Don’t get your hopes up, Dad told me last week, but there’s a slight chance I might be able to get home for a few days.

Does immediately hitting Travelocity count as “getting your hopes up”? It turned out that airfare between his temporary base and California was affordable, particularly since we had a slight cushion in the form of the Fontana Fund.

I’d horded the money in hopes of surprising the guys with a trip in February to the NASCAR track only a few hours from home. We’d do it right this time, staying in a hotel the night before so we could get there early enough that the guys could see some of the drivers.

Aw, NASCAR Schmascar. We’d have other chances at races through out the season – this would be our only chance with Dad for quite a while.

As Dad texted back and forth trying to settle dates, he and I agreed that his visit would be a surprise. I’d load the guys up in the car and listen to Big Guy growl because I wouldn’t tell him where we’re going. We’d get out at the airport, and there Dad would be, larger than life. Or, at least, larger than the Daddy dolls they’ve hugged in his absence.

A higher up told Dad he could leave Feb. 13, and I bought the ticket. What a Valentine’s Day celebration we’d have this year.

First we had to get through paperwork and lost passwords – he had until Tuesday to turn in everything. We battled Web sites and each other all weekend as we tried to nail things down.

You should have sent that paper when you sent the ticket, Dad said.

How could you not remember? You never forget anything.

Arrggggggggggggghhhhhhh.

We got it all settled early Sunday afternoon. Less than an hour later,  Dad got a text message. Change of plans. Leave canceled.

This is so not fair, I wanted to cry, but I reminded myself of what I always tell the guys when they complain about an alleged injustice: Fair has nothing to do with it.

And it really doesn’t. He’s not the first soldier whose plans have suddenly been changed. He’s not even the first one in our family that it’s happened to – I can’t even count the number of weddings, parties and picnics I missed over five years of working weekend shifts.

This situation, though, is just a few clicks stinkier than the ones I used to find myself in. I want to cry. I want to pout. I want to crawl in the closet and hide, and I’m sure those feelings will intensify the day he was supposed to arrive.

But I just can’t.

Because I’d booked through Travelocity, I can recoup the Fontana Fund. But I no longer have any enthusiasm for the trip.

The one consolation is that we’d never told the guys about the visit that’s not going to happen. Dad and I are disappointed enough without piling their misery on top of it.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

Similar Posts:

None Found

Popularity: 1% [?]