I think I want to go on a road trip. It happens every now and then. A feeling begins to settle in my feet, and it winds its way up to my heart, and by the time it reaches my brain I am too enchanted to be ruled by reason and I must travel. Reason has been pulling me back, slowing me down. I know long days on the big highway with a baby and a teenager and two betweeners could be trying. And there are the usual issues: What about the cat, rabbit, crabs and fish? When can Geoff get away? Should I go without him? Where should we go and for how long? Is it, at last, time to take a trip out of our regular circle? Perhaps Europe, New Zealand, Catalina Island? Death Valley is supposed to be aglow with wildflowers from the record breaking rain; it hasn't bloomed this way in anyone's memory. Our attempt to see the Grand Canyon was thwarted by really bad weather. We could make a second try.
Maybe we should just sit tight, clean house, organize the garage, try to make the house ready for a baby that will soon be crawling. We haven't childproofed. We haven't cleaned the way you are supposed to clean when in-laws are coming in one week. Taxes, medical bills, alphabetizing our magazines... there are at least a dozen good reasons to not even be thinking of traveling, or are they actually solid reasons to take-off, vacate, discover the world, get lost, find new roads? Sigh. Deep, deep sigh.