We've been back from vacation for two days now, and I realized on Saturday that the urge to share bad vacation stories is not unlike the need to share birth stories--particularly birth stories that involve squirm-in-your-seat gruesome details. Even though I had sworn nine years ago I wouldn't be one of those new mothers who went on and on in intimate detail about their labor and birth experience, only days after L.'s birth I found myself to be exactly that kind of woman.

Now that we're back, my two feet safely on the ground, I have a confession to make: I'm terrified of flying. I know we all have anxieties about flying, but I'm afraid in that stomach-churning, I-can't-breathe, heart-pounding, claustrophobic, walls-closing-in way that only people who are really afraid of flying can understand. I've managed to stay grounded for almost three years, thanks to Amtrak, but also thanks to rail repair and limited train availability I had to take the plunge and find three internet fares for the return home on Wednesday.

On the train Saturday the kids and I were lucky enough to score the coveted “family seats”—four seats together, two and two, facing each other. The train was pretty empty, so we were able to spread out our things over the fourth seat. L., who is perfectly capable of reading for hours by himself, wanted me to read his latest Hardy Boys novel non-stop; then discuss the merits of the latest article in his Flight Training magazine. T. colored and chatted, and colored and chatted.

I think there's a famous saying that in order to truly appreciate a place, you have to leave it first. This applies so perfectly to how I feel about Washington, D.C. When I was growing up, we were only a short car drive away from the heart of the city. Sometimes on the weekends, as a treat, we would drive down to the museums, and as an even bigger treat, we sometimes would get lunch or a snack at the Cascade Cafe (at the National Gallery of Art).