In about 4 days, we'll be sitting at the Atlanta airport waiting for our flight to board. I've spent the last week visualizing the carefree feeling of knowing that from that moment onward, the following 28 days will revolve around fun in the sun. In this carefree daydream, Parker is happily playing in the sand, I'm sprawled on a lounge chair sipping my Mythos beer and my only concern is making sure that our sunscreen is properly applied. Of course, before my lounge chair reality can commence, a couple of tiny details need to be settled. Like this.
Except those two sweating souls will be me and the Irishman. And once we've successfully moved the entire house and finished off the minor task of unpacking everything, there's still this.
14 hours of flying to be exact. You know, no biggie with an active 3-year-old. Are you impressed yet by the power of my delusion? I'm sure that about 4 hours into the flight, I'll be cursing myself for decided that dragging a 3-year-old halfway around the world was a good idea. But then. A day or two of jet lag later. There will be this.
And this.
And this.
And all will be well again...until that cursed return flight to the states.
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