Getting old sucks.

Sorry for the lack of posting. We were out of town for the whole of Passover, and then I turned into an 80-year-old woman. No, really.

First of all, if you have never before spent Passover on the road with a small child, entirely at the home of non-Jews, try it sometime. It will give you an appreciation for what it was like trying to move an entire tribe of people out of their houses and into the desert.

First night seder at our house was followed by loading up the car and heading out at the crap of dawn for The Kid's first-ever real road trip. Day one took us as far as Scranton, PA, where we took in the wonders of Steamtown - a railway museum in an old roundhouse. As much as he loves trains, I really hope The Kid doesn't grow up to be one of the many middle-aged men without kids we saw geeking about trains there. You know who you are.

The next day it was on to New England, where an entire band of Swedish Lutherans (my relatives) were waiting to meet The Kid for the first time. At Easter dinner. Where they were serving (you guessed it) ham. Luckily we were prepared for this with yet more goodies from our cooler, although The Kid gazed longingly at the buttered rolls the whole time. Also, you know what's really exciting to a kid from a floodplain? Outside cellar doors. You know, the kind that slope down and flip open to reveal steps? Since we'd never had a cellar, he'd never seen these before, and spent most of the afternoon sliding down them - in his dress pants. Luckily, there was a lot of wine with dinner.

No, this picture has nothing to do with anything, except that it came up in a Google image search for CELLAR DOORS DUSTY and wtf? You're welcome.

We escaped the next day to the wilds of Western Massachusetts, and the homes of various old friends, and their approximately 3.2 million children. The Kid had a blast. I was reminded why I love having only one child. Let's just say I don't do well with chaos before I've had my coffee. I may have used the bathroom for non-bathroom-related activities. Like hiding. I also realized how lucky I am to be married to Bad Cohen - nothing like seeing other people's marriages up close, for days on end, to make you appreciate your own.

Given how well the trip went, and how happy I was with my newfound appreciation of our life choices, I was less than fazed by my pharmacist's revelation that no, in fact, I did NOT have any more refills on my Zoloft. (You may or may not know that early motherhood made me so insane my husband and doctor decided to medicate me. And then leave me on it, lest I turn back into the raging Momzilla who seriously considered breaking the sink full of dirty dishes instead of washing them because it would more effectively convey my feelings about housework. Ahem.)

Anyhoo, I felt great. It was sunny and warm, I loved my life, I have crappy insurance through Bad Cohen's grad school and can't afford to see a doctor, so this was a perfect time to stop anyway. A week later, I'm composing letters to the state Board of Education suggesting that we put all 16 year olds on antidepressants for a month and then drop their asses cold-turkey, so they can appreciate why they need to be nice to old people. I really think this would lower the sass quotient in high schools across the country.

Muscle aches, dizziness, fatigue - if I ever get back to being 30-something instead of 84, I think I will run up all the steps in my house just to show that I can.

In the meantime, send me good thoughts. And dark chocolate.