There is a law irrevocably decreed in heaven that when you are planning a rare getaway with your spouse, one of your children will start vomiting.
Such was the case a few days ago, when Jeff and I felt the dream of the desert oasis hideaway slipping through our fingers as a certain child persisted in tossed his cookies. Then another child told me his right ear hurt. “Do I feel sick?” he asked me, at the Instcare clinic. “Only you can answer that question,” I squarely told him.
And so, our hopes were flickering. You know what made me hold on? The thought of sleeping in. That and reading a lot of books. And grading a whole pile of papers at once, without being distracted.
“It may still happen,” we said to each other, more than once. But we maintained caution. I got crabby thinking about the possibility that all our planning and preparation on the childcare front (a serious feat) might be for naught.
I think the hardest part wouldn’t be not actually going on the getaway. I kind of hunker down when there is no option for escape and find homey ways to cope. Hygge, if you will—finding enjoyment in the simple pleasures. Carving out time for the things that hold me up. This week I felt the greater sorrow would be thinking we would get to leave, of coming so close to going, only to have it foiled by vomit.
Dear reader, the vomiting stopped. The ears, it turned out were not infected. There was no strep either. Everyone got better.
And thus we miraculously drove off into the desert, talking about our goals and dilemmas, and books about British history, with which I am weirdly obsessed.
Obsessed, and grateful.