Um, have I ever mentioned that I love San Diego?
Quite often. Really? You don't say.
As my plane descended into America's Finest City, my boy became restless. I hoisted him up onto his chubby little legs so he could see out the window. "There's going to be a park," I whispered, "and we're going to fly through it." He looked at me, eyes twinkling and turned to stare out into the darkened world. Soon enough my trained eye recognized the Museum of Man at Balboa Park. I smiled, "See, I told you." And I almost burst into tears at the sheer thought of having my feet firmly on the coastal ground.
My husband thinks I am a complete and total nut case. I am obsessed. Luckily the illness won't prevent me from climbing on the plane and returning to the tundra on Wednesday--I'm too in love with Troy to live in a different state than him.
It should be noted, however, that Garrett most definitely understands the difference between snow on the ground and, well, not snow on the ground. He spends a great deal of time looking out the back door and screeching. He can go outside without a jacket and that's what he intends to do. All the time. It should also be noted that I special ordered warm weather and, apparently, Mother Nature hates me. Granted, I am wearing ONE layer of clothing and not eight but it is downright chilly. I suppose I shouldn't have aspired to wear a bikini in February.
I saw my students' show last night and I was greeted with an excited ambush of "Mrs. Doozleberries*!!!" and "We're so glad you're here!" Which led me think, Sally Field style, "They like me. They really like me!" But then, later, they informed me that I look sickly and white. Yah. Well. That's what two months of wearing eight layers will do to a girl.
*Names have been changed to protect this blog writer from scary murderous stalkers. The author of this blog is not named Lori Doozleberry. Though, she's starting to think she may go by that from now on.