It's been ridiculously hot and soggy in the city these past few days. How hot and soggy? TwoBert recently communicated to me (through a sophisticated father-son telepathy we've developed) that he preferred a wet cloth diaper to freeballing, for the relative dryness.
When the City That Makes Its Own Gravy becomes this oppressive, it's time to pull up stumps and evacuate. And what a voyage we have planned.
Robert was about three months old when he rode his first airplane,
and it went off without a hitch. The plane was in the air for about 90
minutes, and he slept and/or nursed the whole way. "Egad!" we chortled.
"We are amused by the simplicity of kid-laden air travel!" At this point I was content to keep our trips
at this wonderfully low-maintenance level. But my wife is from the Midwest, where
there is so much dead space between interesting things that people
think nothing of driving over several degrees of longitude, having a
quick cup of weak coffee and a doughnut, and turning right
around and driving back again. All in the same day.
In her view, now that TwoBert is of age, it is time to push the envelope.
So our upcoming plane trip, our first as a foursome, is a real whopper. We have to change planes, our flights are longer, and once we finally touch down there's the small matter of a five-hour drive. We'll stay there a few days, then drive seven more hours to our final resting place--where temperatures are predicted to peak in the mid-60s (and drop into the 40s) all week long. So there may be several hellish travel days ahead, but they might just be worth it if I can take a shower and have it actually mean something.
We'll stagger back in a week or so. Until then: You stay classy, Planet Earth.
