And then we got up ass-early for expedited ship-leaving, because if you're not off the ship by 7:30 you have to wait and have your bags taken by the stewards and then returned to you later and somewhere else, instead of just hauling them off yourself like a champ.
We had one last tater-totty breakfast at 5:30 and were off the ship by 6:30, at the airport checking our bags by 8 and driving around, looking for anything to be open at 9 on what we'd forgotten was a Sunday, until we finally just went for second-breakfast. Joel and I bought bad-ass neon South Beach souvenirs for his siblings, as one does.
We were weirdly separated on the Miami-Houston flight, with Joel sitting way over there beside a shrieking infant, and me, mom and dad back here behind three drunken, singing hooligans, and Matt and Gillian directly in front of said hooligans and beside a Consummate Chatterer, and boo and Darren somewhere else (in front of the shrieking infant, I believe). It was the worst flight for all of us, but especially Gillian, who had both drunken singing and incessant photo-showing to contend with.
But at least it was the short flight, and at least the flight from Houston to Vancouver was sparsely populated, and at least the limo got us home safely, and at least we managed to squeeze a cruise into the two-week window between when Joel finished school and when Joel started school again, and at least everyone found time off work, and at least this baby is still self-watering. Vive la vacation!