My whole family (well, most of us) decided to come to Des Moines to visit my grandma and go to Seder at her temple for Passover last weekend. We made these plans 5 or 6 weeks ago when my little brother Jon and his partner Caleb booked their tickets from New York. My aunt sent us menus so we could lock in our dinner choices. Ben and I contemplated buying the kids shoes that aren't filthy and maybe some khaki pants. And, most of all, I complained. Basically to anyone who would listen. That I didn't want to take the kids to temple because they are little heathens who wouldn't know how to behave and would be so embarrassing and don't need nice clothes in any other context so they'd be a waste of money and blah blah blah.
And then my grandma had a stroke.
And Seder at the temple was off the table. And of course, that's when I realized that it was a table I really did want to be at, actually.
Since we already had hotel rooms and plane tickets and plans to see each other and since we wanted to see my grandma even more than usual (and, I mean, we usually want to see her pretty badly since over half of us live far to far-ish away), we met up in Des Moines anyway and ate pizza for Passover (I KNOW) and visited her in the hospital and talked about her move to a rehab facility and made bad jokes and tried to cheer each other up and ate to much and drank just enough.
These stooges always enjoy a good road trip.