Holy crap. We're flying to Spokane in two days.
Between work, parenting, and rehearsing for the Biggie Smalls tryouts, I'd sorta ignored the fact that we're traveling. Across the country. In TWO DAYS.
It hit me last night when I was fighting with my Mom over where we were going to sleep when we got there. Options ranged from my old bedroom (dark, full of spiders, currently used for storage), my parents room (clean, but...it's my parents room...eeewwww), and a hotel (expensive and guaranteed to create a family rift the size of Snake River Canyon). In other words, all solutions are bad. And we have TWO DAYS to solve it.
As usual, I'm more stressed about the actual traveling than what happens when we get there. When I'm by myself I can shrug off the indecencies of airline travel, but when a toddler and someone who is nicknamed "Oodgie" for a reason are with me the muscles on my back roll up like softballs.
The only time Cheeky's really a pill is when she's tired (just like her old man), and we have to wake, dress, and load her into a taxi by 5:30 AM. We're expecting turbulence. And since there aren't direct flights we get to deal with bags, strollers, and friendly airline personnel at least twice each way. We hope the excitement of flying will help Cheeky compensate for the time-difference, but she could just as well get there and crash harder than Lindsay Lohan on her third day out of rehab.
Kill me now
Don't get me wrong...I'm excited we're going. My parents don't get to see Cheeky nearly enough, and I know they'll LOVE playing with her. It will be fun for us to spend time with my family, too, and we're puddle-jumping to Seattle on Saturday so the Seahawks can give my dad a belated Father's Day gift (they'd better, after this weekend's debacle).
I just wish we had a transporter room.