I blame the kiddos for the cold that has infested this house. Or maybe the plane, because A. was falling ill by Monday, and she'd only arrived on Saturday night. Nonetheless, by yesterday both A. and I were sniveling messes. ("I love green snot," A. said. I disagreed.)
But in between cough drops and blowings of noses, we've done things, kinda. There were parties. We cooked and baked and cleaned again and again, until the last guest departed and we collapsed into little partied out heaps.
We dosed ourselves with ibuprofen, and I dragged Mom and A. to a bookstore because four books for a ten day trip was far from enough. This turned into a trip to the shoe store, where A. moaned and I spent too much on a pair of boots. (I needed them. But still.)
This morning we dropped A. off at the airport. As we sentimental folks always do, we sat outside the window between the main airport and the gates and called her on the phone to talk through the glass. "You can go!" she told us, but we didn't. We waited until she disappeared down the jetway, waving until the very end, before we sighed and went to get delicious hot beverages.
"It seems like a long time since A. left," I said wistfully tonight, as I was rinsing her eggy cup from this morning.