Four days in, 1,000 miles on the odometer, and I'm getting a little surly. This is not how man was meant to live. I am from the East Coast, where points of interest are far more concentrated. When we drove seven hours, we were done driving for a while. We stayed. For weeks. Here, a seven-hour trek is just one leg of a journey, as commonplace as sauntering down the block for a scoop of seven-layer Jell-O.
As an added bit of excitement, TwoBert has spent his last three nights by spiking fevers and bursting into tears every 45 minutes. We're narrowing down the reasons, and the first three that come to mind are: 1) he has a summer cold and is having trouble breathing through his nose; 2) he's reacting adversely to sleeping in a new, strange bed every night; and 3) he's getting a molar. It's a trifecta for misery on all accounts -- except for Robert, who sleeps through everything and bounds out of bed every morning pulsing with Kiddie Kilowatts.
If you're driving on I-94 and you pass a green four-door driven by a four-year-old, please give us a wave. We'll certainly wave back, if we're conscious.