For me, holidays are synonymous with travel. It’s not unique. It’s a common-known phenomenon—highways congested, airports overloaded.
It’s my own fault. I’m the one who left home. For school, for work, for love. Because home felt elsewhere. Or because home didn’t feel like home. At different points, different places. I guess I shouldn’t complain, I brought it on myself.
Packing up clothes and packages, newspaper clippings I’d been meaning to send to my father, gifts and toiletries, that shirt I borrowed from my sister, it’s slow-going getting ready. Slower going loading the car. But luckily for me I live where most people go. For instance, this weekend, Columbus Day weekend, most people are heading to see the foliage. We are heading south on the highway, for the most part avoiding traffic, for a quick dinner with my father, my nephew’s football game, a visit with .
We used to stay with my sister, but three now, we have overgrown our welcome. Not that she wouldn’t let us stay, we’ve done it before. Her family upstairs, ours in the basement with the air bed and the pack-n-play. Now though, with
So here we sit, and here I write this. From a hotel room. Our day stretching full and loaded before us. Our luggage—multiplied 175 times now with baby—strewn around us. And I wonder: Could we do this if we had another baby? We’ve already decided that Thanksgiving will be too much this year. We have opted instead, to cook our own
(Check out my 31 for 21 blog challenge for Down syndrome awareness at my regular blog.)