The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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In Case I Don't See You for Another Ten Years...

My senior picture, alongside a snap from our 20-year reunion.
Senior pic by Parson's Photography, reunion snap by young Azalea Solari.

High school reunions are—in my opinion—the key to proving to the misfits of the world that who you are in high school does not define who you are for life.

My twentieth reunion gathered a decent percentage of our 24-person class, along with spouses, significant others, and families. We gathered at a classmate’s family home—the location of many high school parties—for swimming, watercraft activities, potluck and barbecue.

In my usual fashion, I was hours late due to parenting distractions and saw a few people for only a moment as they were leaving. I hung out on the deck with Mr. Wright, wishing I hadn’t been so terrified of my own cellulite I’d failed to wear a swimsuit. The lake was lovely and warm as we kicked off our shoes and walked at the water’s edge.

Dinner for the adults followed, and our significant others were treated to stories from school. Assuming the statute of limitations had run on our high school misdemeanors, the tales of sneaking out, drinking in the student parking lot, skipping school and weekend parties flowed freely.

I must say, I was shocked to learn who cheated on the senior Spanish final. ¡Increíble!

There were head-shaking moments, like when we talked about the sixth-grade teacher who molested girls in our class and lost his teaching credentials years later, after more victims, but was never criminally charged and remains engaged in the community.

We relived class pranks, memorable school assignments, sports highlights and more. That night, high school wasn’t the scary, lonely place I remembered. It was, instead, a vibrant reminder that I am who I am today because of my past—and parts of it weren’t quite the train wreck I’d assumed they were.

Nobody talked about how weird I was back then; how I always had my nose in a book, how I wrote truly terrible poetry, how I always wore the wrong thing, how I adopted a devil-may-care attitude to hide how insecure I was. No one remembered how skinny and gawky I was—even though we all remembered spiral perms and “mall bangs,” with much embarrassment.

Stories were shared, and I was part of them (except senior English, because Mr. McClure sent me out of class for the year, told me to write a book, and check in with him before graduation). Girls I admired back then told me they envied how I was never afraid to “do my own thing” in high school. If only they knew how terrified I was, how “my own thing” was a feeble attempt at not caring that I didn’t fit in… Maybe we weren’t so different back then, after all.

The truly miraculous part, of course, is how none of it really mattered—and, at the same time, mattered so much. I was a writer in high school, and today I’m a published, best-selling author (okay, so my book topped out at number two on a genre list on Amazon, but it still counts). Sometimes, deep down, I still feel like that awkward, skinny girl who couldn’t dress right and for the life of her couldn’t figure out what to do with makeup. Now, I can take comfort in the fact that no one probably even notices.

To the class of 1992:

Thank you for remembering me, and for reminding me.

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My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

Photo source

What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

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Delta Blues

Nothing satisfies me more than things working out splendidly after they go horribly wrong. Take our recent flight to Baltimore, for example.

Mr. Wright accidentally booked me on a flight precisely 24 hours before his. When he realized his mistake, he tried to rebook through Delta’s call center. We figured if the cost of changing was lower than putting me up in a discount hotel for a night, we’d do it. Sadly, it was not to be so. Mr. Wright loaded my carry-on into the car and set off on what would be the first of two trips to the airport for him.

In the car, I used my netbook to check in online and was virtually assaulted with Delta’s invitations to try “mobile ticketing,” which promised to save all sorts of time at the airport by sending my boarding pass to my smartphone. Always a fan of better living through technology, I decided to try it.

We arrived at the airport early, in spite of my attempts to postpone our arrival with requests for Starbucks stops and just as many for potty stops. Unfamiliar and ill-at-ease with the experience of arriving early for a flight, I decided to burn the calories I’d normally expend racing to my gate in a different manner; I made out with my husband in the backseat of our car.

It was still an hour before my flight when we approached the Delta counter and tried one more time to rebook. Sometimes, those counter people are sympathetic and let you rebook for fifty dollars if you, say, forget your asthma inhaler and have to go home to get it, which is the angle we took. No luck.

“Lemme use your computer. I need to book your room in Baltimore.” Have I mentioned Mr. Wright’s thriftiness? He wasn’t about to give up before he found the absolute, none-lower, rock-bottom, cheapest room. “I’ll give up the limo if you don’t send me to some rat-infested alley motel,” I begged. “And my flight boards in thirty minutes. Hurry up.”

But Mr. Wright did not hurry. That’s how, fifteen minutes before my flight boarded, I found myself as the only person in the security line, and without my sunglasses, which I’d taken off my head in the car before hopping into the backseat.

I can't live without them.

I can’t live without my sunglasses. My eyes are very sensitive to light. Sure, it was the middle of the night, but it would be daylight when I landed, and then what would I do? Mr. Wright hadn’t made good on the envelope of cash to go shopping, and how could I even find a sunglasses store when I’d be blinded by the sun’s harsh glare?

Mr. Wright made record time retrieving them. I had five minutes until my flight boarded, which meant fifteen until they locked the door. I was still the only one in the security line. I could make it. I kissed Mr. Wright and trotted up to the TSA agent and showed him my mobile boarding pass.

Delta failed to mention their mobile ticketing image may not be properly sized on some devices. The image Delta sent me was refused by TSA! I was sent to the Delta counter for paper tickets.

I ran – in my socks (I’d removed my shoes for security) – to Delta, skidding to a halt when I saw not a soul was there. It was two minutes until my flight boarded. I called out and waited for someone to help me, but no one came.

I raced down the escalator to Delta’s baggage claim area, where hoards of people waited in the “lost baggage” office – a ringing endorsement of Delta’s service, to be sure. “TSA won’t take my mobile ticketing, my flight is boarding, I don’t have paper tickets, no one is at the counter upstairs, and I need help!” I cried over the complaints.

One of the women behind the counter glanced at the clock and said, “Yeah. You’re not going to get on. Go sit out there on the baggage carousel and wait for someone.”

Well, I called Mr. Wright and cried and made him come back to yell at those Delta ladies until they rebooked me – without a fee – on his flight. Then, he called Delta’s national customer service and yelled at those people until they gave me 2500 frequent flier miles. After all, it was Delta’s bad mobile ticketing image that made me miss my flight, right? Finally, he was able to cancel the reservation for the Baltimore hotel room, saving enough money to buy me a sandwich.

The moral of the story, of course, is:

Don’t make out with your husband in the airport parking lot if he is thrifty and you have sensitive eyes and you’re trusting Delta’s technology.

Photo source

I Wore Flowers in My Hair; They Made Me Sneeze

Growing up, I always suspected I was born about thirty years too late. I imagined I would have been a wonderful flower child; barefoot, braless and sticking daisies in the barrels of rifles.

Now that I’m grown up, I hate going without shoes, and my post-nursing breasts demand a brassiere. As if that weren’t enough to disqualify me from the free love generation, I’m allergic to daisies.

I set aside my shortcomings –and endeavored to rediscover the flower child roots I was cheated out of due to my delayed birth date– during our trip to San Francisco in 2007. It was the 50th anniversary of the first reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the entire city was cloaked in a heavy cloth of anticipation, and I intended to follow Ginsberg’s advice— “Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.”

Madness, as it happens, would be found nightly at Harry Denton’s Starlight Room, but that’s a story for… another story.

Even before unpacking, I hopped a trolley and set out for the infamous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. I pictured natural foods co-ops, markets filled with handcrafted wares, and street musicians playing just for the sake of art. Exuberant and expectant, I watched the passing street signs, preparing to disembark the trolley and embark on my flower child communion.

Whatever may have been at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury during the Summer of Love, I suspect it wasn’t what I found in 2007: a Starbucks and a Gap.

“WHAT?” I cried. “Where are the flower children?” Peering in the window of Starbucks, I suspected the aged free love brokers were sitting inside, dressed in khakis and pressed button-down shirts from the Gap across the street.

Disappointed but determined, I pressed on. I planned only one purchase in San Francisco – apart from a commemorative copy of “Howl and Other Poems,” of course. I figured San Francisco must be the best place in the world to find a peasant skirt –one of those flowing, lightweight skirts that look great with Birkenstocks.

I walked the entire length of the Haight, popping into every boutique, looking for my souvenir. Hours later, with blisters on my heels, falafel in my stomach and frustration upon my brow, I called Mr. Wright from my cell.

“How can the peasants afford them when they’re over $150?” I asked.

I wasn’t going to let a failed shopping expedition ruin my trip. Oh, no. I returned to the hotel, braided some silk daisies into my hair, and dragged Mr. Wright to City Lights bookstore, the epicenter of the Ginsberg celebration. We entered, and I began collecting stacks of free poetry journals and zines.

Mr. Wright stood in the middle of the bookshelves, afraid to touch anything. “Don’t sign up for anything,” he said. “Don’t give our names or address. I’m pretty sure we’re going to end up on some Communist watch list just for setting foot in here.”

I laughed and perused the shelves of anarchist poetry while Mr. Wright sprouted a healthy crop of hives.

The sound of applause filtered down the stairway, and I realized there was a reading taking place. Tugging on Mr. Wright’s sweat-drenched hand, I climbed the stairs and entered the small room at the top. There, a tattoo-covered, multi-pierced person was reading an essay about pigeons.

To this day, Mr. Wright and I have an unresolved bet regarding the gender of the reader.

“Pigeons are rock doves,” they said. “Doves are symbols of peace. Why do people hate pigeons so much? I mean, if we started calling them ‘rock doves,’ maybe people would give them the respect they’re due.”

Gasping, I leaned over and whispered into Mr. Wright’s ear, “I’ve finally found my people!”

The look he gave me in return suggested he would have much preferred to see a copy of my family tree BEFORE the wedding.


Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scragz/429695535/

God Bless the TSA

My kids are no strangers to air travel and the finer points of airport security. It’s one of those things that are taught by repetition, like potty training and shoelace tying. If you see a kid in the security checkpoint line at the airport with their shoes already off, there’s a pretty good chance the child belongs to me.

As a family, we don’t typically miss flights, but we are near-famous for almost missing flights. In spite of the fact that post-9/11 airport security takes longer to get through, some members of our family (the kids and me) still seem to have trouble getting out the door, and still others (Mr. Wright) make a mantra of “We’ll make it, no problem,” with a foot firmly applied to the gas pedal en route to the airport.

With less than a quarter mile to go, I verbally ran through the checklist: Necklaces? Bracelets? Metal barrettes? Yes, Pepper, bobby pins are metal, and must come out. Liquids in a quart-sized zipper bag and easily accessible? Check, check, check.

Mr. Wright always goes through security first, followed by the kids, and I go last. It’s an attempt to corral the children between us, with a responsible adult on either side of the herd of youngsters. I did a time check. We had twenty minutes until our flight boarded, and the line at security wasn’t terribly long. We could do it, provided no one was carrying a pocketknife and I remembered to take my netbook out of my purse and send it through in its own bin.

Mr. Wright got through the metal detector and started pulling bags off the conveyor belt. Pepper was up next, and handed me her purse. “Some of my liquids are in here, and some of them are in my backpack.”

Gah! All that training, for this? “No, Pepper. Your liquids all need to go into your zipper bag, and the bag has to be out of your backpack. Rearrange. Do it. Quickly.”

In the meantime, GirlWonder pulled her zipper bag of liquids out, put them into a bin, plopped her backpack on the conveyor, and stepped through the metal detector. Pepper had finally sorted her liquids and complied with the security measures when a Transportation Security Administration agent held up GirlWonder’s backpack. “Whose is this?” She was looking at me.

“That’s my daughter’s. Is there a problem?” I was still taking my computer out of my purse and locating an empty bin.

“There’s a drink in the bottom of it. Drinks are liquids.”

Of course they are. I chastised GirlWonder from the opposite side of the metal detector. “How did you manage to forget an entire sports drink in your bag? You know the rules.” I tossed my backpack onto the conveyor, stepped through the metal detector and kept going. “How many times have we done this? How many times have we gone through security? You know better, Honey. We shouldn’t have these kinds of mistakes.”

GirlWonder was appropriately sorry. She’d forgotten the drink was in her bag. The TSA agent simply asked that the bottle be thrown away, and GirlWonder complied. My computer came through the x-ray machine, but my purse was taking a long time. It would start to emerge, then get pulled back in for another look.

Finally, the belt started up again and my purse came out. The TSA worker opened it and peeked in. “I’m really sorry about the drink,” I was explaining. “I don’t know how it happened. Our kids have done this many, many times. It was just careless…”

“This is your purse?” the agent asked.

“Yes,” I answered. I stood on my toes to look inside with her. There, in the top of my bag, was my entire quart-sized bag of liquids. In all the drama about the sports drink and my tirade about the rules for liquids, I’d forgotten to take them out of my purse.

The TSA worker winked at me. “Have a good flight, ma’am.”

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/billypalooza/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Beer: It’s What’s for Breakfast

Sympathetic physicians have, over the years, helped with my flight anxiety issues – and by sympathetic, I mean they have sympathy for my husband, who has to sit next to me on the plane – by prescribing me Happy Pills of various names, sizes, and colors for flights.

Early Happy Pill prototypes provided too much relaxation and led to embarrassing drooling incidents. My current Happy Pill, at first, provided too little, but I fixed the problem by stripping the warning label off the bottle (“Alcohol may intensify effects of this medication”) and taking the pill with exactly two Bloody Mary cocktails. [Important notes: Never remove warning labels from medication bottles. Never use alcohol in tandem with a medication without consulting your physician. Don’t ever use me as an example… I make most of this stuff up, anyway.]

Recently, we flew out of Spokane to Boise on a 6:00 a.m. flight. Since the actual flight time was under an hour, I didn’t want to take an entire Happy Pill, which might knock me out for a couple of hours, so I broke the tablet in two and swallowed half. Since we were running late, as we always are for events that occur at 6:00 a.m., there was no time to hit the airport lounge for a Bloody Mary.

Onboard, I was nervous and jumpy. The half Happy Pill wasn’t cutting it, and I’d put the other half in my suitcase, which ended up in the belly of the plane somewhere. By the time the flight attendant came around with the beverage cart, I was practically clawing my way out of the cabin. “Beverage?” she offered.

“Yes! A Bloody Mary, please.”

The attendant frowned, checking her cart. “I don’t think I have any Bloody Mary mix. I have tomato juice…” She pronounced it to-MAH-to.

“Fine,” I said, quickly. “I’ll have a vodka and to-MAH-to juice.”

“Oh,” she said. “We don’t have liquor onboard… We do have beer or wine, though.”

By this time, I was really, truly desperate for some anxiety relief. I weighed out the options of a crappy beer or a crappy wine, found the crappy beer option more palatable, and ordered. She poured the Pale Ale into a small plastic cup for me with her lips clamped tightly. Then, with that special smile reserved for devastatingly handsome men like my husband, she cheerfully took his diet cola order, and delivered it to him with a wink.

Halfway through my plastic cup I started to feel better and began cracking jokes to my husband that all started with “The last time I drank beer out of a plastic cup was at a kegger in high school and…” Mr. Wright smiled broadly, not at my fabulous wit, but at the fact that I had released my death grip on his forearm.

The flight attendant approached my seat, sans cart, holding a half-empty bottle of beer. “Do you want more beer?” she asked. Then, louder – much louder – she added, “Because you’re the ONLY one drinking beer on the WHOLE flight, and I’m going to have to dump this out.” Then, she actually glanced at her watch, as if to say, It’s 6:30 in the morning, and you’re downing a cold one, lady… Trying to quell the morning shakes, or what?

“No… I think I’m good for now. Thank you,” I managed. How could I possibly accept more beer, even if I’d wanted it, after her proclamation to the entire flight that I was, most probably, a professional drunk?

Mr. Wright can’t bear to see anything go to waste. “I’ll have some beer,” he said. Once the attendant was out of earshot, he whispered, “I really don’t want any. I just thought you might be embarrassed to order more, after what she said.” Despite my insistence that I really, truly didn’t want any more beer, he placed his plastic cup alongside mine on the pop-out tray. The next time our flight attendant walked by, she did a double-take at the two cups of beer in front of me, then shot my husband a look that said, ENABLER!

I downed the second glass in one long gulp.

A Good Plan, but We Blewett

It was a Good Plan. We’d get up, have a lazy breakfast, carefully pack for our trip to Ellensburg, and hit the road at about 11:00 a.m. After the first big snowfall of the year, we wanted plenty of time to travel over icy Blewett Pass and prepare for our evening event. The following day, we’d drive back home, unpack, refill our luggage, and take off for Vancouver.

Mr. Wright’s responsibilities as president of the Washington Association of REALTORS® do keep us on the move; this week in particular. I’m a planner by nature, and I always feel more productive and secure when a Good Plan is in place. Mr. Wright does not share my planning obsession and, in the interest of compromise, “winging it” often becomes known as a Good Plan.

Today was a perfect example. The lazy breakfast turned into an opportunity for Curlytop and Snugglebug to mash eggs into their hair; a beauty tip which, I’ve heard, adds shine and body but nonetheless required an impromptu bath for both toddlers. Time lost: 20 minutes.

Part of my compulsion to plan every minute of the day stems from the fact that, since becoming a parent, I am well aware of what can go wrong in the span of a minute. While I showered downstairs, Mr. Wright started drawing a bath for the toddlers and returned to the kitchen to wash up the breakfast dishes. Somehow, he forgot to turn the water off, and a flood ensued. By the time Daddy finished the dishes, there was more water on the floor than in the tub, and immediate action had to be taken to dam the river threatening to flow into the living room. Time lost: 17 minutes.

I got the babies dressed after their bath, and as I searched the house for two pairs of elusive tiny shoes, Curlytop and Snugglebug quietly let themselves out the door. They were so sneaky that neither of the adults saw or heard them leave. Since Mommy was still searching for shoes, the girls went on their walkabout in their sock-feet.

By the time I located the final shoe (time lost: 12 minutes) and realized the babies were gone, I was in a dead panic. Mr. Wright, who had been diligently packing, calmly responded to my escalating hysterics by spilling the contents of his suitcase (time lost: four minutes) and sprinting out into the snow with bare feet and without the benefit of a shirt. He ran up and down the street looking for them, then returned to the house, where he found them in the fenced back yard, each nibbling a handful of fresh snow. “Ice cream, Daddy!” Curlytop exclaimed. Time lost: eight minutes.

Daddy returned with a shivering toddler under each arm and a collection of frozen tootsies encased in wet socks. I stripped their little feet and set about finding perhaps the last two matching pairs of baby socks on the planet in the Sock Basket – another Good Plan that got out of control – that contains all of the lone socks that make it through the dryer. Time lost: eight minutes. The babies helped. Additional time: six minutes.

At this point, Mr. Wright began grousing about being late, so I hastily tossed my evening dress, a change of clothes and my makeup into a suitcase and loaded the kids into the car. Twenty minutes down the road, my husband casually asked what shoes I planned to wear to the event. Oops. Time lost: 40 minutes.

Nearly two hours behind schedule, we tackled Blewett Pass. Even with its daunting “compact snow and ice” and “traction tire requirement,” Blewett was little more than a mild but necessary annoyance. The Wrights know what it really means to live dangerously – we have seven children.

I have absolute faith that our trip to Vancouver will be much smoother. Mr. Wright tells me he has a Good Plan.