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Sometimes you just have to hit the road. Even the most staid and dependable among us are vulnerable to the inexplicable wanderlust that fills our hearts and minds with a need to get out of town and seek adventure now and then.

Never a traveler myself, I had always dreamed of being one. I had always admired Jack Kerouac, and harbored a fascination for the lyrics of vagabond Woody Guthrie. That old traveling itch invaded our home two weeks ago and propelled us to seek fun and excitement in exotic locales.

Exotic, for us, is Wrightsville Beach, so after days of typing my fingers to the bone online, looking for hotel deals, we had reservations and excitedly began the packing procedure known as "traveling with a baby."

Four hours, two suitcases, one large foam play-mat, SPF 50 and a Dora the Explorer couch later, we were on the road.

We are simple people, and the mere act of heading to the beach for a few days made the three of us a little giddy.

This being our first real road trip with our daughter, my husband and I brought along a CD of fun kid songs, and launched into a rousing rendition of "Honker Ducky Dinger Jamboree."

Addison, yawning in her car-seat, drifted off to sleep somewhere around Burlington, and slumbered for three hours, awaking to a sea breeze in the hotel parking lot.

Our vacation paid for itself within five minutes, upon seeing our daughter's face when she saw the ocean for the first time. Addison waved and smiled at the water, clapping her hands as her father and I animatedly did the same and cheered, "Hi, ocean!"

There was no scuba diving, no deep sea fishing, carriage tours or fine dining (except for a killer chimichanga).

Our holiday was blissfully absent of big plans or schedules. Instead, our spirits were refreshed and recharged by the small, mundane capers that defined this time away as "ours."

Highlights included a trip to Fort Fisher Aquarium, collecting sea-shells, laughing at the sea gulls as they swooped to collect wayward Cheerios (though that experience quickly turned ugly, and we were forced to flee to the shelter of the hotel for a few moments until the frenzy died down).

Like any good road story, ours was peppered with high adventure, which included getting lost in downtown Wilmington, despite a newly purchased GPS system, and twice encountering an angry mob.

Yes, angry mobs.

I've already mentioned the seagull incident, and there was also a group of college students in a pizza place who insisted that I was Molly Ringwald.

Let's just say I think we were all glad I was getting our pizza to go. Aggressive birds and mistaken identity aside, the three of us really enjoyed one another on our minivacation; we laughed more and smiled gratuitously.

Just when we were getting used to being nomads, we found ourselves checking out of our hotel, and back into everyday life. The car re-packed with architectural precision, our little family buckled up to return home, our faces sun-kissed and salty. Addison slept the entire trip home, much as she had three days earlier, but this time with visions of the ocean dancing through her dreams.

Now, back in the daily grind, remnants of our beach trip serve as reminders of the freedom we shared together.

The pictures, souvenirs, and pesky sand that still lingers in Addison's toys all pleasantly recall a time, not so long ago, when we three were carefree travelers, just like Woody Guthrie, if Woody had travelled with a Dora couch.

Or a large foam play-mat.

Or if he had been mistaken for Molly Ringwald.

Nevermind.

Judy Caldwell-Midero lives in Jamestown with her husband, daughter and kitty. She enjoys reading, writing, wearing sensible shoes, and a good cup of coffee. Contact her at judycaldwellmidero@gmail.com.