Tonight I realized I don't deserve a vacation.
That is, this is the conclusion I reached about why, a week before vacation, I suddenly start coming up with reasons not to go. Reasons which, when put down in black and white, look ludicrous. We will have to go on airplanes, which may crash. The kids might get sick. I might get sick. There might be bugs. Maybe we won't like the hotel room. Maybe we will all fight like cats the whole time. Maybe the house will burn down while we are gone. Why are we spending all this money anyhow?
This, my husband knows, is my standard pre-trip anxiety phase, which is all about control. Slide me one millimeter out of my comfort zone and I start reeling. As if I were ever in control in the first place.
When my oldest daughter was about two months old, David and I had a chance to go to Florida to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle, which carried a project he'd been working on. Frantic about leaving the house to even go to Safeway with this new baby, deep in the hole of postpartum depression, I couldn't imagine what it would be like taking a baby to Florida. We declined. It was probably the only chance we will ever have to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle. I was such an idiot. No, make that present tense. I am FUBAR, and for those of you who are not familiar with this expression, go look it up.
So: on to Vacation Planning Week, followed by Vacation Week. If I can make such a production out of unbelievable good fortune (i.e., getting to go on a nice vacation), just imagine what I could do with a real catastrophe. Will somebody please come slap me? (Okay, keep the line orderly....)