We rolled into Miami on a Friday afternoon, the minivan groaning under the weight of Blanca’s “essential” bag of stuffed animals and Patrick’s mysterious backpack that jingled like a maraca factory. I’d like to say we cruised into town looking glamorous, but the reality was me yelling at Dave to not miss the hotel entrance while Blanca whined about needing a bathroom and Patrick sang something off-key from the back seat. Family road trips are basically survival competitions, right?
The JW Marriott felt like stepping into another dimension—marble floors, fancy lighting, that lobby smell that screams “you’re not in Tampa anymore.” The kids immediately started negotiating who got which bed, and Dave collapsed dramatically on the crisp white sheets like he had just hiked Mount Everest instead of sitting in traffic for four hours.
Dinner that night was on 1st Ave, and let me just tell you, my burger was so good I almost wanted to write it a love letter. It was messy and perfect, dripping down my hands in a way that would’ve been embarrassing if I wasn’t so committed. Dave ordered pancakes at 7 p.m. because that man refuses to follow any meal rules, and the kids got milkshakes that had more whipped cream than should be legal. Patrick wore half of his on his shirt, but at least it covered the jelly stain from breakfast.
The next day we braved South Beach. Walking down Collins Ave with two kids is basically herding caffeinated squirrels. Blanca wanted to look at every single boutique window like she was shopping for her future runway debut, while Patrick was on a mission to count every palm tree. We stopped for snow cones that melted faster than anyone could eat them, so naturally Patrick ended up sticky from head to toe.
And then came the cruise. Three days on the MSC Seascape to the Bahamas. It sounded like a dream, and it mostly was—if your dream includes wrangling kids who think the buffet is an Olympic sport. Blanca loaded her plate with bread rolls like she was preparing for winter, and Patrick discovered he “only eats pasta now.” Meanwhile, Dave and I tried to sneak in cocktails while the kids weren’t watching, which failed miserably because apparently children develop hawk vision at sea.
We did the whole sun-and-sand thing in the Bahamas, and I will forever have that mental picture of Patrick sprinting across the beach with his little legs pumping like a cartoon character while Blanca strutted behind him in sunglasses too big for her face. The cruise back felt like a blur of sunscreen, seashell souvenirs, and me reminding Dave for the fiftieth time that yes, I packed the passports.
We finally got back home to Tampa with sandy shoes, overstuffed laundry bags, and approximately 247 photos of blurry selfies. Was it relaxing? Absolutely not. But it was loud, messy, hilarious, and ours—and honestly, that’s way better than relaxing.