It's a little soon for another newsletter; but I'm stuck sitting up with Rachel, who has an earache (we, uh, had another bout of cough/cold sickness here, wouldn't you know). Larry could sit up with her, but he's not here. He's in. Clever of him, wasn't it? This time he took Theo (aka my personal chef and pest exterminator) with him. They're headed for to enjoy 6 glorious(?) days of hiking in summer heat with no showers or other 21st century conveniences. That man will do anything to get away from me, won't he? I glanced at the little booklet the Boy Scout reservation/camp puts out. It was filled with useful tidbits of info about hanta virus and rabies and (get this) bubonic plague. Considering the sort of year we have had, healthwise, I figure the chances are pretty good that Larry and Theo bring home some version of the Black Death.
So - this may be my last newsletter. I'll try to cram everything in here. Larry and I have a new favorite saying: "But it's summer!" It's an Anna quote, uttered in total shock and dismay when I explained to her she was grounded for the afternoon because she hadn't taken care of her laundry (yes, I'm mean). We can't wait until the next time someone asks, "What's for dinner?" "But it's summer!" we'll wail. Or, "Where's my allowance?" "But it's summer!" Yep, this handy phrase could turn out to be mighty useful.
Larry thinks that I'm going to drive all the way up to in August for a fun week of not visiting any of the places that people normally go all the way up to for in the summer. Instead, we're going to sit in a town 10 miles west of Augusta and pretend we don't want to visit the beautiful Maine coast. Bar Harbor, Mt. Desert Island, - who needs 'em? We can visit Lake Oochee-Goochee near his sister's house and play on the pseudo-beach. Over my dead body. I'm making (expensive) reservations while he's away. I'm not suffering in a car for 12 hours to relive all that, um, fun I had at Christmas.
You know, we do have some very nice beaches a mere 3 hours or so from our house. I think it's that New Englander's need to suffer (read Ethan Frome) that explains Larry's predilection to travel much farther than we need to, to have way less fun than we could have. Read that sentence twice, and it might make some sense. I'm getting pretty tired here. Rachel's asleep, but I'm scared to move her; she could wake up and scream for another hour, and I just don't think I could take that right now. These kids are wearing me down, bit by agonizing bit. And now I hear the baby stirring. So much for a quiet evening.
Until next time...