Somebody, stop us.

Apparently a little taste of success goes a long way in this house. After surviving a six-hour trip with Bryce in December, and our recent trek to the wilderness with both kids, John and I have been replaced by optimistic fools who thrive on pipe dreams that traveling with the kids is suddenly a piece of cake. It is precisely this warped mentality that I fear is going to lead to one of two things over the next five days:

1.) straightjackets.

2.) hitchhiking pre-schoolers.

We're driving nine hours this time. It makes sense: six hours in December with one kid worked out surprisingly well; three hours in May with two kids was manageable. It stands to reason that nine hours (six hours one day, three hours the next) in the car with Mr. Intensity and Psycho Boy (if you can't figure out who's who, it really doesn't matter - it's the deadly combination that's important anyway) should be a walk in the park. (Or a mad dash through a war zone. Either one. It's all the same in my new optimistic fool brain. Weeee!)

We probably won't have internet access, but we will return with photographic proof that the kids survived the trip, and we promise not to use any duct tape or chains. (I kid! Nobody needs to call Social Services. Ha ha! Ha ha ho ho, eh he he. Ahem.)