So yesterday Greg and Mary (yes, Mary got to go--what a lucky girl--and what I mean by that is, I am the lucky girl because, as a wise friend once said, the easiest number of kids to deal with is one less than you have) embarked on a little daddy-daughter adventure, that was, thankfully, rather uneventful.
At 4:30 am Greg scooped a sweet, sleeping Mary out of bed (my bed), and they hit the road, I-70, to be exact. Six hours and some McDonald's later, they arrived at the "VPC," which is, rightly, in the middle of nowhere. After paperwork, paperwork, paperwork, and good-byes to our beloved Forester, David and Mary procured a taxi to the airport, where they had to wait four hours for their flight--yikes!
Unfortunately for Greg, Mary and Canadian Regional Jets still don't mix well. (How did I survive all that flying alone with David when he was Mary's age? Mary is as docile as a cupcake compared to him. You must qualify for extra help from angels when you fly with a kid like David.)
But they arrived safely at our local airport, where Mary and David were ecstatic to be reunited, with each other and with both parents. Mary's car seat was lost (whenever we have lost luggage, it is always a car seat, which is the worst), and we had to wait an hour for them to track one down we could borrow. Poor Greg. He was so tired. It had been a long day, and here he was stuck in another airport, with his pajama-clad kids running around the terminal like crazies and playing with a wheelchair they'd found.
Soon enough, though, we were all at home and in bed. And not to long after that, Mary ended up just where her adventure had begun, snuggled next to me. Not a bad place to be. Though I will definitely be signing her up for more daddy-daughter adventures in the coming years.
Those two share something special.
