What I anticipated today to be like:
Matt would take the boys out to the suburbs to visit with his grandmother in the nursing home. They would then have lunch with Matt’s good childhood friend and his family, who are in town for Christmas from Brooklyn. My guys would return around 2 or 3 pm. I, back at home, would have completed some work at my desk and gotten the bulk of the packing completed in delicious solitude.
What today has been like:
I have washed load after load of laundry and cleaned the food out of the fridge, all the while trying to appease the very loud and insistent three-year old who is following me around, talking non-stop. “One…two…three…five…six…” he counts, choosing some of the 30-some Christmas cards lining the chair rail in the hallway. “Twelve! Just twelve days till Cissmas!” he shrieks. In the other room, I hear the sounds of my 7-year old, retching yet again, with my husband calling for another cool washcloth to clean him up.
Not a single item has been packed.
If we can’t leave early tomorrow morning it won’t be the end of the world, I’m sure. If we don’t get to California by Cissmas (where Santa has already sent all of his gifts), we’re screwed.
Baxter will be okay by morning, right? And no one else will get sick? Promise me.