And the Wheee of Life Keeps Turning

 

There’s something wildly unfair about how quickly toddlers become little people. One minute Joni was this tiny, sleepy burrito who fit in my hand, and now she’s wobbling triumphantly across the living room like a drunken sailor. This past week she started walking for real, not the cautious “two steps then collapse into a parent” kind of walking, but determined exploration. Suddenly the house feels like a death trap with various corners and edges she could crack her head on. 

And with walking has come personality in overdrive. She’s become coy in the funniest ways, tilting her head down dramatically when someone talks to her, peeking upward with this mischievous smirk like she’s fully aware she’s adorable and weaponizing it. She’s social now too, eager to wave at strangers, charm restaurant servers, and flirt shamelessly with anyone willing to acknowledge her existence. Yet five minutes later she’ll bury herself into my shoulder with this deeply cuddly little sigh that makes it impossible to move for fear of disturbing the moment.

Somehow, amid all the chaos of physician schedules, night shifts, dogs, dishes, and the endless laundry factory that accompanies children, we’ve stumbled into a genuinely wonderful routine. Joni sleeps like an absolute champion, which still feels less like parenting skill and more like winning some kind of biological lottery. Our evenings have rhythm now. Dinner, bath, books, cuddles, bed. There’s a comfort in the predictability that younger me would have found suspiciously domestic, but current me treasures deeply.

The most exciting part of all of this is watching her world suddenly widen. Walking changes everything. Before, life happened mostly where we placed her. Now she gets to decide. She can investigate corners, chase the dogs, carry objects from one completely inappropriate location to another. Every doorway is an adventure. Every room is a possibility. You can almost see the gears turning in her head as independence arrives one tiny step at a time.

And just as we’re getting used to this version of life, here comes another baby.

What’s strange is how different this feels from the first time around. With Joni, we documented everything. Every kick. Every app update comparing fetal size to obscure produce. Every tiny milestone got memorialized like we were historians preserving evidence for future civilizations. This time? I mostly just feel impatient. Not anxious. Not scared. Just overwhelmingly ready for her to arrive already. I want to meet her. I want to see who she is. I want to watch Joni become a big sister and see our family click into its final shape.

Well… mostly not anxious. Tonight may be testing that theory a little. It’s the night before we head to the hospital, and in a truly masterful display of poor planning, I somehow scheduled myself for a night shift. Emily is understandably a bit stressed since this is all happening earlier than expected, while much of our family support cavalry is still en route. Timing, as it turns out, remains mostly fictional no matter how many calendars two physicians own.

But even tonight, underneath the logistics and exhaustion and low-level panic, excitement wins. I can feel it sitting there quietly beneath everything else. We’re about to meet our second daughter. Our family is about to become complete. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, Joni will probably toddle into the hospital room with that shy little grin, completely unaware that her whole world is about to grow too.

What Happens in Vegas…

We slept in like proper vacationers, the automatically closing blackout curtains doing their heroic work against the brightness of morning.    Breakfast came with an aerial view over the Strip. There is something deeply indulgent about sipping Irish-creamed-coffee while looking down at the chaos you plan to wander through later. Joni (who has officially decided that hotel life suits her) was all smiles as we packed her into the stroller for a long, meandering tour through the casinos. The lights, noises and overall busyness overwhelmed the senses but she took it all in wide-eyed. 

One of the highlights of our wander was stopping at the Fountains of Bellagio. Joni was absolutely mesmerized. She leaned forward on the fountain ledge, eyes locked in, tiny hands gripping her mamas’s as if she didn’t want to miss a second.  The choreography of light and water seemed almost magical through her gaze. It was one of those simple travel moments that feels unexpectedly sweet.

Lunch was a steaming, soul-hugging bowl of ramen, exactly the right balance of indulgent and restorative, before we retreated for a long, glorious siesta. There is something poetic about resting in climate-controlled luxury while knowing we are soon returning to the frigid, honest cold of Alaska. Joni capped the afternoon with some pool time, splashing happily, before being tucked in with our now-trusted babysitter.  And just like that, Emily and I were off for the pinnacle of the day: our final date night of the trip.

Enter Superfrico; part restaurant, part fever dream, part circus, part comedy club, fully unforgettable. From the moment we sat down, center stage, best seats in the house, practically in the splash zone, we knew this was going to be special.  Acrobats flew overhead. Contortionists folded into shapes that defy both anatomy and physics. Comedians roamed the room with razor timing. And a bubble artist (I’ll link a YouTube clip here because words simply fail: https://youtu.be/Bvl4m0PdL60?si=G5ee0Lw2e56bDcUX). 

And then, the moment…. The male cow stripper. Yes. A sentence I never imagined typing. At one climactic point, he aimed his “udders” directly at me and shot a stream straight into my face. Emily laughed harder than I have seen her laugh in years, the kind of laughter where she fully loses composure. I was soaked. The crowd erupted. I bowed. Marriage is built on these moments. It was absurd and theatrical and completely Vegas. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We interacted with nearly every act, high fives, playful banter, direct eye contact that said, “Yes, we are fully committed to this chaos.” It felt intimate and electric all at once. The food was amazing, the acts were unforgettable, and the whole vibe could only be described as nirvana. 

And then we ended the night in my favorite Las Vegas ritual: sitting at a bar for two uninterrupted hours, doing nothing but people watching. No phones. No agenda. Just observing the parade. Sequins and bachelor parties. Very old men with very young women…. High rollers and first-timers. The overly confident and the utterly confused. Vegas never disappoints when you simply sit still and let it walk by. As we head back north, I’ll carry the warmth of desert nights, the echo of hysterical laughter, Joni’s wide-eyed wonder at dancing fountains, and the faint memory of being publicly baptized by a dairy-themed performer. Truly, what more could one ask for? What. A. Life. 

3 Star Date Night in Las Vegas

 

We had the absolute joy of dining at Joël Robuchon for date night with Joni being babysat in our hotel.  The only way I can describe the evening is this: it felt like stepping into a deliciously choreographed dream.

From the moment we entered the French cafe themed dining room, everything shimmered, not in a flashy Vegas way, but in a quiet, elegant, “you’re-about-to-experience-something-special” way. 

The evening unfolded like a storybook. We were greeted by a thoughtful babymoon gift. Our first course began with delicate caviar and crab, light and briny and luxurious, paired with Cristal Champagne that felt celebratory from the first sip.  It was so elegantly prepared by hand (see photo!). Then came potatoes and foie gras layered with truffle; rich and velvety, but somehow never heavy. The Maine lobster was sweet and refined, the avocado and salmon bright and refreshing. 

The scallops were tender and beautifully seared, gently floating in an apple cider foam and walnuts that added just enough crunch and warmth.  The sunchoke and parmesan course felt cozy and earthy, like winter wrapped in silk. Even the vegetable millefeuille felt magical, proof that vegetables, in the right hands, can feel like royalty (Emily’s quote).

And then… the black cod. The star of the evening. The best fish I’ve had in years. Perfectly caramelized on the outside, buttery and silky within, with a malabar pepper sauce that added depth without stealing the spotlight. It was one of those dishes where you pause mid-bite, look across the table, and silently acknowledge: this is extraordinary. We even complimented the chef as Alaskans with deep black cod experience. 

The venison and lamb courses were rich and beautifully composed, each bite balanced and thoughtful. And just when we thought we couldn’t possibly be more impressed, dessert arrived; saffron panna cotta, exotic chocolate creations, followed by an entire dessert CART filled with a whimsical parade of mignardises that felt like edible jewels.   

We opted for the highest class wine pairing, and it turned dinner into something truly transcendent. These weren’t just nice wines, they were some of the finest wines in the world, poured generously and explained with passion by our personal sommelier. Each glass was best in its class. The pairings didn’t just accompany the food; they exponentially lifted each dish. 

What truly elevated the entire evening, though, were our incredible waiters, Driss (Frenchman)and Andrew (midwesterner). They were warm, intuitive, and effortlessly knowledgeable, guiding us through each course with enthusiasm and grace. They made a world-class experience feel personal and comfortable. 

By the end of the night, we were floating. Smiling. Grateful. And stuffed after 14 courses. 

And because this is Las Vegas, the night didn’t end there. We made our way to Absinthe at Caesars Palace, which felt like stepping from refined culinary opera into delightfully unhinged rancorous and raunchy circus cabaret. The bohemian styled tent buzzed with energy, and from the first outrageous monologue by The Gazillionaire, we knew we were in for something wildly entertaining. 

The acrobatics were jaw-dropping, the humor irreverent and laced with sexual innuendos, and the entire production had us in stitches with laughter.  After a night of impeccable precision and polished elegance, Absinthe was the perfect exclamation point; bold, daring, hilarious, and just a little bit mischievous. We left laughing, slightly stunned, and feeling like we had experienced the full spectrum of what makes Vegas unforgettable. 

Zion a pinnacle national Park

Thank goodness! Joni soaked up the sleep the night before in the most glorious way possible; a full, uninterrupted 12 hours. Twelve. Hours. We awoke as new people and ready to tackle Zion. 

I laced up early and headed out for a sunrise run through Zion. The cliffs glowed radiant pink and gold as the first light spilled over one side of the canyon and onto the other. There is something deeply humbling about running beneath sandstone monoliths that have existed for millions of years while you huff along contemplating your life choices. The air was crisp, the river quiet, and for a brief stretch I felt like a very grounded, outdoorsy person.

With the family well-rested, we took advantage of off-season magic, the scenic drive was open to private vehicles. That meant we could cruise the main canyon road and hit all the major viewpoints without shuttle lines.  It did, however, require repeatedly extricating our toddler from her car seat. In. Out. In. Out. She did well up until the very end. 

Joni was mesmerized. The towering cliff walls, rising straight up from the valley floor held her gaze uninterrupted. She’d point. Babble. Squint into the sunlight. It’s hard not to be awed in a place like this.

Later we drove into Springdale for a phenomenal lunch, the kind where everyone is relaxed, sun-kissed, and suspiciously cheerful. Then we returned to the hotel for a strategic parenting maneuver: spa massages, in shifts. One parent relaxed while the other entertained Joni in what can only be described as toddler heaven; sandbox time, cool grass patches, and more pool swimming. The weather has been absolute perfection: warm but not scorching, blue skies, just enough breeze to make you feel alive.

That night we sat under the stars, sipping wine and nibbling macaroons. The rosey cliffs faded into silhouettes as the sky deepened to speckled navy. 

Joni slept another full night (as a new parent I never realized how monumental these were while traveling).

I set out again at sunrise, only to discover that the Zion Half Marathon was happening that morning. Suddenly I was surrounded by intensely fit humans doing dynamic stretches and light jogs that looked suspiciously like my maximum effort. I believe I served as a morale booster. Nothing inspires confidence like passing a middle-aged dad wheezing through mile three. You’re welcome, athletes of Zion.

Having survived my public display of cardio humility, we decided to hike. Nothing ambitious; we do, after all, travel with a toddler and a pregnant woman, so we tackled the Lower Emerald Pools and wandered through The Grotto.

 

The Lower Emerald Pools trail winds beneath “a weeping rock” and gentle waterfalls, with hanging gardens clinging improbably to stone.

It was a great summit for a mild hike. The Grotto was less interesting but Joni enjoyed the minor hiking.

We followed it up with another spectacular lunch. We decided to continue our tradition of visiting the local library. Joni had the time of her life and even did some push-chair walking!!

I was so proud of her! The afternoon finished with a well-earned siesta, and, because we are apparently aquatic now, more pool time.

That evening we returned to our now-beloved ritual: sitting under the stars. But this time, the sky delivered a rare celestial parade. All eight planets visible in one sweeping arc across the darkness.

Tomorrow, we trade giant monoliths for neon excess. Las Vegas, here we come.

The Road to Zion

Last night was catastrophic.

Joni did not sleep. Not “woke up once or twice”, nope the little sleep terrorist held us hostage all night long.  The whole family lay there in rotating states of delusion until morning arrived.

I had grand plans for an early-morning rim run along the South Rim; crisp air, canyon sunrise, and a much desired fitness moment. Instead, I found myself trapped between poor sleep and the logistical nightmare of my running shoes being located in the bag directly adjacent to Joni’s sleeping head. There are risks I’m willing to take in life. That was not one of them. So I sighed and chose survival over cardio.

We groggily arose, fueled up with breakfast, and did what any rational parents would do before a 5.5-hour road trip: we tried to exhaust the toddler. We let her tear through our hotel room. Then, before leaving, we stopped to visit the pack mules; sturdy and comically unimpressed beasts who looked far better rested than we felt. 

And then we hit the road.

We could not have asked for a better toddler traveler. She crashed for about 2.5 hours total between naps and was downright cheerful in between. Emily, despite functioning on approximately 11 collective minutes of sleep, rocked the toddler entertainment. a

The drive itself was jaw-dropping.

(AI helped with this paragraph) We had to route around the Grand Canyon, which gave us sweeping, unexpected views of mesas rising like fortresses from the earth. The landscape shifted constantly, deep canyons carved into red rock, vast open desert plains glowing rust and gold, wind-sculpted dunes rolling into the distance. The colors feel exaggerated, almost unreal. Brick red cliffs against impossibly blue skies. Pale sandstone bands layered like a geological cake. It’s the kind of scenery that makes you forget how tired you are — at least temporarily. 

We stopped midway in Page for lunch and, in keeping with our new pro-level travel tradition, sought out the local library: Page Public Library. Once again, a major victory for the whole family. We let Joni burn energy before loading back into the car for the final push. 

(AI helped again, im getting tired) As we crossed into Utah, the terrain grew even more dramatic. Approaching Zion from the north feels cinematic. You pass through wide-open ranch land before the road begins to narrow and rise. The rock formations sharpen and tower overhead. By the time you descend toward Springdale, massive sandstone cliffs glow in shades of coral and crimson, stacked like colossal walls guarding the valley. The transition from open plateau to enclosed canyon is breathtaking. It feels like you’re being ushered into something sacred. 

We finally rolled into Springdale and settled into our absolutely incredible hotel: Cliffrose Springdale Lodge.

Heated pools. Curious deer wandering near the grounds.  Personalized fire pits flickering at dusk next to a quiet babbling creek at the edge of the property. Towering Zion cliffs framing the entire scene like a painted backdrop. It’s the kind of place where you immediately exhale. 

Fortunately, Joni fell asleep quickly.

The room is quiet. The creek is murmuring outside. The fire pits are glowing.

Let’s just hope it sticks.🤞