We made it to Charleston through an afternoon of cold, steely rain. The roads south were headed with large white and tan vehicles with names that start in 'Ex' or 'En', consumed more gas in the time it took them to pass us as if we were standing still (at 70 MPH) than we had in the entire 240 mile trip, and usually had either a Clemson sticker, Nascar, or McCain/Palin 08. I am stereo-typing because it is not quite 7 AM our time and Mason has been waking us up several times throughout the night (and now, through my stuffy head, I can catch wind of what he and mommy were up changing earlier). Even the gorgeous sun rise over a cloudy cape can't brush this bitterness away.
In between bouts of waking up, there was one moment where Mason had rolled up behind me (we have a king size bed in the hotel room, meaning, since Audrey and I are used to clinging to the edges of our bed at home, that there is a lot of space for Mason to roll around during the night), and was reaching up with one finger, lightly scratching my back. In my dream, before I realized what was going on, I was asking Audrey if she would scratch my back. Now a bit to the left. A little higher, between the shoulder blades. Now lower. To the left. All the while, Mason was moving through my shoulders and upper back, with a gentle motion that his little uncontrolled hands have yet to know in day light hours.
