Mama and I are both so tired that we’re both dizzy right now, so we’re following 3B’s lead and getting straight into bed without passing Go, without collecting $200, and without another installment of the 8 days a week meme.
Today’s flights–Mom’s home to Denver, Denver to our home–took about seven hours. The time passed so quickly, we were both amazed when they announced our final descent; it seemed like we should have many more hours ahead of us.
Then we had to take the shuttle bus to long-term parking. All I can say is, thank goodness for grandparents. Without the two sets of them just inside the rear door who moved their bags and themselves to make room for us, we would have never gotten on that bus. I suppose the Thanksgiving spirit dies some time on Friday, in the midst of consumerist mayhem in the malls.
Standing in the rear bus doorway, holding onto our big suitcase, our stroller, and our car seat, rolling and bouncing around turns, while Mama tried to hold onto a bucking, squirming, slithering 3B until we got all the way through the parking lot to Stop 15 made that bus ride seem to last years. Why is it always the way that the first 90 percent is never as tiring as the last 10 percent of a trip?