Slainte!

"Don't you think our lives would run more smoothly if one if us, in this marriage, were organized and on top of things?", I snapped at my husband, as I frantically searched through yet another large pile of paperwork.

(Snapped, because, clearly, this was all his fault.)

"Um, yeah", he replied, in a "Duh!" tone of voice. "I think that every. single. day."


Organized or no, there is a plan. It's not an elaborate plan, to be certain, but simple plans seem to work best for us. And this is our plan:

Today we are here:



Tomorrow, we'll be here:



We never did find our plane reservation or flight confirmation numbers. Lucky for us, all one has to do to track these things down, apparently, is to call the airline, give them your name, and they will tell you your flight times and flight numbers. (Just don't try to bring more than 3oz. of liquid onto the plane...)

We have no set itinerary or firm plans or even hotel reservations. We have a car reserved* and that's the extent of it. We're pretending we're still nineteen years old and we're going footloose and fancy-free. Footloose and fancy-free, after creating a 20-page "Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Our Kids And More" manifesto, complete with mile-by-mile directions to the nearest hospital, for my parents, who are going to be staying with The Three while we are gone.

Ten days.

No kids.

I really, really want to be dancing on the rooftops in excitement. Instead, I'm sick with worry and fear. Bill and I haven't gone away together before. In the seven years we've been parents we've taken separate vacations or gone away as a family. But just the two of us? Not even a weekend away.

Ten days.

I'm already lonely.

But just might dance on some rooftops anyway.

Slainte!


* Note to self: Ask Bill if he's checked on the car reservation. Might want to check on that car reservation.