In the next couple of weeks our little family will be going on vacation. Did I actually call our entourage of 6 little? As the laundry doer, I must reclaim that word, there is nothing little about 6.
My parents, aka, the angels who keep me from being committed, have a time-share. OK, fine, I'll call it what it is. Their 'February' time-share.
Way back in 2002 they off-handedly invited us with our 6-month old and 1 1/2 year old to join them in Hawaii. We could hardly hear them because we were busy purchasing our plane tickets before the words were completely uttered. Yeah, WHO DOES THAT? Two babies on a plane. For HOURS. One word, ugly.
A couple of years later (2005?) they invited us again. Dave was a bit wish-washy, so I went ahead and got tickets for me and the then 3 kids! Ever try complaining that you got a 'bit of sun' to your husband who didn't get to go on the family vacation? Really, really, not recommended.
This year they again mentioned the, ahem, time-share. It was my turn to be wishy-washy and say no. Are you kidding? I can hardly handle taking all four kids to the grocery store, let alone an 8-hour plane ride.
Dave had different ideas. He listened to me say 'no,' but didn't hear it. Ten years together and I still got taken by surprise by this one. DUDE BOUGHT TICKETS LAST WEEK. We leave in 11 days.
Reason #1 why I like this guy, he dips from the same well of crazy that I do. Well, that, and he can almost out-eat me at a buffet.
