A week ago, I went to bed at 3 a.m. only to crawl back out of bed at 4:30 a.m. so I could be in the car, heading to the airport by 5:30 a.m.
My husband and I were heading to Orlando, Florida, for an early celebration of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We planned to fly on separate planes–JUST IN CASE–and my plane left was scheduled to depart at 7:45 a.m.
And . . . this was shocking . . .there was absolutely no line at the security checkpoint.
Of course, that did me no good since I was at the wrong terminal. Apparently, when you fly to Los Angeles, you fly on a commuter airplane which is at a different terminal. I stood on the curb, waiting for the bus, hoping for the best.
I caught the flight. I dozed on the airplane. I switched flights in Los Angeles and arrived in Orlando, about an hour before my husband. I was sitting on the shuttle bus to Disney World when he texted me that he’d arrived.
By Thursday evening we were in Epcot riding a few attractions before heading back to our hotel restaurant for a late dinner.
We spent the next forty-eight hours walking miles in the Florida humidity, taking in as many Disney attractions as we could–first the Animal Kingdom, then Epcot, then the Magic Kingdom. I came home on Sunday with blisters and he stayed on for a few more days for church business meetings. It was fun but so strange to be there without kids. I can’t remember the last time we went anywhere without kids for more than a few hours.
I took this picture of a hippo swimming by. It amuses me.
Since my return home on Sunday night, I’ve been working frantically to catch up on the work I left here at home. And I’ve been trying to nap as much as possible. I’ve had a cold for two weeks and I’m just now getting over the cough.
The plumbing under the kitchen sink sprang a mysterious leak in my absence.
On the plane home, I read half of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wonder when I’ll get around to reading again.
My 13-year old son has been on a school study trip to the East Coast since January 29. He will arrive home on Thursday night. He sent me a postcard with a note written in pig-latin and a few random texts. This is the longest he’s ever been away from home.
Tomorrow morning my husband returns home at 11:20 a.m. Which is great, except for the fact that just tonight I checked the flight schedule and realize that I have a big problem. My daughter has class tomorrow–and will be out at noon–and my husband must be picked up at the airport at 11:20 a.m. And I can’t be in two places at once and it’s too late to call anyone for help.
So . . . uh, wish me luck.
I’ve never felt more like I’m running on a treadmill with the speed turned up too fast than I have lately.