I’m at that place I’m so familiar with — the place where it seems as if I’m floating on a river lazily making its way to a point in the distance. I could swim and get to wherever there is more quickly, or I can do what I’m doing — floating. Knowing time will pass and I’ll get there.
And then I snap out of it. Like this morning.
Eight days before we leave for the UK. Eight. After months and months of planning every single tiny detail, eight days will fly by and as much as I’ve questioned and searched and adjusted to make sure everything is perfect, I swear I’ve forgotten something. My husband has indulged my sometimes nightly litany of hairsplitting with gentle logic and comments of support.
I’m sure everything will be fine, he tells me. The other vacations you’ve planned have been great.