It's midnight and I should be in bed. Or I should be a spectacularly productive writer, writing away into the wee hours, creating realistic fiction and heart-rending essays. Instead, I've spent two hours searching Amtrak schedules and debating with myself whether I should take my child to Disneyland this summer -- something that would make her extraordinarily happy, but that would make a serious dent in our finances and would probably make me grumpy for a long list of reasons.
Next Friday, TK and I are going to get in the Honda CRV and travel south to New Mexico and Arizona, where we'll drive in an enormous circle for a week of visits to friends. That plan alone should cure my wanderlust, but it makes me crane my neck even more. In June, after a family reunion in Spokane, couldn't we take Amtrak down the entire coast of California? What if we traveled in July to the Yucatan peninsula, just to swim in the Caribbean for several days? I could save money for retirement, or I could introduce my daughter to the amazing world.
I sound so adventurous. In reality, the prospect of doing all this traveling alone with a seven-year-old sweeps loneliness into this silent living room. I try to avoid the spiral of "Ali and I used to have all these plans. . ." because it doesn't help me in this moment. It's true, and now I need to make plans alone, with my little daughter, whose deep brown eyes absorb everything she sees, who will delight in the train trip, who will be astonished by the warm water in the Caribbean. She's my focus now.
And for now. Maybe someday I'll be able to think what it could mean to include another adult in my plans, but I'd rather research bus times to Crater National Park.
