If we can fit all our things in the car this morning we are headed to Richmond and points north for eight days. John has the Booker T and and the MGs Christmas CD on the top of the stack. Santa has carefully packed Ella's gifts into bags with covers, and I'm trying to not pack too many clothes for the kids. Little John aka blow out boy requires more clothes than most. I'm starting to know why people buy bigger cars when they have kids. I'm not taking a stroller, but I do want a bouncy seat. He knows how to raise his leg in the air and pump it to make the seat bounce--lets just say hours of entertainment. Hopefully it will fit between them in the back seat. It is going to look like a bouncing ejection seat for our imaginary third child.
I'm looking forward to some quiet time--if that exists for a family with two children under five. My father's funeral was eight years ago today. It was such a cold clear day with Emily Dickinson and Dylan Thomas. Lawrence was reading Fern Hill behind the barn to practice. The priest was wearing lace, and the moss was very green in the cemetery. Joe Gallo was a baby, and Joan McLaughlin made everything seem somewhat normal. I only wish he could have held these children for one day.
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