Eight and half months ago we surprised our kids with a one-night stay at Great Wolf Lodge.
Apparently the highlight of their lives.
While they bobbed in the wave pool just out of reach, I craned to keep track of their heads or their hair or their flailing arms. When they stood in line for the kiddie slides, I did, too. In a swimsuit. While others sat in lounge chairs, I patroled the pool deck wary of my non-swimmers listlessly floating like driftwood in their life jackets. When my youngest sprinted past me on the wet cement, I shouted into the noise of ten lawn mowers. He kept on running. And I yelled myself hoarse.
It was awesome. I can’t wait to go back.
For the last eight months, give or take an afternoon, our kids have asked endlessly to return. Or rather when we’re going back to Great Wolf Lodge.
They haven’t forgotten.
But what they don’t realize is… neither have I.
Yesterday I sat outside to finish a book.
A rare privilege.
Only when I peeked in on my kids, I found they’d packed up the firetruck bed with games, books and blankets–all they thought they’d need for their trip.
“Where you goin’?” I asked. I marveled at their efforts.
And in unison they shouted, “GREAT WOLF LODGE!”