The drive. It takes about an hour and ten minutes.... on the most perfect driving day you can find. But typically, when the boyfriend and I are making the trip from the hub to the hill, it's on a Friday, before a holiday weekend, at 5:30 p.m. I play all the songs on my Itunes, sing every commercial jingle I know, eat some snacks I brought for us. And at that point, we're about 54 miles away from the hill.
With Monchichi in the back seat, rubbing his nose on the windows, patiently waiting for the green hills that will soon fill his view, M. and I often struggle to maintain sanity, clarity and care for one another during these trips. I become convinced that if he does not press the brakes harder, we are certainly going to slam right into the back of the breaking car in front of us. I grip the seat or throw my hands up to the ceiling. He sighs, and typically says "do you want to drive?" Then he, albeit safely, careens in between the city drivers who are just as anxious to get to an open space.
Tonight we're waiting out the traffic, and heading out to the country later than usual. But just you wait, when I return from being a country mouse - I'll have some tales to tell.
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