In one week, I probably should have my bags packed.
Come to think of it, I should probably have bags to pack.
And yet here I sit. I think that deep down, I'm hoping for some sort of magic to happen. Which it may, in the form of my little sister who knows me all too well and thinks we should have a suitcase-packing party this week. She has been known to take charge like that. And obviously I haven't.
When it came time to bring my firstborn home from the hospital, the nurse stripped her down and looked at me expectantly. Like I should have something to put on this child. Some sweet sort of nighty or footed pajama even. I had a blanket in the truck. The kind you keep under the seat just in case. They did let me keep the diaper.
Yes, my dear, you were brought home in swaddling clothes.
Now there's an idea–how does management on the Legend feel about swaddling clothes? Some kind of all-purpose romanesque mumu? I could tuck that into my purse. Rinse it out in the Caribbean and let it dry at night while we cruise, port to port. Ha! All you poor, wardrobe hampered travelers, dragging your luggage half-way around the globe, ironing your slacks–a fashion revolution has begun.
Now I just need a length of cloth. A no-iron percale perhaps. Come to think of it . . . I might have some under the seat of my van . . .