So what if one of my children spilled my margarita before I even got a chance to taste it.
So what if said child’s younger brother decided it looked like a lot of fun, took the lid off his Shirley Temple and dumped it out.
So what if the hotel staff had to come outside to the patio and let me know that my other son had been drinking from the pond (the same one in which the wishful toss their pennies), and could I please keep him out of it?
So what if I can never show my face there again.
And really, so what if all I heard all night was, “Mama it’s too hot. Mama the grass itches. Mama when are the bats going to come out? Mama is it time now? How ’bout now? Can we go ride the glass elevator now? Mama are they going to come out NOW?”
So what if I only saw a handful of bats before I just stinking had enough, “that’s it, get up, we’re going to the car, and we’re going home.”
We’ll do it again. You know it, and I know it, because we live in Austin, and any Austinite worth their salt sits in the itchy grass and waits, and waits and waits for those million Mexican Free-tailed Bats to emerge from under the Congress Bridge. It’s what we do in summer. Participation is not optional.
Only next time, I’m going to get to the Hyatt early, to ride them up and down that elavator 97 times before we take the walk down to the bridge. I’m going to hold onto my drink a little tighter. And I’m seriously considering duct tape and leashes.
But I’m not bitter. Shut up, I am not!