Beatty's Par Avion

Writing on-location from our hotel in SF. We got here on Wednesday afternoon. We left behind the ice storm back on Burbridge St. Barely made our flight. Benicio, Calliope and I in the jetway running in stocking feet to catch it. Geoff made a harrowing sprint with Clara, Manny and all our carry-ons in a big jingling, disgorging jumble. The kids were giddy and nonstop with the nervous commentary: "Mom, this is the plane ride! We're on the plane now! Look, a table! Look, my seatbelt! Here's yours, Clara!" We milked every cent of value from that airline ticket. Maximizing every second of time you were able to move freely about the cabin. Calling the flight attendant on numerous occasions (only once intentionally). Elli, my neice, joined us in Chicago and proceeded to read "Oh the Places You'll Go," "Socks" by Beverly Cleary, feed yogurt and essentially save us for the rest of the flight.

I forgot what a rush traveling is. Our show is literally "on the road." All the things in your control. All the things just barely outside of it. Descending hills that are all acute angles with a double stroller keeps me trusting the Lord and biting my lip. My Mom says, "Don't cease prayer if you can." I listened to my friend Meredith's voicemail message twice, "You'll see it's going to be great. Your kids will love every minute of it." They are, oh man, they are.