Five hours into my thirteen hour drive home from our annual family vacation, I got the call. “Mom, I’m in the ER,” my daughter said in a groggy voice.
Five hours into my thirteen hour drive home from our annual family vacation, I got the call. “Mom, I’m in the ER,” my daughter said in a groggy voice.
My daughter was the first to succumb, heaving miserably into a fishy-smelling five gallon pail. I was next, hurling out of the fishing boat’s starboard window.
I was about six years old, and I was running away from home. For real this time.
Just like that lone logger who cut his own leg off with a pocket knife to unpin himself from a fallen tree and crawl for help, your husband could technically get by without you and live to see another day.
What I believe about Hell and hand baskets