I need a vacation from my vacation

It’s all decided.
I’m moving to Denmark.
Never mind that my Danish knowledge begins with “Alas, poor Yorick” and ends with those scrumptious butter cookies.
One of those human resource consulting companies (officially Hewitt Associates, which means just as much to all of us as that gobbledy-gook title!) has issued its breakdown of global employment practices.
No surprise there – we Americans are allotted the fewest vacation days by our employers.
But the Danish like to stop and smell the roses.
Hewitt Associates puts the average Dane’s vacation at 31 days each year.
It’s no wonder Hans Christian Anderson managed to get “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” “The Ugly Duckling,” “The Little Mermaid,” “Thumbelina,” “The Princess on the Pea,” and hundreds more published in his lifetime.
He didn’t have Mum and Dad gnashing their teeth when he retired from his writer’s garret to the pool with a cocktail for a week… or two!
I left the office last Monday evening intent on enjoying my four days of freedom indulging in the pleasures of all things Sesame.
In other words, Jonathan and I loaded Jillian in the car and headed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, his parents on our heels.
We’d no sooner rolled her stroller into every toddler’s fantasy world when the skies opened, and we got a taste of monsoon season Bucks County, Pa. style.
It rained on the Rock Around the Block Parade, then hailed as we huddled in Elmo’s studio watching His Royal Redness dance around his goldfish Dorothy while Jillian clapped her little hands off.
An hour later, the rain slowed to a drizzle, we strolled back out of Sesame Place intent on spending the second day of our two-day passes hitting every ride.
After sharing a king size bed with a cranky 2-year- and now 4-day-old desperately missing her bed, Jonathan and I “woke” up in a 55-degree hotel room.
Our alarm silenced by someone the evening before, we had an hour to make three people presentable for pictures at the Elmo and Friends Breakfast.
Putting our Super Grover skills to work, we made it.
I’ve got pictures of Jillian’s fingers in Ernie’s mouth, her hands clenched around Bert’s and her entire body enveloped in a bright orange Zoe hug to prove it.
Her syrup-covered dress switched out for a bathing suit, we made off for the rides where Jonathan and I discovered just how much fun a toddler can have when her parents get that cold.
A lot.
Trust me.
She’s fearless.
And more than my newly purchased Old Navy outlet suit had turned blue.
We hit every ride allowed for the under 42-inch set until the unseasonably windy, cloudy day sent us shivering for the car.
Ah, Jonathan and I thought, naptime.
Ah, Jillian decided, time to jump off the bed, grab snacks from the bag in the corner, demand “Up,” jump off the bed, climb into the otherwise unused porta-crib, demand “out,” and .… you get the idea.
Two days later, we were home.
Now I face this column and back to work.
I need a vacation.
Denmark, I’m on my way.

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