Of all the cities in the U.S., Las Vegas was the last one I ever wanted to visit. Maybe it’s because growing up, I lost every bet to an older, wiser brother. Maybe it’s because I’m past the age when I want to do something wild on the weekends. Maybe it’s because I didn’t believe people when they told me there’s plenty to do in Vegas besides gamble. Whatever the reason, a business trip forced me to visit Sin City during the harshest winter of my life and I’m glad it did.

Even before the slot machines greeted me at the Vegas airport, I’d decided to never leave my hotel. That’s one of the great things about Vegas hotels—they have everything you need at your disposal: restaurants, salons, nightly shows and even a magic shop where I picked up a great box of tricks for my 8-year-old daughter.

             After watching CSI re-runs with the new perspective of “Hey, I’ve been there,” my gaze landed on the Las Vegas magazine on my bureau. On the cover stood a woman in an elegant black gown with matching silk gloves and a caption that made my heart skip a beat: Titanic. The traveling exhibit had caught my attention months earlier, but I hadn’t been able to see it. Within minutes, I stepped out into the sunshine, hailed a taxi and headed for the Luxor. The exhibit eerily re-created the luxury ship so well, I vacillated between longing for such opulence and shuddering at the tragic end to so many lives. My boarding pass held the name of a real passenger, Thomas Drake Martinez Cardeza, a man returning from an African safari whose suite featured two bedrooms, a sitting room and a private fifty-foot promenade. At first, I thought, “Well, I’ll survive since I’m first class.”

I walked along a frigid wooden deck in a dark room to find individual stories interspersed between porcelain dishes, alligator pocketbooks, and spectacles recovered from the ocean floor. I read about a man’s possessions that went down with the ship, whose life was only spared because he’d been shanghaied before the Titanic disembarked. How lucky, I thought ironically. I read about a family that could’ve afforded first class cabins, but to save money, chose to stay in second class. I hope that decision didn’t cost them their lives, I thought. I read about a woman who felt her life was ruined because she lost her husband when the ship sank. I’d forgotten about the captain’s cry for “women and children first.” Maybe Thomas Drake Martinez Cardeza didn’t survive, after all. I shivered.

            I definitely studied the list of those who died closely before I exited the exhibit.

            After surviving one of the greatest shipwrecks of all time, I became bold enough to explore more of the city. I took in the impressive trapeze act at Circus, Circus and the Bellagio fountains, which danced to classical music. I walked along the strip, enjoying the spectacle of colored lights, pillars and roller coasters, which I’d only ever seen in pictures. An hour whizzed by and I was happy I’d dared to leave my hotel.          

            What surprised me the most about Vegas was how friendly the people were. Maria, the housekeeper at the Riviera, gave me a full-sized container of conditioner from her own locker because I’d forgotten mine at home (and wouldn’t let me pay her for it). An Ethiopian taxi driver insisted I take his bottled water when my sinus infection caused me to break into a coughing fit. The cashier at the 7-11, who sold me a postage stamp, made me laugh when he told me his tech-savvy little brother asked him how to address an envelope. Then the boy said, “Never mind. I’ll just Google it.”

            So, thank you, Nevada’s City of Lights, for showing me there’s more to you than meets the eye. A few days later, when I returned to the piles of snow and freezing temperatures of Indiana, I missed the warmth of Vegas—in more ways than one.

Visit www.lasvegas.com to learn more about things to do on your Vegas vacation and visit www.RMSTitanic.net to see where you can experience history for yourself.

If you need a good book to read on the flight, check out www.karensnovels.com for “Happy Endings with a Twist.” Karen Lenfestey’s novel, A Sister’s Promise, has been called “intriguing, sometimes humorous, and heart-warming” and has sold over 40,000 copies at Amazon.

Have you already watched Miracle on 34th Street and It’s a Wonderful Life and every other Christmas movie you can think of? I love the classics, but I also enjoy discovering a family film I’ve never seen before. If you’re like me, longing for a heart-warming story in which you don’t have all of the lines memorized, check out Prancer.

Sam Elliott plays a financially-strapped widower who spends more time scolding his precocious daughter, Jessica, than talking to her. He’s at such a loss, he’s planning on sending her to live with her aunt. Before he can go through with his plans, his eight-year-old daughter finds an injured reindeer that she’s convinced is Prancer. Hiding and stealing food for this reindeer puts Jessica even more at odds with her gruff father.

This precious movie reminded me of the innocence and unconditional love of children. It almost made me cry while leaving a big, Santa-inspired smile on my daughter’s face. For a Christmas movie that speaks to the reality of hard times and the magic of the season, treat your family to Prancer.

Be sure to treat yourself to A Sister’s Promise which provides a Happy Ending with a Twist. For a chance to win a free autographed copy of “What Happiness Looks Like”, click here. Please "like" and "tweet."

           “Are fairies real?” my five-year-old daughter asked. She’d been playing with the fairy house she’d made out of a saltine cracker box and dollhouse furniture. She’d also checked out every fairy book she could find from the library. I didn’t hesitate to say, “No, fairies aren’t real.”

            Her blue eyes grew wide. “What about the Tooth Fairy?” she demanded.

            Oops. “I thought you meant Tinker Bell. She’s not real. But the Tooth Fairy is different.” Ugh.

            Is it a mistake to let your kids believe in the magic of pixie dust? I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to ruin the fun of placing a baby tooth under her pillow or the anticipation of waking up to discover a prize, either. Besides, I read that the Tooth Fairy was invented to calm children’s fears about their teeth falling out. So that seems like a good thing.

            But where do I draw the line? My daughter, now seven, is fascinated with mermaids. She has a book detailing the folklore in different cultures and in the back of the book, there’s a map. To her, a map of where mermaids live means they’re real. She looks to me for confirmation. I hesitate--having learned my lesson from answering too quickly about fairies. “Well, this map doesn’t tell us any places we could find on a real map. No names of oceans or countries to help us locate it.”

            “I’ll get a real map and figure it out.” I smiled at her determination and told her to look in the car.

            She came back with a roadmap of Ohio. “There aren’t any oceans in Ohio,” I laughed. Then she opened an atlas. I liked that she was giving herself a mini-geography lesson, but felt guilty that it was mixed with a myth. Would she someday be teased for her faith in mermaids? Would she write her college admissions essay on the magical world beneath the sea? Surely it wouldn’t go that far.

            She studied the maps and I savored the moments of quiet. I was looking forward to an afternoon of her carefully examining all fifty states. Wishful thinking! In no time, she determined that a bay in Alaska matched the one in the mermaid book. (Why did Alaska have to start with the letter A?) She showed me the similar oblong shape and opening to the ocean.

            “Hmm. Could be,” I said. “What do you think?” (I tell myself this is good parenting--letting her form her own opinion.)

            Even though she could tell I was cynical, she thought definitely yes. Mermaids must live in Alaska. At this point, her dad stepped in. He told her it’s awfully cold in the water there. She didn’t care. She held firm in her belief.

            In fact, after swim lessons one day, I praised her for swimming like a fish.             
            
           She grinned. “No, Mom. Better than a fish. I swim like a mermaid!”

            I chuckled. She had a point. 

If you enjoyed this post, check out Karen Lenfestey's novels, "A Sister's Promise" and "What Happiness Looks Like." Click below to read excerpts:

To a small child, there’s something magical about a Band-Aid. When my daughter scrapes her knee, she can’t wait to ask for one, as if it will instantly take away her pain. She loves Band-Aids so much she’ll request one for any boo-boo: a bump, a bruise, a mosquito bite. Once she gets a bandage, she searches her arms and legs for long-forgotten injuries, which might justify her request for another one.

            Her nursery school teacher has a great rule: No blood, no Band-Aid. I’ve borrowed this line a few times, much to my daughter’s dismay. Then I think, Gee, if it means that much to her, why not just give her a one? So I hand her a Dora Band-Aid and she says, no, that’s not the one she wants. She wants a princess one. Or maybe Hello Kitty. She starts digging through the boxes.

            Life was so much easier when bandages were like lunch sacks--you had your choice of just one color. As my daughter struggles to make her selection, I feel another one of my hairs turning gray. She definitely wants a princess design—but which one? Ariel, Jasmine, Belle or Sleeping Beauty? Decisions, decisions. . . . It’s time to use another one of her nursery school teacher’s lines: You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

            It doesn’t help that Band-Aids really are “ouchless” now. Back in the day, children may have liked getting doctored up, but they knew it would hurt later when the bandage came off. This generation will never understand the phrase “Do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.” In fact, their adhesive is so non-stick, they sometimes fall off within hours (or minutes with a little help). Right away my daughter gladly announces that she needs another.

            Band-Aids bring little ones so much joy, it’s tempting to allow them to plaster their bodies until they are covered in cartoon character graffiti. A friend of mine even gives her daughter Band-Aids as rewards for practicing the piano. How creative, I think. I insist, though, that there be some visible wound before doling out the sticky prize. I’d hate for the Band-Aid to lose its magical healing powers any sooner than necessary. In the back of my mind, I know that someday my daughter’s hurts won’t be fixed so easily. 

            One day my four-year old sat in the kitchen where she had smelled, touched and tasted the spices that I’d added to my Bistro Chicken the night before. It was morning, though, and we were not cooking.
            She stuck out her lower lip, looking sad. “Mom, I have a cut on my lip. I need a Band-Aid.”

            “You can’t put a Band-Aid on your lip,” I replied.

            “Why not?”

            “It won’t stay on, Sweetie.”

            She squirmed in her seat.  “But what will make it feel better?”

            “The only thing that will make it feel better is time.”

            She answered quickly, “Well, put thyme on it then!”

            I laughed, but she did not.

            They say laughter is the best medicine and time heals all wounds. Those words may bring comfort to some people, but in our house, nothing beats a Band-Aid. A princess Band-Aid. No wait. . . .

Your Turn to Comment: What character would you like to see on a band-aid?