This weekend we chose an adventure.
That started to EPICALLY turn. Not a slight careen. Not a mild curve. A full, complete and utter turn for the worse.
We set out to climb a mountain. We strapped the kids in, handed them snacks and started down the road. The unfortunate problem? Half of Atlanta must have had the same idea.
Our 1.5 hour trip was closing in on 2 hours and we weren’t even there yet. (And oh yes, we’d been asked near 100 times at this point) I knew we were about to lose the kids when we’d logged 7 minutes on the dirt road with no hope of stopping anytime soon in sight.
Immediately I tried to think of something – ANYthing – that could distract them and give us even 5 more minutes of scream free traveling. I searched my surroundings. Woods…
I said to the kids: “We should sing camp songs!” (Yes, I was desperate.)
My little girl then started to sing: “We are going to die here.” (To a tune similar to the Conga)
Nicely done, Miss Hannah…
He has a horrible black eye. He decided that walking down the hallway with his blanket over his head was a good idea…
This man…This is my husband. I haven’t always seen him this way. I should have. This is the man that will carry two children down an entire mountain without complaining or even groaning once – like it’s no big deal. Because he knows your joints hurt. And he thinks nothing of it. Well…Ted, I think everything of you. You’re pretty incredible. I’m sorry I haven’t always seen it… I love you.