I know this may sound ridiculous, but sometimes this impending caravan adventure feels like an impending birth.
I think it feels like about week 37 of a pregnancy.
We live in a small town and every where we go that's all anybody wants to talk about: When is the date? Have you got a plan? How do the girls feel about it? Have you packed your bags? Are you excited/nervous/ready?
There are lists upon lists upon lists of things to prepare.
Lots of specialised equipment to buy and borrow.
A new car to fit us and all the gear in.
As usual, my nesting is not of the cleaning variety but of the sewing variety.
I'm having doubts.
We can't agree on a name.
I'm sick of listening to everyone else's stories and I am ready to start our own.
It keeps me up at night.
I'm starting to fill the freezer with meals and snacks.
Despite the obvious, I'm in denial.
We have a special relationship with those about to embark on the same journey.
I could probably go on and on but you get the picture.
The truth is though that I'm surprisingly glad we are going off on this kind of adventure and not that. That I don't have swollen ankles and leaky boobs. That the biggest plan we'll have is no plan at all.
I've been struggling under the weight of all that I have to do over the last few days, but just now we took in some of the vintage sheety bedding and strung up some of the trims I've been crocheting and I liked what I saw. It looks like I wanted it to look. My vision is becoming a reality. It feels homey.
So over the next few days I'll start and hopefully finish nine curtains, sew three pillow slips and two fitted sheets and then I'll start packing. Possibly two weeks and we're outta here.