This morning, the boys and I set off on a summer road trip to top the one that gave birth to this blog two years ago: with my own dad riding shotgun, we’re off to visit my brother . . . in Fairbanks, AK. Accordingly, it’s time to dust of the digital cobwebs and spring Postcards from the Outback back to life.
Primed and ready for departure.
Nonetheless, I’m struggling to find choice words to mark the start of such an epic journey. For one, I’m tired, having (as usual) had trouble sleeping the night before a big trip. But the truth is that I’m more than a little apprehensive about this one—I’m hoping we didn’t bite off more than we can chew, as it doesn’t take much imagination to think up a litany of things that could possibly go wrong, and I’m uneasy about the amount of time we’ll need to be away from Belinda. Predictably, the boys were full of melodramatic separation anxiety last night, and while they woke up this morning in high spirits, raring to go, it weighs on me that we’re consigning my wife to a month’s worth of coming home to an empty house (even if the thought of a radically lighter laundry routine provides some consolation).
And so even now that we are several hundred miles down the road, comfortably bedded down for the night in a hotel in Paducah, KY, it doesn’t quite feel like we are underway as of yet, like this thing is actually going to happen. At least not to me. The boys have slid easily and happily into travel mode, and my dad is perhaps most content when he is in motion, but I’m not there yet.
Maybe tomorrow? Tomorrow we’ll cross the Mississippi and pay a visit to the Gateway Arch in St. Louis—who could escape the symbolism in that moment?