up Captain Hook. After staring in terrified fascination for half an hour we made the tedious walk back to the cars, eyes peeled for any crocs that dared wander away from their murky flowing home.

Next stop Dominical? Yes, after about 15 pee stops. My bladder was never the same after it shared its’ space with a baby.

Pulling into Dominical allowed us to finally feel like “we had arrived,” we were officially on vacation. We bee-lined it to the beach, and the awaiting sunset, and stepped into Eden. The long glistening beach was glowing with the bright pink light the sunset was projecting. The warm waves also glowed pink as we dipped our bodies into pure ‘yes.’ The sunset didn’t take my breath away, it gave me my breath back.

‘I would like to float in this cotton-candy water forever, please’; well, at least until my grumbling belly pulled me out and over to the beachside cantina. You can only go so long on tiny bags of nuts, power bars, and mystery food scraps found in baby’s car seat.

After stuffing our faces full of fish, mashed up carbs, and a margarita, or two, we moseyed back to our ‘cabina’ and fell into a deep real sleep, with the sounds of vacation reverberating around us.