I'm Not Dead ... Yet

Things that make one (or at least me) feel really old:

• Having two kids
• Owning both a guest bed and a chest freezer
• Canning - I did apricots, raspberry jam and applesauce this year, and will likely can green tomato sauce before the first hard freeze (which may be coming sooner than later - yikes)
• Getting excited over leaving the house without having two carseats to buckle
• Most of all ... spending more and more time at home and dreading anything that involves the words "road" and "trip."

This past week, I spent 8 days at The Parents' house. I bravely took Woodstock and Pebbles down to visit Grammpy and Papa - a 4-hour drive if one drives 70-75 mph the entire way. 6 hours if one has to stop and pick up apples (for the father-daughter applesauce canning project), feed a newborn, change two diapers, feed a toddler and do two emergency binky rescues.

Fortunately, I am apparently blessed with two children who don't mind the car so much (Woodstock likes it better than Pebbles, but that is to be expected, I suppose), because every relative we have requires a drive of some length. Unfortunately, the whole thing made me want to swear off road trips forever and ever. Especially the drive home, where Pebbles decided 64 miles from home that she had to eat rightthisverysecond. Sitting in a WalMart parking lot at 9 p.m. with a tired toddler and a ravenous infant is loads of fun. Especially when the toddler pipes up from the back seat and says, "Mommy, my bottom hurts! All done sitting!" You and me both kiddo!

Ever the glutton for punishment, I will again be testing fate in a few days as we load up the girls and everything we own (at least it feels like it) and set out for a 700+ mile trek to the Pacific Northwest for Himself's father's memorial service. At least this time there will be two adults, but the trip is 3 times longer - at least until you figure we'll be stopping every 2-3 hours to feed Pebbles, which means about 70 minutes of driving over every 2-hour span - not very good odds. At that rate, we might arrive in time for Thanksgiving.

And all I can do is sit here and stare at the mountain of laundry and the two-page "list of things not to forget for road trip" and try not to cry.

It's times like this when living in a familial compound don't sound so bad after all.