Band on the Run

Jesus Christ.

A post a day? Did I really say I would do that? Every day? Including this day?

What if I'm just not feeling it?

Ug.

Well, seeing how I'm here now, I guess I will share that I booked our tickets to Dublin today. We are tremendously excited. In the eight years since the first baby came, we have had exactly two nights, three years apart, away from our beloved children. The last being three years ago this January. We aren't philosophically opposed to being away from them. It's just that we don't have nearby aunts or grannies we can drop them off with for weekend escapades to Acapulco. My mother, their sole surviving grandparent, has made a once-in-her-lifetime offer to keep them in her care at an undisclosed location the two weeks we will be abroad.

TWO weeks. Whatever shall we find to do?

And how will I ever wake up from all the Ativan it will take to get me there?

We are already boring the kids (and everyone else who feels like they have to pretend to listen to us) to tears with our plans. I am amassing a tidy stack of travel books and consulting with Patrick every five minutes as to whether he might prefer a day of salmon fishing to castle-touring, bed-and-breakfasts to chain hotels, the National Gallery to Trinity College, the west to the east. Actually, very little of our time will be our own, as I am part of a group of writers who are doing a reading tour around the country, and most days will be spent on the coach.

I don't care. My heart is literally? figuratively? (dammit, Karla, now you've got me all mixed up) racing at the thought of the two of us being on the road again. I figuratively (literally, I was on a bus) ran away with Patrick all those years ago, and underneath all the trappings of domestic life, I like to think there is still a trace of the fugitive lovers. Only now we are on the run from our kids. Less guilt, more fun.