Looking back now on my year of traveling light, alone and broadly, I often ask myself how I did it ... and why.

Don't get me wrong. I'm very happy about the path my life wandering has taken, and there's certainly no way I could have found this content and happy place I'm in now if I hadn't gone around the world, but having just unpacked after only a week of holiday in Mauritius, I'm thinking I don't want to see the inside of a suitcase for a very long time.

Am I that much older now than I was then?

Okay. Fourteen years have been tacked on to my time sheet, and that's fourteen years of wear and tear, gray hair, wrinkles, sags, bag, creaks and groans, niggling aches and such that have me generally less tolerant of sardine-like conditions with reduced leg space, un-stowed tray tables and mile-long queues of bag-dragging.

Fourteen years have also seen a lot more miles passing under me, as an end to that year of travel did not mean the end of travel and I've logged a lot of air time since ... especially with home now unreachable by any other method.

Although I maintain a curiosity about new places, a fascination with other cultures and an appreciation for experiences that teach and stretch and keep my perspective fresh and flexible, there's less gloss on the charm of the process than there was in years past.

There's no doubt that traveling with kids, especially a two-year-old, brings a certain turbulence to trips that lone passengers don't experience ... unless, of course, they're unlucky enough to be seated within kicking-screaming-tossing-smelling distance.

And it's no longer the case that I can make brief calculations about weather, likelihood of laundry opportunities and possible social commitments, then toss a few items in a bag and take off. I now pack for four of us ... Mark is about as willing to put thought into potential needs as is Sam and left to his own devices would be short just about every necessity ... and individual requirements vary greatly, so packing is no relaxing routine, but rather a stress-filled venture into imagining potentials for disaster.

Fourteen years ago, I was ready, willing and able to throw caution to the wind, climb into a taxi, tuk tuk or trishaw and explore around the next corner, and the next, and the next while losing myself in crowds confident that I'd eventually again find the last room I'd checked into and something to eat.

Now, crowds have me panicking, grabbing my kids, shouting for Mark to be sure we're both on the same child-minding wave length, and the next corner brings concerns about traffic and drains and strangers with grubby hands and a thing for my daughter's cheeks.

So, yes, I'm older and wear down faster and travel is more complicated with kids and I've been to most of the places I've wanted to see. None of these, however, is the real reason a week's vacation has me questioning my earlier sanity that saw me traveling constantly for months on end and presently unwilling to even begin to contemplate another trip any time in the foreseeable future.

The truth of the matter? I love being home. I'm fifty-six-years old now, and I'm happy to be home with Mark and Sam and Cj, in my house with my work, my routines, my view, my friends.

I have no doubt that were I less happy where I am, I'd have more energy for travel, but amazingly, thankfully, I am more happy so have less ... and that's okay by me.

After a week of vacation I'll need a week to rest up from my vacation, and although that sounds like it could be a geezer concept, I'm thinking it may have more to do with traveling as a family with me being mom. Also okay by me.