Or, There And Back Again.
We’ve just gotten back from our annual Christmas pilgrimage to the wilds of Northern California. We had planned to be back by 5; we didn’t get on the road until 1, which meant we couldn’t get back until 6:30 at the earliest; and due to circumstances such as a 10 mile backup on Highway 5 (“Say…isn’t this supposed to be the fast way?”) and Simon screaming at the top of his lungs (which required a long comforting session in the parking lot of a Carl’s Jr. that had the filthiest bathroom I’ve ever had the, uh, pleasure of using), we didn’t get back until 9.
And due to extended car napping, no one of the child persuasion wants to go to sleep, and it’s 10. People of the parent persuasion desperately want to go to sleep.
Because I’m so fuzzy-brained at the moment, all the posts I want to make–such as introducing you to Simon or telling you what’s going on with Darin or what not–will just have to wait one more day.
(The 999 Miles, by the way, refers to the trip odometer. Just as we pulled into the garage it ticked from 999.9 to 0.0, which we thought was mightily cool. And Darin added, “Or, There And Back Again,” just because he has Tolkien on the brain.)