Should you ever decide to put Real Life on hold for a bit and head to San Antonio for a night, allow me to help you plan a bit:
Ask your bff to join you. Have her con her husband into managing their twins through a cantata rehearsal, Sunday church, and yet another rehearsal.
The night before, drive down to bffs house in grandfather’s 1992 Buick, which has been overhauled for your hour-long trip by your master mechanic father who tends to distrust any trip that means leaving the county.
Stop at Sonic on the way. Because.
Walk into your friend’s house as if you haven’t been gone for a year, look at the Christmas tree ‘ohn-na-ments’, and take a tour of the Little People nativity all courtesy of the 2 year-old twins. Head to Frank and Angie’s for dinner.
Re-ead Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. until midnight because you found it on the bookshelf in the guest room. Wake up to live cello practice and dancing twins downstairs. Willingly eat cold pizza for breakfast. Take a shower without a 3 year-old, put on cute tights and denim maternity dress. Pack the car, borrow a sassy red jacket, and hit the highway as the co-pilot.
Stop at Jamba Juice on the way. Because.
About 15 minutes into your trip, request a pregnancy bathroom break.
About 25 minutes into your trip, request another break… but do not ask for it. Throw up. Heck, throw up four times. Be sure to miss your purse but hit the red (wool) jacket. Hit everything below knee-level. Calmly look at your bff and say, “I am so sorry.” but do not cry. Do not cry because she has done the same to you one sickly weekend… except she kindly made it out of the car. Do not cry because you are pregnant. Do not cry because you feel so. much. better.
Pull over at a Texaco. Wash down the interior of the car while your bff tackles the floor mat with the water hose. Silently sing praises to the Lord above for a friend that will tackle the floor mat without hesitation. Buy air freshener, gum, and a vitamin drink. Change your clothing in the parking lot with absolutely no apologies to the people passing on I-35.
Find your hotel, park in its free parking, throw your tights in the sink, and walk to Houston Street with 10 minutes to spare.
Walk back to your hotel with fresh skin, shiny hair, full bellies, and a bag of leftovers. Claim a double-bed, and climb in.
It should now be 4:30pm. I SAID FOUR-THIRTY.
It should now be 7pm.
Change into your pjs, break out the fudge, and watch Myth Busters and the Texas vs. Nebraska game until 11pm. Fall asleep.
Wake up at 9am. Eat an amazing (and free) continental breakfast. Skip Jamba Juice and pizza. Check out.
Hit a secret thrift location and buy your 3 year-old’s Spring wardrobe. Eat lunch at Freebird’s. Happily reminisce about college days, first impressions, marriage, dancing, and burritos.
Return to the Buick, re-pack, divide up remaining fudge stash, hide red wool coat in back seat to be dry-cleaned at home, and hit the road. Find your daughter hiding loudly under a blanket on the couch with both grandparents.
It was maybe the best weekend of my life.