Right after New Year’s Day, we four hearty souls flew to Orlando to visit my mother, stepfather and aunt.
Actually, only one of us was hearty. I was grouchy and still worn out from Christmas. The kids simply had no choice and we’re resisting all efforts to help with packing and organizing. And, really, I can’t speak for my husband. He was maybe hearty-ish? Resigned? Willing to schlep so that he could squeeze in a round of January golf?
So let’s just say that we went. Forget the hearty part.
We flew out of Albany about 30 seconds before the airport was closed due to snow. We flew back directly into the teeth of a polar vortex. In between, though, there was sunshine.
The trip down was mostly uneventful. While we were two hours late in taking off, we made it. A rental car was acquired. Luggage picked up. But the Boy seemed a little off. Because of the delay, we were in the air at lunchtime and had to stave off hunger with oat bars and apples, which are a lovely snack but not a meal. We grabbed quick slices of pizza after deplaning, otherwise the trek to luggage would have been a nightmare.
For me, at least. The kids might have been able to soldier on but I’d reached that stage where I was both hungry and angry. I didn’t even want to be around myself like that.
The Boy is a pizza lover. Anytime. Anywhere. Any outlet. It’s one of the few foods we know he’ll eat without much question. But he took one small nibble off of the very end of his slice and stopped.
How weird, I thought. Maybe he’s still just tired from getting up at 4 a.m. to catch the flight?