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I’m beginning to realize just how much potential vacations have for reversing the order of certain things in the universe.

For example, back home, our normal lives as parents involve being awake, showered, and engaged in the day at a much earlier hour. Jen and I work together to keep the house spotless and tidy. Speaking only for myself, I’m not a pretentious guy, but I make the bed every morning. I prefer to use certain tableware. I drink whisky from my finer crystal rock glasses. I keep my relatively few personal possessions—clothing, shoes, and other peripheral things organized and put away when I’m not using them. In fact, I’d venture to say that if you didn’t see me in the family photos on the wall, there’s a good chance you’d never know I even lived there.

The kids, on the other hand, exist only to be dragged from bed, force-fed their meals, clothed, and propped up like lifeless mannequins in the store front of humanity. Because they’re too lazy to empty, load, and run the dishwasher, they’d eat and drink from dirty dishes if we didn’t forbid it. They leave their crap everywhere and have to be told a thousand times to clean it up. I just asked my daughter, who at this very moment is sitting across the table from me eating a bowl of cereal, if this description seemed accurate. She gave a glare and said, “It’s close.”

But here on vacation, the earth begins to spin on its axis in the opposite direction. Again, speaking only for myself, I appear to devolve while the kids appear to evolve.

I only bring three changes of clothing for a ten day vacation, and yet keeping my laundry off of the bedroom floor feels like shoveling the driveway back home after ten inches of snowfall. I do it, but it’s overwhelming. Once the bedroom floor is finally shoveled, making sure the clothing gets to the washing machine is even harder. Beyond the bedroom floor, I’ll set things down and then five minutes later lose all recollection as to where I left them. I’m awfully tempted almost each and every day to let my morning swim in the pool count as my shower since lathering up with soap and shampoo takes work. I’m more than willing to drink my whisky from a cracked water glass, and I’m fully capable of going right back to bed after a couple cups of coffee and my morning dance right here at the computer with all of you.

I swear the kids are up at dawn. They’re still slobs when it comes to their stuff, but they’re slobs who make their beds and prefer to drink their morning milk from wine glasses or champagne flutes while admiring the various works of art throughout the home.

I expect that by the end of the week, the dinner conversations between them will sound more like:

“Oh, my dearest Evelyn,” Harrison says adjusting his tie. “That dinner dress is just smashing.”

“Why, thank you, brother,” Evelyn replies in a blush, tipping her high brim bonnet. “I do so enjoy the bright colors and the light fabric.”

“Indeed,” Madeline adds. “And with such beauty, no few number of lads along the boardwalk this day have lent an eye in your direction.”

“Oh, you flatter, kind sister.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Joshua interrupts. “Young sir, young ladies, be swift with your dining as father and mother have requested our presence in the gallery. We are to gather together on the chaises for an episode of Shark Week.”

“Oh, I do so enjoy Shark Week,” Evelyn giggles. “Master Harrison, do you find it agreeable, as well?”

“Yes, sister,” Harrison smiles, taking a sip of milk from his wine glass and giving a bright wink. “I rather think I do.”

Yeah, definitely. If we were to stay here another week or two, this would most certainly be the scene. A bit more time in the right kind of environment has the potential for bringing about change. In my case, it may not be all that good, but when it comes to my kids—and perhaps The Singleton Glendullan series—it appears to be a good thing.

I didn’t like this whisky’s 12-year-old sibling. It was bitter and burnt, like a lazy child playing video games who’s asked to load the dishwasher. But this 15-year-old edition is much better—more refined and mature. It offers a much fresher perspective on what that child can become with a little bit of time and careful direction.

The 15-year-old gives over scents of honeycomb, red raspberries, and a pinch of cinnamon. A sip sets a comparable scene, although replacing the honeycomb with malted chocolate. A touch of water enhances the fruity character.

The finish is medium in length, drawing on the whisky’s sweeter side—I’d say the raspberries from the nose and the chocolate from the palate.

In all, this is a good whisky, and for the price—around $45—it’s even more so enticing.

Although I have the feeling that if I stay here in Florida for much longer, even as my kids will most likely ascend to seats of a much higher class, I stand the chance of devolving beyond all care for any of the whisky details I’ve shared. In fact, I think it’s quite possible that the carefree nature of life combined with the relaxing sunshine will see me under a bridge on I-4 with a bottle of Scoresby in a paper sack.

On second thought, even as a homeless bridge-dweller, I’d never stoop so low as to consume Scorseby. I’d at least beg for the lesser The Singleton 12-year-old.