That’s right, part two. All these weeks later.

After we went to the beach, Nora and I drove to Chapel Hill where we spent a week. J had to fly back up to New Haven to work, but he came back and joined us that next weekend for a friend’s wedding. I’d been sort of dreading this Chapel Hill trip. I know that sounds crazy, but let me explain. I loved living there for all those years that we did. We had great friends there, and great weather, and really great carport parties. And, you know, we left because J got a post doc at Yale, not because we were sick and tired of living the easy life down south. I cried like crazy while driving down 15-501 after we’d packed up the moving van and headed out. An especially emotional time as it directly followed the Cardboard Incident of 2007.

So why was I dreading this extra week of vacation, when I would see a bunch of old friends and rejoice in visiting my old stomping grounds? Precisely because we loved it there so much. I was honestly worried that going back would set off an intense nostalgia binge and I’d return from the trip horribly depressed about the fact that we don’t live in North Carolina anymore. I was so afraid of this feeling that I was actually nervous about going to Chapel Hill.

Well, as you might guess, once I got to town and settled in with our wonderful friends Mike and Jess, who’d so kindly offered to host us for the week, all my concerns melted into thin air. I loved being back and I loved taking Nora to my favorite spots, and introducing her to all the people I used to know. She met people I used to work with. We had drinks with people I used to drink with and, amazingly, having a toddler along seemed totally natural. Every day was sunny. Nora met my friend Karla and her triplets. We were having the best time. GOD CHAPEL HILL IS AWESOME, I thought. And we are totally moving back. WE ARE MOVING BACK!

So I started telling everybody about how we were moving back although that statement had no basis in reality. Whatever, ha ha, it’s happening, I thought. It’s not like I was going insane or anything, I just loved being back in Chapel Hill, which strangely felt like more like home than New Haven. And I sincerely thought about how great it would be to live there again, with our friends and the quality grocery stores, forever and ever.

Believe me, after such a good time, I steeled myself against the return to Connecticut, fearing an even worse reentry period than I’d predicted. From sun-drenched fields and friendly banter with strangers to the land of 9 trillion Dunkin’ Donuts and neverending winter? Come on! That’s terrible!

We drove home, stopping quickly overnight in D.C. to split up the trip. When we got back I began unpacking and getting things in order after what seemed like months - not a couple weeks - away. I kind of enjoyed re-settling into our little house and talking about warmer weather plans, like starting our garden. But I figured once I got over the excitement of being back home and not living out of a suitcase, the sad times would set in. I’d cry just like I did on 15-501.

It never happened.

I loved being home again - home - and spending time with family and friends and going on playdates. I loved driving over the Q bridge in my less-than-awesome Hyundai Elantra. Going to breakfast at the diner. Starting the tomato plants. Walking along the water. Cleaning off the patio. Participating in my Mommy Bootcamps. Planting grass. Going to the Starbucks with the really nice baristas. Chatting with my neighbors. Returning to our Italian class. I swear to you, going back to Chapel Hill made me feel more at home in Connecticut than I have since we moved here. I don’t know why and I don’t really care.

The feeling is so good. Maybe we will move back to Chapel Hill one day, but I now realize that my life’s happiness doesn’t depend on where we end up. The point is that I didn’t need to worry, I was much more settled than I thought I was here in the very happening city of New Haven. And furthermore, Dunkin’ Donuts? I love that place.

Several days ago my parents left for a trip to Sicily. As their trips abroad have in the past, this one is sure to yield excellent electronic observations from my father and, in fact, already has. In the form of tweets. I don’t know if they’re really enjoying the Sicilian wine, or he’s just jetlagged or what, but please, for the love of God, if anyone has any interpretations, I am all ears.

no bad days yet in Permo good weathern every restayrnt s find lots indians cathedral was suroris big butno theme

Um. And then there’s:

It’s 1010 am. Question–got to buffer and have normal breakfast ot gp. Take back coffee, and lie abed another hour. Italian style csptureus

Which shall be defined here for purposes of reference in future blog posts. I feel a bunch of J stories coming on…

“Justin knowledge” is information that my husband imparts to me - or anyone - that is based on some theory he has developed out of thin air. He will tell you that the theory is, in fact, a hypothesis, based on pertinent facts and observations, but I don’t know. And he presents the knowledge as though it is fact.

Here’s an example, one of the first pieces of Justin knowledge that I realized might not be actual knowledge:

“You can’t put Vietri (a type of Italian pottery and tableware that I am fond-of-bordering-on-obsessed-with) in the dishwasher!”

But, as I finally thought to check the Website and confirm this bit of strongly-worded advice, I realized that, happily, you so fucking can.

Yesterday he told me that the mailmen and women who work Saturdays aren’t assigned that shift, but ask for it in order to pick up a little extra cash. Reminding me that I really needed to address this subject on the blog.

I’m struggling to think of some more examples right now (there are a lot) but if anyone would like to share an incident in the comments section, I’d love it.

“This is nice. When you have a drink you’re like the old Justin.”

“What ‘old Justin’”

“The one I first met. Before we were even dating. So unbelievably easygoing.”

“That’s because when we first got together we were always drinking. The night we met? I was drinking. Every time we hung out? Drinking.”

“The best way to start a relationship.”

I never really eat Pop-Tarts so the fact that we had basically the biggest box of Pop-Tarts I’d ever seen at this beach house in Emerald Isle wasn’t exactly the most exciting thing about our vacation, not at first. We got excited, first and foremost, about the house itself, where a whole bunch of J’s family - parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and one Grandma Peggie - had gathered for a week of vacation. Despite living in North Carolina all those years I’d never been to Emerald Isle and when we got there I just couldn’t believe the huge, deserted beach and the dolphins swimming just out beyond the breakers. And then there was the HOT TUB. So, naturally, within about half an hour of arriving, we’d made cocktails and were settled in or around the hot tub telling stories and laughing and talking about just how incredible this vacation was gonna be.

And guys, that is exactly how it went, from day one until the very last and nearly tearful day of our trip a week later. This looming, purple beach house was perfect for a group of our size and we spent the week eating big, family dinners, looking for shells, burying Nora’s feet in the sand, talking about Lauren Conrad’s literary talents, conducting a few handstand contests, not watching the news, reading novels voraciously by the pool, drinking coffee and eating pancakes and engaging in one vodka-fused dance off that featured plenty of Jay-Z but also Phoenix and that song “Possum Kingdom” by the Toadies.

For J and I, this vacation was particularly relaxing because, as you parents know, a “vacation” - once you have kids - is different, waaaaaayyyy different, than a vacation before you have kids. At least, if said kids are in attendance. Because when you have to take care of your children, that sort of puts a damper on the whole relaxing thing. Believe me, a vacation is a vacation, I’m not complaining, but it’s undoubtedly different with a child.

On this beach trip, however, we had like five trillion (estimate) live-in babysitters in the form of J’s family. And they were incredible! Every time I turned around they were making Nora breakfast or reading her a book or putting her hair in pigtails. At one point I was sitting down on the deck and when I asked J’s Aunt Andrea (who’d come down to bring us some snacks, I know, that’s the best, right?) how Nora was doing upstairs with everyone, she replied that today, “I wasn’t a parent,” and that I should just let them take care of her. That, my friends, that’s V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. And I’m incredibly grateful to all of them for giving us that.

So there was the beach and there was the sand and there were the dolphins. But the house also had this huge DVD collection and each bedroom featured a television and DVD player. So J and I picked out a couple of movies and most of our nights there, after Nora went to bed, we’d raid the upstairs pantries - packed with snack food - and we’d put in a movie and sit in the bed eating Pop-Tarts or maybe Handi-Snacks. Slightly suntanned, under the cool sheets after a long day of beach fun.

I don’t know if it’s because it was a fairly significant departure from my normal diet or what, but Jesus, I miss those nights with the Pop-Tarts. I think about all the good times we had, of course. It was the kind of trip you never forget. But there was something so inherently vacation-y about that peaceful, end-of-the-day exercise in relaxation, and as mundane as our semi-early nights were, they will forever be enshrined in the beach trip hall of fame.

I was talking to my sister in law, Megan, yesterday about our trip. She ate the Pop-Tarts on vacation, too. She said her mom had bought some recently and she didn’t even want them.

It’s just not the same now that we’re home, she told me. I know, I replied, I know exactly what you mean.

Last week after deciding I couldn’t possibly stay awake to watch the premiere of the final season (I hate you, MTV) of “The Hills,” I realized how ludicrous I was acting and tucked myself into bed for a half hour of the best television ever in the history of the world. Just deal with it.

That episode was so good, I mean, so good, my favorite part being the fact that Heidi’s jaw was sore so she had to talk in that tiny little voice. Bring on the drama. Anyway, as a belated tribute to this farewell season, I wanted to share this video my friend Sarah (thanks, Sarah!) just sent me. These children should all win Emmys.

It’s been a while, and I have much to report, but I was just outside in the front yard, digging and thinking for the first time this season and I wanted to pause and reflect on the beautiful things that grow in our garden. If that sentence right there didn’t cause you to vomit all over yourself, I entreat you to read on, just for a second.

I’ve mentioned this before, but plants seem to like us. Killing plants, I realize, is something everyone faux-shamefully boasts of, no one willing to live up to a potential green thumb. But J and I, despite our sometimes haphazard existence, our many forgetful moments and the fact that, for the love of God we CANNOT seem to be on time to anything (anywhere, ever), can keep plants alive. We’re far from experts - far, far - but we have many good intentions for our lawn (front and back) and this year I think we’re going to make a lot of things happen. Like make grass grow. And birds descend. And possibly we’ll see some cucumbers that are bigger than my thumb sprout up right before our eyes, an exercise that didn’t go so well last year (although we had tons of proper-looking tomatoes).

Anyway, I didn’t get enough sleep last night and earlier I totally succumbed to an hour and a half of “SVU” when I should have been working (Jennifer, how do we combat the at-home thing?) but clumsily planting a few daylily bulbs that we found all big and healthy in a forgotten plastic flower pot made this begrudging Sunday suddenly seem very worthwhile. As in: spring in New Haven? Yeah, I am so down with that.