There is a point, while packing for a trip, when I'm pretty sure I've got everything in the suitcase, yet I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting something. It's completely maddening, like being caught in a cycle of lather-rinse-repeat.
I'm headed to Spokane early tomorrow morning, returning Friday afternoon. Then, after a week at home, I fly north again for three days. I dread the travel. Every time, I wonder if there's some bargain I can make with the clock, the calendar, the travel arrangement gods, so that I can go by car or train instead of by air. It never works out.
Flying in the 21st century is about as fun as birthing an overweight porcupine. Backwards. Not that I've ever birthed an overweight porcupine, forwards or backwards, but I'm pretty sure the analogy would hold up in a court of law.
Mother's Day was quiet this year. That means I had only 50% of my kids with me. (To the 50% who were here, please don't think that indicates any depreciation of the importance of you being with me on that day.) (To the 50% who weren't here, your guilt bomb has been delivered. You're welcome. Sarma's in the mail, just to put the final sheen on it.)
PS - Happy MD, Mom. Even though I didn't call you, you didn't send me a guilt bomb. Kudos for that.