It has been a recurring refrain in our house.
I go to a hotel. Maybe in March.
Several months ago, we drove past a local hotel, a Courtyard by Marriott. We had stayed at this hotel during summer break in 2009 because we were worried that David would not tolerate a full-blown vacation. Instead, we opted for a stay-cation with a convenient plan B—go home.
David recognized that hotel from almost three years ago and asked if he could stay there again. He remembered the pool. He remembered the elevators. I remembered the conveniently located Starbucks’ cart in the lobby after a terrible night’s sleep.
So I told David that we could stay there again—maybe in March. I was thinking of the possibility of spending a night there over the boys’ spring break, but I was honestly more hoping that in the intervening months, David would forget about it. (I know—I can hear you laughing from here.)
Last night, he repeated his proclamation for the umpteenth time.
I go to a hotel. Maybe in March.
But then, he ripped the February label off of the giant calendar that hangs on our front door and replaced it with a shamrock-studded March label.
Once again, he repeated his mantra but this time with a twist.
I go to a hotel—on the ONETH of the month.
The oneth of the month? Oh, the oneth of the month. Today is March 1st, the oneth of the month and David had expected that we would be relaxing by the pool right about now.
The oneth of the month makes perfect sense when you think about it. David is a pretty clever boy for a myriad of reasons.
Oneth, he invented a more sensible system of ordinal numbers and twoth, he found a way to get what he wanted as we have made a reservation to stay at that very same hotel later this month.
