Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Today the house is a flurry of cleaning and packing as we prepare for yet another trip to Chicago.

I no longer see the trips as mini-vacations. I dread the traffic, which is gridlock everywhere you go - so unlike our suburban roads of home. There is no "let's run over to this area" in Chicago - there is "let's try to get to the hotel in less than two hours." The novelty has worn off.

As I sit and update the iPod for our hours of driving, I hear the girls upstairs. My heart flips between aching for them, knowing that we will be so far away and terrified of the what ifs in life, and relief that there will be no fights to break up, no emergency potty breaks in the middle of nowhere or five miles past the last exit. A quiet night is a mixed blessing - missing them, unfamiliarity, loneliness - and yet, peace. There is a comforting familiarity, even miles from home, even in a strange hotel room, brushing teeth, getting jammies laid out, and tucking little girls into bed. It is the monotony that is tradition, that is life. Not having them with us will be something like not having a limb. They are so much a part of us.

In the past months we've come to realize, though, that sometimes having one less limb means having three full limbs to devote to Jackson - who needs that and more during these procedures. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be the mom in this. I wish I could collapse and have someone else take this on - the fear, the stress, the pain, the uncertainty, the - everything. But, as John said today, "It just goes to show, the only people we can count on in life is us."